Michael Eyquen de Montaigne

Whom conscience, ne'er asleep,
Wounds with incessant strokes, not loud, but deep.

Whom conscience, ne'er asleep,
Wounds with incessant strokes, not loud, but deep.

Blest tears of soul-felt penitence!
In whose benign, redeeming flow
Is felt the first, the only sense
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Blest tears of soul-felt penitence!
In whose benign, redeeming flow
Is felt the first, the only sense
Of guiltless joy that guilt can know.

Wouldst thou, or thou,
Forego what's now,
For all that hope may say?
No--joy's read more

Wouldst thou, or thou,
Forego what's now,
For all that hope may say?
No--joy's reply,
From every eye,
Is, "Live we while we may."

One may be humble out of pride.

One may be humble out of pride.

To each foot its own shoe.
[Fr., A chaque pied son soulier.]

To each foot its own shoe.
[Fr., A chaque pied son soulier.]