Текст оригинала на английском языке
Written at Lovere, 1755
Wisdom, slow product of laborious years, The only fruit that life's cold winter bears; Thy sacred seeds in vain in youth we lay, By the fierce storm of passion torn away. Should some remain in a rich gen'rous soil, They long lie hid, and must be rais'd with toil; Faintly they struggle with inclement skies, No sooner born than the poor planter dies.
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