THE fish that gets away, my boy, The biggest seems to be; Likewise upon the topmost branch The choicest fruits we see. And yet the fish we catch are good, The fruit we pluck is fine, So be contented with your lot, 'T is idle to repine. Don't mourn the fish that gets away, But glory in your catch; The fruit upon the lower limb The highest ones may match. Waste neither time nor tears upon The things you fail to get, But make the most of what you have, And fame will find you yet. |