You may labor your fill, friend of mine, if you will; You may worry a bit, if you must;You may treat your affairs as a series of cares, You may live on a scrap and a crust;But when the day's done, put it out of your head;Don't take your troubles to bed.
You may batter your way through the thick of the fray, You may sweat, you may swear, you may grunt;You may be a jack-fool if you must, but this rule Should ever be kept at the front: --Don't fight with your pillow, but lay down your headAnd kick every worriment out of the bed.
That friend or that foe (which he is, I don't know), Whose name we have spoken as Death,Hovers close to your side, while you run or you ride, And he envies the warmth of your breath;But he turns him away, with a shake of his head,When he finds that you don't take your troubles to bed.
