A rolling stone may get the worm while early birds repine
In beds of moss resplendent with the scent of turpentine.
Perhaps I've mixed the whole thing up – an apple every day
Is sure to starve a fever while the doctor's making hay.
That can't be right; I'll try again – You catch more flies with haste
Than vinegar is spilt on milk and honey goes to waste.
I guess I cannot duplicate Poor Richard's prose, so clear –
Whenever I write wisdom down it sounds like Edward Lear!
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