What needs perfection to always demand,
From others and thyself such strict measures
That could bring even saints to reprimand
And gravely cut on most of life's pleasures;
What faults, impure, would make you a recluse,
For even steel has rust, and rot to waste,
Honey has grubs blended with nectar juice,
And cheese has maggots, which are crushed to taste;
The purest gold needs be alloyed with tin,
And kingly courts may also have the clowns,
A deck of cards has hearts and knaves within,
This very soul has sins, it also owns;
....These wits may stir many a learned mind,
....But so are slips, a joy for some to find.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem