The Scythian Philosopher by Jean de La Fontaine

A Scythian philosopher austere, / Resolved his rigid life somewhat to cheer, / Perform'd the tour of Greece, saw many things, / But, best, a sage, -- one such as Virgil sings, -- / A simple, rustic man, that equal'd kings; / From whom, the gods would hardly bear the palm; / Like them unawed, content, and calm. / His fortune was a little nook of land; / And there the Scythian found him, hook in hand, / His fruit-trees pruning. Here he cropp'd / A barren branch, there slash'd and lopp'd, / Correcting Nature everywhere, / Who paid with usury his care. / 'Pray, why this wasteful havoc, sir? ' -- / So spoke the wondering traveller; / 'Can it, I ask, in reason's name, / Be wise these harmless trees to maim? / Fling down that instrument of crime, / And leave them to the scythe of Time. / Full soon, unhasten'd, they will go / To deck the banks of streams below. ' / Replied the tranquil gardener, / 'I humbly crave your pardon, sir; / Excess is all my hook removes, / By which the rest more fruitful proves. ' / The philosophic traveller, -- / Once more within his country cold, -- / Himself of pruning-hook laid hold, / And made a use most free and bold; / Prescribed to friends, and counsel'd neighbours / To imitate his pruning labours. / The finest limbs he did not spare, / But pruned his orchard past all reason, / Regarding neither time nor season, / Nor taking of the moon a care. / All wither'd, droop'd, and died.

This Scythian I set beside / The indiscriminating Stoic. / The latter, with a blade heroic, / Retrenches, from his spirit sad, / Desires and passions, good and bad, / Not sparing e'en a harmless wish. / Against a tribe so Vandalish / With earnestness I here protest. / They maim our hearts, they stupefy / Their strongest springs, if not their best; / They make us cease to live before we die.