He that sips of many arts drinks of none. [ Fuller ]

The honey-bee that wanders all day long
The field, the woodland, and the garden over.
To gather in his fragrant winter store.
Humming in calm content his winter song,
Seeks not alone the rose's glowing breast,
The lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips.
But from all rank and noxious weeds he sips
The single drop of sweetness closely pressed
Within the poison chalice. [ Anne C. Lynch Botta ]