O mossy quince, hanging by your stalk,
From which no man dare pluck away nor take,
Of all the folk that pass there by, or walk,
Your flowers fresh be fallen away and shake.
I am right sorry, master as, for your sake,
You seem a thing that all men have forgotten;
You be so ripe, you wax almost rotten.
We learn from our gardens to deal
with the most urgent question of the time:
How much is enough?