Diplomacy

I would not be a beauty judge, ah, no,
   Tho' heaven knows I'm competent enough,
But, as hair thing or else begins to grow
   Grizzled, we elders rather dodge that stuff.
Beauty, indeed, we fain would still behold,
   But, not to be outspoken. We're too old.

Too old and wise. Hot-blooded Paris found
   That honest candor often leads to strife,
Although his judgment might have been quite sound,
   Had not that idiot a pocket knife
To cut the golden apple into thirds,
And murmur, "Girls, I'm too overcome for words?"

Oh, the strange folly of outspoken youth,
   Heedless to pitfalls, at the heart's bequest,
Choosing the one, and calling, thro' the truth,
   Upon his head the vengeance of the rest.
Is it not wiser to forego all that?
Or do I grow too much the diplomat?