That which is heavy is the root of that which is light;
The still is the master of unrest.
The traveler of true means, whatever the highway's pace,
Does not lose sight of his baggage,
And however fine the prospect offered,
Is a person with a calm head.
The Lord of countless chariots would ride them in vain,
Would make himself the fool of the realm,
With pace beyond reign, speed beyond helm.