When sense suspects what heart won’t hear,
   And left must ward what right conceals,
Then you must call, and soon, I fear,
   A Probate Court of no Appeals—

Where judge and prisoner stand accused,
   Where sense and heart, subpoened, speak;
Where juries may be sorely bruised:
   The sense too harsh— the heart too weak.

No matter where the parties stand,
   (Such courts have mercy in their gift!)
So long they grasp the other’s hand,
   So sense and heart both heal their rift—

When sense cries false! and heart cries true!
   Let neither sleep within your walls;
Convene your Court without ado:
   A house divided— always falls!