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“I think our world is not a place of rest, But where a man may take his little ease, Until the landlord whom he never sees Gives that apartment to another guest.” “Birth I chose not, nor old age, nor to live: What the past grudged me shall the present give? Here must I stay, by fates’ two hands constrained, And not leave until my leaving is ordained. You who would guide me out of dark illusion, You lie — your story contains nothing but confusion. For can you alter that you brand with shame, Or is it not unalterably the same?” “Age after age entirely dark hath run When not one dawn revealed a rising sun. Things change and pass, the world unshaken stands With all its western, all its eastern lands.” “The pen flowed and the fiat was fulfilled, The ink dried on the parchment as fate willed. Could the king his governors around him save — Or Caesar his patricians — from the grave?” “When I would string the pearls of my desire, Alas, life’s too short thread denies them room. Huge volumes cannot yet contain entire Man’s hope; his life is but a summary of doom.” “Over many a race the sun’s bright net was spread And loosed their pearls nor left them even a thread. This dire world delights us, though all sup — All whom she mothers — from one mortal cup. Choose from two ills: which rather in the main Suits you? — to perish or to live in pain?” “Your thought kindled a fire that showed beside you A path while you were seeking light to guide you. Stargazers, charmers, soothsayers are cheats, All of that sort a cunning greed dissemble: However much the aged beggar’s hand may tremble, It none the less lies open for receipts.”
