Why are the people thus busily moving? For food they are seeking,
Children they fain would beget, feeding them well as they can.
Traveller, mark this well, and when thou art home, do thou likewise!
More can no mortal effect, work with what ardour he will.
I would compare to the land this anvil, its lord to the hammer,
And to the people the plate, which in the middle is bent.
Sad is the poor tin-plate's lot, when the blows are but given at random:
Ne'er will the kettle be made, while they uncertainly fall
What is the life of a man? Yet thousands are ever accustomed
Freely to talk about man,—what he has done, too, and how.
Even less is a poem; yet thousands read and enjoy it,
Thousands abuse it.—My friend, live and continue to rhyme!
Merry's the trade of a poet; but somewhat a dear one, I fear me;
For, as my book grows apace, all my sequins I lose.
If thou'rt in earnest, no longer delay, but render me happy;
Art thou in jest? Ah, sweet love! time for all jesting is past.
