Pagina 143 de 1116

He is to thee that daily bread thou canst nor loose nor bind *

Nor pen nor writ avail thee aught thy daily bread to find: For

joy and daily bread are what Fate deigneth to allow; * This soil

is sad and sterile ground, while that makes glad the hind. The

shafts of Time and Life bear down full many a man of worth *

While bearing up to high degree wights of ignoble mind. So come

thou, Death! for verily life is not worth a straw * When low the

falcon falls withal the mallard wings the wind: No wonder 'tis

thou seest how the great of soul and mind * Are poor, and many a

losel carle to height of luck designed. This bird shall overfly

the world from east to furthest west * And that shall win her

every wish though ne'er she leave the nest.