How foolish the world, how foolish am I;
from mewling of the babe to hopes that must die,
from vagrant cloak to toppled crown.
This illness knows no cure, or so it seems,
this flu of hearts, pathology of dreams:
almost do we win, and so we are struck down.
No matter our plans, our paths are not sure;
prepare as we will, new grief we endure,
and, learn as we might, we still play the clown.
Ah, folly, how vast is your kingdom and reign,
extending through ages o'er mountain and plain!
The womb to tomb will swiftly lead;
by tomb from womb my soul is freed.
From birth to grave, what lives must die,
and, dying, soon to life draws nigh.