To fate-doomed Sinner born and bred
for dangling from the gallows-tree;
To Saint who spends his holy days
in rapt'urous hope his God to see;

To all that breathe our upper air
the hands of Dest'iny ever deal,
In fixed and equal parts, their shares
of joy and sorrow, woe and weal.

"How comes it, then, our span of days
in hunting wealth and fame we spend
"Why strive we (and all humans strive)
for vain and visionary end?"

Reply: mankind obeys a law
that bids him labour, struggle, strain;
The Sage well knowing its unworth,
the Fool a-dreaming foolish gain.

And who, 'mid e'en the Fools, but feels
that half the joy is in the race
For wealth and fame and place, nor sighs
when comes success to crown the chase?

Again: in Hind, Chin, Franguestan
that accident of birth befell,
Without our choice, our will, our voice:
Faith is an accident as well.