Chorus -

How dost thou wear and weary out thy days,
Restless Ambition, never at an end!
Whose travels no Herculean pillar stays,
But still beyond thy rest thy labours tend;
Above good fortune thou thy hopes dost raise,
Still climbing, and yet never canst ascend;
For when thou hast attained unto the top
Of thy desires, thou hast not yet got up.

That height of fortune either is controlled
By some more powerful overlooking eye,
That doth the fulness of thy grace withhold,
Or counterchecked with some concurrency,
That it doth cost far more ado to hold
The height attained, than was to get so high,
Where stand thou canst not, but with careful toil,
Nor loose thy hold without thy utter spoil.

There dost thou struggle with thine own distrust,
And others' jealousies, their counterplot,
Against some underworking pride, that must
Supplanted be, or else thou standest not;
There wrong is played with wrong, and he that thrust
Down others, comes himself to have that lot.
The same concussion doth afflict his breast
That others shook; oppression is oppressed:

That either happiness dwells not so high,
Or else above, whereto pride cannot rise;
And that the highest of man's felicity
But in the region of affliction lies;
And that we climb but up to misery.
High fortunes are but high calamaties.
It is not in that sphere, where peace doth move;
Rest dwells below it, happiness above.

For in this height of fortune are imbred
Those thundering fragors that affright the earth;
From thence have all distemperatures their head,
That brings forth desolation, famine, dearth;
There certain order is disordered,
And there it is confusion hath her birth.
It is that height of fortune doth undo
Both her own quietness and others' too.
Translation: 
Language: 
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.