| |
| WHETHER men do laugh or weep, | |
| Whether they do wake or sleep, | |
| Whether they die young or old, | |
| Whether they feel heat or cold; | |
| There is underneath the sun | |
| Nothing in true earnest done. | |
| |
| All our pride is but a jest, | |
| None are worst and none are best; | |
| Grief and joy and hope and fear | |
| Play their pageants everywhere: | |
| Vain Opinion all doth sway, | |
| And the world is but a play. | |
| |
| Powers above in clouds do sit, | |
| Mocking our poor apish wit, | |
| That so lamely with such state | |
| Their high glory imitate. | |
| No ill can be felt but pain, | |
| And that happy men disdain. | |
Thomas Campion (?) |
