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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. | |
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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. | |
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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 (?) |