Man  here  was  made  to  mourn — 'tis  Fate's  decree —
And  he  who  suffers  most  can  best  depart,

Can  best  resign  these  scenes  of  misery,
Can  best  take  the  dread  leap  into  eternity.
Yet  life's  a  farce,  though  haply  some  may  cry:

Life  is  no  farce — it  is  a  tragedy,
Where  each  wan  actor  as  he  passeth  by
Howls  out  a  lengthen'd  note  of  misery,
And  shivering  dreads  his  frail  mortality.
A  farce  hath  merriment — in  life  there's  none;

'Tis  one  long  woe — devoid  of  pleasantry—
From  man's  first  wail  until  his  task  be  done
Tis  one  continual  strife;    best  closed  when  first  begun.
Still,  life's  a  farce.     Allow  that  there  is  ill
In  many  things  that  to  this  state  befall;

Yet  if  gauged  at  their  real  worth,  we  will
'Discover  that  the  hugest  of  them  all
Into  the  merest  dwarfs  of  trouble  fall.
Deaths,  disappointments,  pangs  and  penalties,
Are  ills  indeed — but  ills  so  very  small

That  it  is  strange  they  should  disturb  the  ease
Of  reasoning  beings  versed  in  stern  philosophies.
49


To  thoughtful  men  existence  is  a  farce—

A  play  composed  of  hollow  vagaries
In  which  the  players  all  one  censor  pass,

And  fly  like  chaff  before  the  wintry  breeze

Into  Eternity's  unfathomed  seas.
All  is  unreal,  heartless,  and  unsound —

Virtue  and  man  unyielding  enemies;
The  greatest  ass  is  oft  with  honors  crown'd,
And  plaudits  greet  the  knave  whose  limbs  no  fetters  bound.
CANTO     III.
