To labour is the lot of man below; And when Jove gave us life, he gave us woe.

Our fruitless labours mourn, And only rich in barren fame return.

Urge him with truth to frame his fair replies; And sure he will; for wisdom never lies.

Fly, dotard, fly! With thy wise dreams and fables of the sky.

Having well polished the whole bow, he added a golden tip.

Yet, taught by time, my heart has learned to glow For other's good, and melt at other's woe.