Two gifts perforce he has given us yet,
Though sad things stay and glad things fly ;
Two gifts he has given us, to forget
All glad and sad things that go by,
And then to die.
A little sorrow, a little pleasure,
Fate metes us from the dusty measure
That holds the date of all of us ;
We are born with travail and strong crying,
And from the birth-day to the dying
The likeness of our life is thus.
from Satia te Sanguine
Where, when the gods would be cruel,
Do they go for a torture ? where
Plant thorns, set pain like a jewel ?
Ah, not in the flesh, not there !
The racks of earth and the rods
Are weak as foam on the sands ;
In the heart is the prey for gods,
Who crucify hearts, not hands.