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Why should it be that those who merit least
Must always be the masters of the feast.
The fool's purse fat, the wise man's ever lean,
And Beauty's self the harlot of the Beast?
When to this loot of life I come anear,
Hoping to snatch some little worldly gear,
I find the fools have carted off the best,
And nought is left for me but—hope and fear.
'Tis written clear within the Book of Fate,
The little always shall oppress the great,
Who most deserves be slave to those who least,
And only fools and rascals go in state.
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