Meanwhile do I sail along on uncertain seas; chance flatters me, smooth-tongued chance; forward and backward do I gaze-, still see I no end.
As yet has the hour of my final struggle not come to me- or does it come to me perhaps just now? with insidious beauty do sea and life gaze upon me round about:
O afternoon of my life! O happiness before eventide! O haven upon high seas! O peace in uncertainty! How I distrust all of you!
Distrustful am I of your insidious beauty! Like the lover am I, who distrusts too sleek smiling.
As he pushes the best-beloved before him- tender even in severity, the jealous one-, so do I push this blissful hour before me.
Away with you, you blissful hour! With you has there come to me an involuntary bliss! Ready for my severest pain do I here stand:- at the wrong time have you come!
Away with you, you blissful hour! Rather harbor there- with my children! Hasten! and bless them before eventide with my happiness!
There, already approaches eventide: the sun sinks. Away- my happiness!-
Thus spoke Zarathustra. And he waited for his misfortune the whole night; but he waited in vain. The night remained clear and calm, and happiness itself came closer and closer to him. Towards morning, however, Zarathustra laughed to his heart, and said mockingly: "Happiness runs after me. That is because I do not run after women. Happiness, however, is a woman."