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And thus we find ourselves, right savagely
Wrenched from our warm and homely hearth,
And rudely cast adrift upon the stage of
The melancholy Theatre of Life;
Wherein we puff and pant our few brief years,
With pleasures few and a surfeit of tears,
Till Death shall call our time and usher our return
To the deep sleep from whence we came,
And all too soon, no-one will know our name.
Is't not better ne'er to be born
Than to be thus forcibly wed to Fortune's whore,
A prey to all manner of
Sickness and disease, sin and vice?
Aye – 'tis a devout mystery indeed
Whence comes this life from simple egg and seed.