| Francis T. Palgrave, ed. (1824–1897). The Golden Treasury. 1875. |
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| Lord Bacon |
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| LVII. Life |
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| THE world's a bubble, and the life of man | |
| Less than a span: | |
| In his conception wretched, from the womb | |
| So to the tomb; | |
| Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years | 5 |
| With cares and fears. | |
| Who then to frail mortality shall trust | |
| But limns on water, or but writes in dust. | |
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| Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest, | |
| What life is best? | 10 |
| Courts are but only superficial schools | |
| To dandle fools; | |
| The rural parts are turn'd into a den | |
| Of savage men; | |
| And where's a city from foul vice so free, | 15 |
| But may be term'd the worst of all the three? | |
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| Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, | |
| Or pains his head; | |
| Those that live single take it for a curse, | |
| Or do things worse; | 20 |
| Some would have children; those that have them moan | |
| Or wish them gone: | |
| What is it, then, to have, or have no wife, | |
| But single thraldom, or a double strife? | |
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| Our own affections still at home to please | 25 |
| Is a disease; | |
| To cross the seas to any foreign soil, | |
| Peril and toil; | |
| Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease, | |
| We are worse in peace: | 30 |
| What then remains, but that we still should cry | |
| For being born, or, being born, to die? | |
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