The world's a bubble; and the life of man less than a span. <br />In his conception wretched; from the womb so to the tomb: <br />Curst from the cradle, and brought up to years, with cares and fears. <br />Who then to frail mortality shall trust, <br />But limns the water, or but writes in dust. <br />Yet, since with sorrow here we live oppress'd, what life is best? <br />Courts are but only superficial schools to dandle fools: <br />The rural parts are turn'd into a den of savage men: <br />And where's a city from all vice so free, <br />But may be term'd the worst of all the three? <br /> <br />Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, or pains his head: <br />Those that live single, take it for a curse, or do things worse: <br />Some would have children; those that have them none; or wish them gone. <br />What is it then to have no wife, but single thralldom or a double strife? <br />Our own affections still at home to please, is a disease: <br />To cross the sea to any foreign soil, perils and toil: <br />Wars with their noise affright us: when they cease, <br />We are worse in peace: <br />What then remains, but that we still should cry, <br />Not to be born, or being born, to die.<br /><br />Sir Francis Bacon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-life-of-man/
