She's mistress of all: <br />Rule of this earth <br />To her is entrusted; <br />Fortune she's called. <br />But for her, Maia's son, whom <br />She grants gifts, be naught. <br />Man, living for gain, <br />Mars, fast to shed blood, <br />Stand both in her hand. <br />He fears her even <br />Whom Yenus enflames; <br />He praises her too, <br />Who lives by his toil, <br />In sweat and in thrift. <br />Kindly at her he'd look, <br />Who mocks her in word; <br />For wise deliberation, <br />Wishing, she'd turn to dispute. <br />Of a king, a pauper, <br />Of a slave, a king, <br />Should she will, she'd make. <br />She's heedless on whom <br />Her gifts she bestows, <br />In which no trust <br />Is she wont to keep. <br />So doth she sport! <br />Through inconstancy alone <br />She endures unchanging, <br />To wander hither and yon, <br />Ruling earth with no rules. <br />In this tho, she's less <br />Unto virtue persisting <br />Would she fast submit, <br />With it forever in strife.<br /><br />Mikolaj Sep Szarzynski<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fortune-s-statue/
