To all that breathe our upper air the hands of Dest’iny ever deal, In fixed and equal parts, their shares of joy and sorrow, woe and weal.

“How comes it, then, our span of days in hunting wealth and fame we spend “Why strive we (and all humans strive) for vain and visionary end?”

Reply: mankind obeys a law that bids him labour, struggle, strain; The Sage well knowing its unworth, the Fool a-dreaming foolish gain.

And who, ‘mid e’en the Fools, but feels that half the joy is in the race For wealth and fame and place, nor sighs when comes success to crown the chase?

Again: in Hind, Chîn, Franguestân that accident of birth befell, Without our choice, our will, our voice: Faith is an accident as well.