I am nothing and to nothing tend, On earth I nothing have and nothing claim, Man's noblest works must have one common end, And nothing crown the tablet of his name.
Heaven is blessed with perfect rest but the blessing of earth is toil.
Wandering between two worlds, one dead, The other powerless to be born With nowhere yet to rest my head, Like these, on earth I wait forlorn.
Earth took her shining station as a star, In Heaven's dark hall, high up the crowd of worlds.
God is the author, men are only the players. These grand pieces which are played upon earth have been composed in heaven. [Fr., Dieu est le poete, les hommes ne sont que les acteurs. Ces grandes pieces qui se jouent sur la terre ont ete composees dans le ciel.]
The earth only has so much bounty to offer and inventing ever larger and more notional prices for that bounty does not change its real value.
They were stoned, they were sawn asunder, were tempted, were slain with the sword: they wandered about in sheepskins and goatskins; being destitute, afflicted, and tormented; (Of whom the world was not worthy:) they wandered in deserts, and in mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth.