Whether men do laugh or weep,
Whether they do wake or sleep,
Whether they die young or old,
Whether they feel heat or cold,
There is underneath the sun
Nothing in true earnest done.

All our pride is but a jest.
None are worst and none are best.
Grief and joy and hope and fear
Play their pageants ev'rywhere.
Vain opinion all doth sway,
And the world is but a play.

Powers above in clouds do sit,
Marking our poor apish wit,
That so lamely, without state,
Their high glory imitate.
No ill can be felt but pain,
And that happy men disdain.