though wretched the twist (and tide) of fate makes fame the fortune of fools and to tame the gales or storm the gates we are all but rich mens tools. fortuitous though, time and ambition that which the nations most ails all persuits are but wishes and fables shorten the lives of mens weary tales! for their days, they are numbered, though uncounted and passed away they live for their follies, and squander their dreams little mastered their desires, but mastered by their own desires and schemes! another fool for the fire, a folly for another day! perhaps the sun rise should rise no more or war should take all fortunes away and reduce the lot of rich to that of the poor (cast the lot of the rich in with the lots of the poor) and all men, paupers, kings, and popes forget their way should soon pass through deaths great black door oh for the hearts desire, what ends we go the things that we do and say. The coalface of madness, bedlam restless Tireless scrambles among the clamoring fray Driven to unknown hells they are building The things we desire, persue, become gods to whom we pray.