IX

 
You cruel stars, inhuman deities,
Envious heavens, harsh mother Nature,
Whether by chance, or some deeper law,
You steer the course of human destinies,

Why did your hands work all those centuries
To fashion a world that might so long endure?
Or why was the substance not made more sure
That formed the brave fronts of these palaces?

I do not sing here to the common tune,
Claiming that everything beneath the moon
Is corruptible and subject to decay:

But rather I say (not wishing to displease
Those who would argue by contraries)
That this great All must perish some fine day.