All men are born to sorrow as to life,
our courses but a trip from pain to pain;
the stones the mattress on which we have lain,
and e'en our joys with misery are rife;
for e'en that simplest of them, child and wife
and friend are all too often mankind's bane,
for e'en such sweet affection will soon wane,
our homes become cacophonies of strife.
But though our sorrows lurk beneath our joys,
so do those sorrows on our loves shed light;
for naught like suff'ring lends to love its might,
and naught like ease and pleasure love destroys.
He loves not most who sorrow seeks to end,
but he who loves his sorrows, for his friend.
