Mikolaj Sep Szarzynski
She's mistress of all:
Rule of this earth
To her is entrusted;
Fortune she's called.
But for her, Maia's son, whom
She grants gifts, be naught.
Man, living for gain,
Mars, fast to shed blood,
Stand both in her hand.
He fears her even
Whom Yenus enflames;
He praises her too,
Who lives by his toil,
In sweat and in thrift.
Kindly at her he'd look,
Who mocks her in word;
For wise deliberation,
Wishing, she'd turn to dispute.
Of a king, a pauper,
Of a slave, a king,
Should she will, she'd make.
She's heedless on whom
Her gifts she bestows,
In which no trust
Is she wont to keep.
So doth she sport!
Through inconstancy alone
She endures unchanging,
To wander hither and yon,
Ruling earth with no rules.
In this tho, she's less
Unto virtue persisting
Would she fast submit,
With it forever in strife.
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Comments about this poem (Fortune's Statue by Mikolaj Sep Szarzynski )
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