Bitter probes and a furrowed brow,
Drained to dry by bitter sorrow.
This pointless wander of ambition
Leads a good life to perdition
Seven days all toil, no gain.
No cheer, no dear- all is mental sprain.
Labor for utter joy is in vain,
Pure content had passed the sight,
Of the man who chose his plight.
Existences like a struggling raft,
Is this life lived in half.
