Strive not against God, who exalts at his pleasure
Now one, now setteth another on high.
Yet doth not even His will seem right
Unto envious ones, but they strain over-tight
The line, and their own hearts so do they smite
With a wound whose bitterness none may measure,
Ere the prize be gained for the which they sigh.
Nay, better it is that a man bear lightly
The yoke of Fate on his neck that lies.
But he makes for his feet a perilous road
Who backward lashes against the goad.
But on me be this fair fortune bestowed,
To dwell among them which walk uprightly,
And to be well-pleasing in good men’s eyes.