If hard the heavy hammer falls

Upon the heads of helpless thralls,

Then laughter echoes from the walls

Of lazy lords in lustrous halls,

And only in the fortunate

Has pain the pow’r to fascinate.

For souls grown soft necessitate

Some trifle ache to stimulate

A spirit frail with idleness

And glutted full with gross excess.

So, sick with feasting and cologne,

He loathes the cushion of his throne.

The man who has no cause to groan

When wont of woe, creates his own!

O pain! How it amazes me

That you may lure the worry-free

Away from careless jubilee

Into a dark idolatry

That countless many must confess

That still they crave you nonetheless.