GUI BONO 



Aye ! work we must, or with idlers rust, 



And eat we must our bodies to nurse ; 

 Some folk grow fatter — what does it matter ? 



I'm blest if I do — quite the reverse ; 

 'Tis a weary round to which we are bound, 



The same thing over and over again ; 

 Much toil and trouble, and a glittering bubble 



That rises and bursts, is the best we gain ; 

 And we murmur, and yet, 'tis certain, we get 



What good we deserve — can we hope for 

 more ? — 

 They are roaring, those waves, in their echo- 

 ing caves, — 



To whom do they profit! — Let them roar. 



