Men say that Fortune is a rare and precious thing, And they would fain that Power should homage to her bring. Yet Power herself is blind and ofttimes falleth low, Rarely to rise again, wherefore may Heaven know. To-day with humorous wiles she holds her sovereign sway, And could one only trust her, there might be goodly prey. Yet is she like to Fortune, changeful the course she flies, And both, oh earthly pilgrim, are but vain fraud and lies. The former is but frail, the other strives with care, And both alas! are subject to many a plot and snare. Thou hast laid hold on Fortune with an exultant mind, Affixed perhaps to-morrow the fatal _mis_ we find; Then does thy courage fail, this prefix saddens thee, Wert thou thyself Goliath or twice as brave as he. And thou who art so small--already grey with care-- Thou know'st not whether evil this year thy lot may share. For Fortune frolics ever, now under, now above, Emerging here and there her varied powers to prove. All that is earthly comes and vanishes again, Therefore I cling to that which will for aye remain. On March 14, 1683, I wrote the following:-- True is the sentence we are sometimes told: A friend is worth far more than bags of gold. Yet would I gladly ask, where do we find A friend so virtuous that he is well inclined To help another in his need and gloom Without a thought of recompense to come? Naught is there new in this, for selfish care To every child of Eve has proved a snare. Each generation hears the last complain, And each repeats the same sad tale again;-- That the oppressed by the wayside may lie, When naught is gained but God's approving eye. See, at Bethesda's pool, how once there came The halting impotent, some help to claim Among those thousands. Each of pity free, Had no hand for him in his misery To bring him to the angel-troubled stream. Near his last breath did the poor sufferer seem, Weary and penniless; when One alone Who without money works His wise own Will, turned where the helpless suppliant lay, And gently bade him rise and go his way. Children of grief, rejoice, do not despair; This Helper still is here and still will care What He in mercy wills. He soothes our pain, And He will help, asking for naught again. And in due time He will with gracious hand Unloose thy prison bars and iron band. A.D. 1684. The first day. To Peder Jensen Totzloff.