But of all the compositions of our mad monk which I have seen, I am most especially interested in this _Cur mundus militat_. Its attractiveness consists, first of all, in its dactylic measure and in its singular adaptation to the character of Jacoponus. It is hard, in the translation, to catch that strange jingle of the cap and bells and that tossing of the fool’s bauble which accompany the exhortation. Only in the last stanza does it appear as if he deigned to be serious. All that precedes this is the quaint world-weariness of the man too wise for his time, and who is therefore well pleased to be _stultus propter Christum_—a “fool for Christ’s sake.” THE VANITY OF EARTH. Why should this world of ours strive to be glorious Since its prosperity is not victorious? Swiftly its power and its beauty are perishing Like to frail vases which once we were cherishing. Trust more to letters carved fair on some frostiness Than to this brittle world’s empty untrustiness. False in her honors, in semblance of purity, Never as yet had she time for security. More should be trusted to glass, which is treacherous, Than to Earth’s happiness wretched and venturous— Filled with false vanities, lured by false madnesses, Worn with false knowledges, sick of false gladnesses. Where now is Solomon, once so pre-eminent? Where is that Samson, so valiantly prominent? Where the fair Absalom, stalwart and beautiful? Where the sweet Jonathan, lovely and dutiful? Whither went Caesar, that monarch illustrious? Or the proud Dives, at table industrious? Tell me of Tullius, lofty in eloquence; Or Aristoteles, first in grandiloquence. So many heroes, such spacious activity, Dancers and mountebanks, kingdoms and levity; Rulers of earth who were tyrannous o’er us all— Swift as a glance they are gone from before us all! What a short holiday this of Earth’s best estate! Joys, which to man are like dreams that attest his fate; Which, the rewards of eternity banishing, Lead him through paths where his comfort is vanishing. Food of the worm thou art—clod of the common clay! O dew! O vanity! Why praise thy common way? Thou who art ignorant whether the morrow come! Do good to all ere the time of thy sorrow come. Much though we value this glory of earthiness, Scripture declareth, as grass, its unworthiness; Like the light leaf, by the mighty wind hurried off, So is this life, by the darkness soon carried off. Nothing is thine which thy spirit may lose again— What this world gave it intendeth to choose again; Lift up thy thought where the heart hath its treasure-house— Happy art thou to despise this Earth’s pleasure-house!