“What is this life,” it plained, “what masquerade
Of which ye all are witnesses and part?
’Tis but a foolish, smiling face to wear
Above your mortal sorrow, chill despair;
“To mock your comrades and yourselves with mirth
That feeds the care ye cannot drive away;
To vaunt of health, yet hide beneath the girth
Impuissance, fell sickness, slow decay;
To cloak defeat, and with the rich, the great,
Applaud their fairer fortunes as their mate;