Thy belongings in sooth are but passion and lust,
Thy strength sinks asunder like light crumbling dust;
Thy treasures, like thorns, are surrounded with stings,
Thy most precious possessions are but worthless things,
Thy pride is enkindled like flames in the night,
Thy riches, like insects, soon hasten to flight.
And again, in chapter XI, the author gives the following description of the four seasons of the year:—
The lovely Spring gives me no peace,
For constant cares disturb my ease.
The Summer, too, is full of pain,