“Alas!” he sobs, “that treach’rous gnome! My whole frame reels!”

A bird flies in the air; its shadow flits on earth;

A second bird it seems to be, though nothing worth.

Some simpleton runs after it; to catch it tries;

Himself tires out; meanwhile the creature safely flies.

The fool still knows not ’tis a shadow he pursues,

Its substance where to seek he has no power to muse.100

He shoots his arrows at the fleeting, mocking shade;

His quiver emptied, he returns; no booty made.

Our life’s our quiver. When our years are vainly spent