CENTRO DE ESTUDOS BÚDICOS

Jacareí, SP

(Texto Original)

WHAT IF A DAY. . .

What if a day, or a month, or a year,
Crown thy delights with a thousand sweet contentings,

a thousand sweet contentings?

May not the change of a night or an hour
Cross thy delights with as many sad tormentings,

as many sad tormentings?

Fortune, honour, beauty, youth,
Are but blossoms dying;
Wanton pleasure, doting love,
Are but shadows flying.
All our joys are but toys,
Idle thoughts deceiving,
None hath pow'r of an hour
Of the life's bereaving.

Earth's but a point of the world, and a man
Is but a point of the Earth's compared centre,

the Earth's compared centre;

Shall then the point of a point be so vain,
As to triumph in a silly point's adventure,

a silly point's adventure?

All in hazard that we have,
Here in nothing biding;
Days of pleasure are as streams
Thro' fair meadows gliding.
Weal or woe, time doth go,
Time hath no returning;
Secret fates guide our states
Both in mirth and mourning.

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