We Come To Go
The whole world's a stage, and the life of man, less than a span;
by James Curtis Hall Jr.
In misconception, wretched, and from the womb, so on to the tomb;
Crust from the cradle brought up through years, with cares and fears;
Who then, will moral judgment trust,
With dreams of fortunes, and fates all written in dust. Still here in sorrow, yet, here we remain, oppressed, this life is best!
Courts are only superficial schools, for proven fools;
It's rural parts transform into a den, for savage men;
To that professed one whom of vice be free,
Remove your ties within that family tree. Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, or pains his head;
Those living single, profess they have been cursed, or do things worse;
Some have offspring, most of whom, they moan, or wish them gone;
What is it then, to have or have no wife,
Than once the single boredom, or twice the double strife. With true affections still at home to please, it's a disease;
To cross the sea to any foreign soil, perils and toil;
The noise of war frightens us when once it's ceased, we're worse at peace;
What then remains should all but make us cry,
Of not being born, but being born to die!!