Talk not to us of the joys of the Present,
Say not what is is undoubtedly best:
Never be ours to be merely quiescent—
Anything, everything rather than rest!
Placid prosperity bores us and vexes:
What if philosophers Latin and Greek
Say that well-being's a Status and Exis?
Nothing should please you for more than a week.
Tinkering, doctoring, shifting, deranging,
Urged by a constant satiety on,
Ever the new for the newer exchanging,
Hazarding ever the gains we have won—
Only perpetual flux can delight us,
Blown like a billow by winds of the sea:
Still let us bow to the shrine of St. Vitus—
Vite Sanctissime, ora pro me!
Pray, that when leaps in the darkness uncaring
End in a fall (as they probably will),
Mine be the credit for valiantly daring,
Others be charged with defraying the bill!