A memorial poem by Sir Francis Bacon about the nature of life and death, suitable as a funeral reading or memorial quotation.


The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man

 Less than a span:

 In his conception wretched, from the womb

 So to the tomb;

 Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years

 With cares and fears.

 Who then to frail mortality shall trust,

 But limns on water, or but writes in dust.

 Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest,

 What life is best?

 Courts are but only superficial schools

 To dandle fools:

 The rural parts are turn'd into a den

 Of savage men:

 And where's a city from foul vice so free,

 But may be term'd the worst of all the three?

 Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed,

 Or pains his head:

 Those that live single, take it for a curse,

 Or do things worse:

 Some would have children: those that have them, moan

 Or wish them gone:

 What is it, then, to have, or have no wife,

 But single thraldom, or a double strife?

 Our own affections still at home to please

 Is a disease:

 To cross the seas to any foreign soil,

 Peril and toil:

 Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease,

 We are worse in peace;--

 What then remains, but that we still should cry

 For being born, or, being born, to die


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