neither would Venus find the bald at once a disfavourable lover,

have faith in that neither would Venus find the bald at once a disfavourable lover,

nor Fortune the bold her constant master.

the plain and joyless Romans, if not for Boethius and his well-invented Wheel,

before Torment, without the talent to poetize, they should only at themselves or the world bitterly deride,

that the universe is misfortune and ugliness, Jupiter's plaything...

that history itself must grow old and lose its former glory, if it had ever possessed.

"O Fortune,

like the moon..."

but wherefore findst thy conviction wavering,

the moon meets the cloud, the flower the winds.

even before or after their own waning and waxing.

but in the rain, there is such forgetfulness

such joyful forgetfulness against inconstancy

that the image of universe impresses upon raindrops like a reflection

colours of music scatter and splatter

all the way till Chopin keyed the last note of his tune...

the entire history of a nation, a civilization, a culture, a faith,

seems so little before the history of a little child playing with raindrops...