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Consolation of Philosophy

Boethius, tr. “I.T.”, rev. Stewart, 1918

Book 2, 1. Poem 1

The pride of fickle fortune spareth none,
And, like the floods of swift Euripus borne,
Oft casteth mighty princes from their throne,
And oft the abject captive doth adorn.
She cares not for the wretch’s tears and moan,
And the sad groans, which she hath caused, doth scorn.
Thus doth she play, to make her power more known,
Showing her slaves a marvel, when man’s state
Is in one hour both downcast and fortunate.