|These schools and games, this continuing uproar,|
This spectacle of excessive delights hides ever new griefs.
That knowledge is a poison for free people,
Which ends in winning two handfuls of barley.
O fool, there is nothing in letters and philosophy,
Art and skill demand hard labor from you.
A man of skill controls the working of Nature,
His nights are brighter than mornings.
Through his art, if he so wishes,
Light can drip from the body of the sun as dew.