I am she who gives and takes away; Blamed idly, day by day, In all mine acts by you, ye humankind. For whoso smites his visage and doth mourn, What time he renders back my gifts to me. Learns then that I decree No state which mine own arrows may not find. Who clomb must fall:⁠—this bear ye well in mind, Nor say, because he fell, I did him wrong. Yet mine is a vain song: For truly ye may find out wisdom when King Arthur’s resting-place is found of men. “Ye make great marvel and astonishment What time ye see the sluggard lifted up And the just man to drop. And ye complain on God and on my sway. O humankind, ye sin in your complaint: For He, that Lord who made the world to live. Lets me not take or give By mine own act, but as he wills I may. Yet is the mind of man so castaway, That it discerns not the supreme behest. Alas! ye wretchedest, And chide ye at God also? Shall not He Judge between good and evil righteously? “Ah! had ye knowledge how God evermore. With agonies of soul and grievous heats, As on an anvil beats On them that in this earth hold high estate⁠— Ye would choose little rather than much store, And solitude than spacious palaces; Such is the sore disease Of anguish that on all their days doth wait. Behold if they be not unfortunate, When oft the father dares not trust the son!