For, passing through one of the
streets of Milan, I observed a poor beggar, then, I suppose, with a
full belly, joking and joyous: and I sighed, and spoke to the
friends around me, of the many sorrows of our frenzies; for that by
all such efforts of ours, as those wherein I then toiled dragging
along, under the goading of desire, the burthen of my own
wretchedness, and, by dragging, augmenting it, we yet looked to arrive
only at that very joyousness whither that beggar-man had arrived
before us, who should never perchance attain it. For what he had
obtained by means of a few begged pence, the same was I plotting for
by many a toilsome turning and winding; the joy of a temporary
felicity. For he verily had not the true joy; but yet I with those
my ambitious designs was seeking one much less true. And certainly
he was joyous, I anxious; he void of care, I full of fears. But should
any ask me, had I rather be merry or fearful? I would answer merry.
Again, if he asked had I rather be such as he was, or what I then was?
I should choose to be myself, though worn with cares and fears; but
out of wrong judgment; for, was it the truth? For I ought not to
prefer myself to him, because more learned than he, seeing I had no
joy therein, but sought to please men by it; and that not to instruct,
but simply to please.
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