Upon a deep well’s wall, a small boy slept. (To children, all the world’s a crib.)
But luck was with him: Fortune, passing by, awoke him gently, saying:
“Little lad, I’ve saved your life! Be carefuller in future, please. If you had fallen in, it isn’t you they’d fault, but me. Which doesn’t quite seem fair, now does it?”
That’s a fact. Poor Fortune’s made to reckon all our bills, to guarantee our worst investments. Every foolish, rash, imprudent lout assigns to fate his shame.
But for our errors, Fortune’s not to blame.