O'er thee, Misfortune, I have ceased to wail,
I'll utter no reproaches any more.
Thank God, I'm used to griefs thou hast in store
And to the sufferings in life's strong jail.
No burden can now hurt my shoulders frail;
My lips are used to bitter drinks of yore;
My feet, like leather, are no longer sore,
I dread no thorny path, no irksome trail.
Stiff are my limbs and joints as if confined.
My heart, once sensitive, is hard as stone,
The claims of sorrow have subdued my mind.
All fear is fled; with it all hopes have flown.
Should Fate caress or beat me, it will find
Insensibility of flesh and bone.
