1. Among the miseries of life, when it turns hostile,

    are matters that, though counted small, are grave.

  2. When I try with tweezers to pluck my gray hairs,

    the jet-black hairs are presented to them instead.

  3. So against my will I pluck out what I love,

    and leave what I loathe, my nose ground in dust.

  4. My tweezers dodge the stars of my gray hairs,

    though to my eye they stand out, risen and gleaming.

Sol 5.6