Soul, my soul, bemuddled with impossible cares,
stand up and defend yourself hurling your breast
right at the enemies ambushes, standing right up against them,
foot firmly planted. And if you win, be not openly rejoiced,
nor beaten grieve not collapsing in your home.
But rejoice in delightful things and in ills grieve not
overly. Just know what sort of 'rhythm' possesses human beings.