What does man love more than life, fear more then death or mortal strife, what the poor have the rich require, and all contented men desire. What misers spend and spendthrifts save and all men carry to the grave?
500 at the beginning, 500 at the end, 5 in the middle is seen, The first of all letters, the first of all figures Take up their stations between, String them all together, and you will see The name of an ancient king.
In marble walls as white as milk, Lined with skin as soft as silk, In a fountain crystal clear, A golden treasure does appear. There are no doors to this stronghold, Yet thieves break in and steal the gold.
I am the black child of a white father, a wingless bird, flying even to the clouds of heaven. I give birth to tears of mourning in pupils that meet me, even though there is no cause for grief, and at once on my birth I am dissolved into air.