This too is oft men’s wont, when they lie feasting Wine-cup in hand with garland-shaded brows: Thus from the heart they speak: “Brief is life’s joy For poor frail men. Soon will it be no more, Nor ever afterwards may it be called back.” As though a foremost evil to be feared After their death were this, that parching thirst Would burn and scorch them in their misery, Or craving for aught else would then beset them. No, for none feels the want of self and life, When mind and body are sunk in sleep together. For all we care, such sleep might be eternal: No craving for ourselves moves us at all. And yet, when starting up from sleep a man Collects himself, then the atoms of his soul Throughout his frame cannot be wandering far From their sense-stirring motions. Therefore death Must needs be thought far less to us than sleep, If less can be than what we see is nothing. For the dispersion of the crowded atoms, That comes with death, is greater; nor has ever Anyone yet awakened, upon whom Has once fallen the chill arrest of death. Furthermore, if Nature suddenly found voice, And thus in person upbraided one of us: “What is it, mortal, can afflict thee so, That thou to such exceeding bitter grief Shouldst yield? Why thus bemoan and bewail death? For if the life thou hast lived hitherto Was pleasant to thee, and not all thy blessings, As though poured into a perforated jar, Have flowed through and gone thanklessly to waste, Why not then, like a guest replete with life, Take thy departure, and resignedly Enter, thou fool, upon secure repose? But if all that thou hast enjoyed has perished Squandered away, and life is a mere grievance, Why seek to add thereto, what in its turn Must all come to destruction and be lost Unprofitably? Why both of life and travail Dost thou not rather make an end at once? For there is nothing more I can contrive Or find to please thee. All things are the same At all times. Though thy body be not yet Decayed with years, nor have thy worn-out limbs Grown feeble, yet all things remain the same; Though thou shouldst overlive all generations, Nay, even more if thou shouldst never die.” What could we answer, save that Nature’s claim Was just, and her indictment a true plea? But if some other more advanced in years Should miserably complain and lament death Beyond all reason, would she not yet more justly Lift up her voice and chide him with sharp speech? “Hence with thy tears, buffoon. Cease thy complaints. After thou hast enjoyed all life’s best gifts Thou now decayest. But because thou hast yearned Always for what was absent, and despised That which was present, life has glided from thee Incomplete and unprofitable. So now Ere thou didst look for it, at thy pillow Death