Has taken his stand, before thou canst depart Satisfied with existence and replete. But now resign all vanities that so ill Befit thine age: come then, with a good grace Rise and make room for others; for thou must.” Justly, I think, would she so plead with him, Justly reproach and chide: for things grown old Yield place and are supplanted evermore By new, and each thing out of something else Must be replenished; nor to the black pit Of Tartarus was yet any man consigned. Matter is needed, that therefrom may grow Succeeding generations: which yet all, When they have lived their life, shall follow thee. Thus it is all have perished in past times No less than thou, and shall hereafter perish. So one thing out of another shall not cease For ever to arise; and life is given To none in fee, to all in usufruct. Consider likewise how eternal Time’s Bygone antiquity before our birth Was nothing to us. In such wise does Nature Show us the time to come after our death As in a mirror. Is aught visible Therein so appalling? aught that seems like gloom? Is it not more secure than any sleep? Moreover all those things which people say Are found in Acheron’s gulf, assuredly Exist for us in life. No wretched Tantalus, Numbed by vain terror, quakes, as the tale tells, Beneath a huge rock hanging in the air; But in life rather an empty fear of gods Oppresses mortals; and the fall they dread Is fortune’s fall, which chance may bring to each. Nor verily entering the large breast of Tityos, As he lies stretched in Acheron, do vultures Find food there for their beaks perpetually. How vast soever his body’s bulk extends, Though not nine acres merely with outspread limbs He cover, but the round of the whole earth, Yet would he not be able to endure Eternal pain, nor out of his whole body For ever provide food. But here for us He is a Tityos, whom, while he lies In bonds of love, fretful anxieties Devour like rending birds of prey, or cares, Sprung from some other craving, lacerate. A living Sisyphus also we behold In him who from the people fain would beg The rods and cruel axes, and each time Defeated and disconsolate must retire. For to beg power, which, empty as it is, Is never given, and in pursuit thereof To endure grievous toil continually, Is but to thrust uphill mightily straining A stone, which from the summit after all Rolls bounding back down to the level plain. Moreover to be feeding evermore The thankless nature of the mind, yet never To fill it full and sate it with good things, As do the seasons for us, when each year They return bringing fruits and varied charms, Yet never are we filled with life’s delights, This surely is what is told of those young brides,