Who must pour water into a punctured vessel, Though they can have no hope to fill it full. Cerberus and the Furies in like manner Are fables, and that world deprived of day Where from its throat Tartarus belches forth Horrible flames: which things in truth are not, Nor can be anywhere. But there is in life A dread of punishment for things ill done, Terrible as the deeds are terrible; And to expiate men’s guilt there is the dungeon, The awful hurling downward from the rock, Scourgings, mutilations and impalings, The pitch, the torches and the metal plate. And even if these be wanting, yet the mind Conscious of guilt torments itself with goads And scorching whips, nor in its boding fear Perceives what end of misery there can be, Nor what limit at length to punishment, Nay fears lest these same evils after death Should prove more grievous. Thus does the life of fools Become at last an Acheron here on earth. This too thou may’st say sometimes to thyself: “Even the good king Ancus closed his eyes To the light of day, who was so many times Worthier than thou, unconscionable man. And since then many others who bore rule O’er mighty nations, princes and potentates, Have perished: and he too, even he, who once Across the great sea paved a path whereby His legions might pass over, bidding them Cross dry-shod the salt deeps, and to show scorn Trampled upon the roarings of the waves With horses, even he, bereft of light, Forth from his dying body gasped his soul. The Scipios’ offspring, thunderbolt of war, Terror of Carthage, gave his bones to the earth, As though he were the meanest household slave. Consider too the inventors of wise thoughts And arts that charm, consider the companions Of the Heliconian Maidens, among whom Homer still bears the sceptre without peer; Yet he now sleeps the same sleep as they all. Likewise Democritus, when a ripe old age Had warned him that the memory-stirring motions Were waning in his mind, by his own act Willingly offered up his head to death. Even Epicurus died, when his life’s light Had run its course, he who in intellect Surpassed the race of men, quenching the glory Of all else, as the sun in heaven arising Quenches the stars. Then wilt thou hesitate And feel aggrieved to die? thou for whom life Is well nigh dead, whilst yet thou art alive And lookest on the light; thou who dost waste Most of thy time in sleep, and waking snorest, Nor ceasest to see dreams; who hast a mind Troubled with empty terror, and ofttimes Canst not discover what it is that ails thee, When, poor besotted wretch, from every side Cares crowd upon thee, and thou goest astray Drifting in blind perplexity of soul.”