And even mind in every state, amidst the frowns and smiles of fate, dear mortal delirious always show, that not too much of cloudy fear, nor too intemperate joys appear, or to contract or to extend thy brow.

Whether thy dull and happy years run slowly clogged with hopes and fears, and sit too heavy on thy soul, or whether crowned on beds of flowers, mirth softly drives thy easy hours and cheers thy spirits with the choicest bowl.

Where poppers white, the lofty pine and myrtle’s friendly branches join, and hospitable shades compose, where near a purling spring doth glide in winding streams and softly chide the interrupting pebble as it flows.

There bring thy wine, thy odours spread, let fading roses crown thy head, whilst wealth and age and life will bear.

For you must leave your groves, your house and farm where yellow tiber flows, and thy heaped wealth shall fill thy greedy air.

For whether sprung from royal blood or from the meanest of the crowd, tis all a case, for naught can save, the hand of fate doth strike at all, and thou art surely doomed to fall, a sacrifice to the impartial grave.

Our lots are cast, fate shakes the urn, and each man’s lot must take his turn.

Some soon leap out and some more late, but still to shore each mortal’s lot will doom his soul to Charon’s boat, to bear the eternal banishment of fate.