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Do the gods light this fire in our hearts

or does each man's mad desire become his god?

Fortune favors the bold.

Go no further down the road of hatred.

There is no salvation in war.

Thus to their toils, in early summer, run

The clust'ring bees, and labour in the sun;

Led forth, in colonies, their buzzing race,

Or work the liquid sweets, and thicken to a mass.

The busy nation flies from flow'r to flow'r,

And hoards, in curious cells, the golden store;

A chosen troop before the gate attends,

To take the burdens, and relieve their friends;

Warm at the fragrant work, in bands, they drive

The drone, a lazy robber, from the hive.

Is it then so sad a thing to die?

Rage finds them arms.

But then, if they chance to see a man among them,

whose devotion and public service lend him weight,

they stand there, stock-still with their ears alert as

he rules their furor with his words and calms their passion.

Every man's last day is fixed.

Lifetimes are brief and not to be regained,

For all mankind. But by their deeds to make

Their fame last: that is labor for the brave.

Trojan and Tyrian I shall treat with no distinction.

I cannot bear a mother's tears.

Each one his own hope.

Fear is the proof of a degenerate mind.