In youth alone, unhappy mortals live; But, ah! the mighty bliss is fugitive: Discolored sickness, anxious… — Virgil
In youth alone, unhappy mortals live;
But, ah! the mighty bliss is fugitive:
Discolored sickness, anxious labor, come,
And age, and death's inexorable doom.
Optima quaeque dies miseris mortalibus aevi
Prima fugit; subeunt morbi tristisque senectus
Et labor, et durae rapit inclementia mortis.
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For God, they say, pervades all things, earth and sea's expanse and heaven's depth.
His cares are eased with intervals of bliss;
His little children, climbing for a kiss,
Welcome their father's late return at night;
His faithful bed is crowned with chaste delight.
Yet theirs is repose without care, and a life that knows no fraud, but is rich in treasures manifold.
