TO TORQUATUS.
Horace
The snows are fled, the herbage now returns to the fields, and the
leaves to the trees. The earth changes its appearance, and the
decreasing rivers glide along their banks: the elder Grace, together
with the Nymphs, and her two sisters, ventures naked to lead off the
dance. That you are not to expect things permanent, the year, and the
hour that hurries away the agreeable day, admonish us. The colds are
mitigated by the zephyrs: the summer follows close upon the spring,
shortly to die itself, as soon as fruitful autumn shall have shed its
fruits: and anon sluggish winter returns again. Nevertheless the
quick-revolving moons repair their wanings in the skies; but when we
descend [to those regions] where pious Aeneas, where Tullus and the
wealthy Ancus [have gone before us], we become dust and a mere shade.
Who knows whether the gods above will add to this day's reckoning the
space of to-morrow? Every thing, which you shall indulge to your beloved
soul, will escape the greedy hands of your heir. When once, Torquatus,
you shall be dead, and Minos shall have made his awful decisions
concerning you; not your family, not you eloquence, not your piety shall
restore you. For neither can Diana free the chaste Hippolytus from
infernal darkness; nor is Theseus able to break off the Lethaean fetters
from his dear Piri thous.
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