Happy is that death which thrusts not itself upon men in their pleasant years,
yet comes to them at the oft-repeated cry of their sorrow. Sad is it how death turns
away from the unhappy with so deaf an ear, and will not close, cruel, the eyes that
weep. Ill is it to trust to Fortune's fickle bounty, and while yet she smiled upon me, the
hour of gloom had well-nigh overwhelmed my head. Now has the cloud put off its
alluring face, wherefore without scruple my life drags out its wearying delays.
'Why, O my friends, did ye so often puff me up, telling me that I was
fortunate? For he that is fallen low did never firmly stand.'