Lament XV

Golden-locked Erato 1 , and thou, sweet lute,
The comfort of the sad and destitute,
Calm thou my sorrow, lest I too become
A marble pillar shedding through the dumb
But living stone my almost bloody tears,
A monument of grief for coming years.
For when we think of mankind’s evil chance
Does not our private grief gain temperance?
Unhappy mother 2 (if ’tis evil hap
We blame when caught in our own folly’s trap)
Where are thy sons and daughters, seven each,
The joyful cause of thy too boastful speech?