Knows this, that men, when swelling ills surge o’er them,
Brood o’er the harm till all things catch the hue
Of apprehension; but, when Fortune’s stream
Runs smooth, the same, with confidence elate,
Hope the boon god will blow fair breezes ever.
Thus to my soul all things are full of fear,
The adverse gods from all sides strike my eye,
And in my ear, with ominous-ringing peal,
Fate prophesies. Such terror scares my wits.
No royal car to-day, no queenly pomp