AGIMUR FATIS.
We are as wrecks upon a stormy sea,
The winds and currents bear us where they will;
Or dry leaves, that before the tempest flee,
Borne on to good or unevaded ill.
Ere weeping through the gates of life we came,
Our lots were fixed, each act and thought decreed:
In vain we strive—we stem the tide in vain;—
Alike the idiot’s brain, the sage’s rede.