His joys create, theirs murder, future bliss.
To triumph in existence, his alone;
And his alone, triumphantly to think
His true existence is not yet begun.
His glorious course was, yesterday, complete;
Death, then, was welcome; yet life still is sweet.
But nothing charms Lorenzo, like the firm,
Undaunted breast—and whose is that high praise? 1142
They yield to pleasure, though they danger brave,
And show no fortitude, but in the field;