Such is the speech of men foredoomed to stay.
"Thou art too soon," they cry, "thou art too late,"
What care the Immortals what the rabble say?
46.
Verdicts of the Weary.
The weary shun the glaring sun, afraid,
And only care for trees to gain the shade.
47.
Descent.
"He sinks, he falls," your scornful looks portend: