And 'neath its shelter hover sluggish Sleep,
And mournful Famine with her wasting jaws,
And Shame, at last her guilty face concealed.
Here quaking Fear, and Murder, desperate Grief,
Black Mourning, tottering Disease, and War
With weapons girded on, lie hid; and last695
Comes feeble Age upon his staff upheld.
Amphitr.: Are there no fruitful fields of corn or wine?
Theseus: Not so: no joyful fields with verdure shine,
No ripening grain waves gently in the breeze,