Of this stuff in which, men, we masquerade.
Take to heart my counsel; do not from fear
For life, shun ills your duty is to bear.
The end’s stamped on each mortal lot by Fate;
No human force avails to change the date.
And why crave to live on? You’ll find nought new;
Nothing but the old objects to pursue;
No fresh joys from life to be hammered; just
Battered failures, and savouring of dust.
We covet years, in the hope that they will