Our years, nor piety one hour
Can win from wrinkles, and decay,
And death's indomitable power;
Not though three hundred steers you heap
Each day, to glut the tearless eyes
Of Him, who guards in moated keep
Tityos, and Geryon's triple size:
All, all, alas! that watery bound
Who eat the fruits that Nature yields,
Must traverse, be we monarchs crowned,