Classic Poem

Alas, Antikles! your mother is more miserable than you are, for she has laid her only son upon the pyre in the flower of youth, at eighteen. At the thought of my childless old age, I weep and I long for the shadowy halls of Hades, for the morning seems no longer sweet to me, and the sun's swift rays have lost their warmth.
Alas, Antikles, take me with you into the house of death and end my sorrow.