Classic Poem

Ah! Posthumus, the years, the years
Glide swiftly on, nor can our tears
Or piety the wrinkl'd age forefend,
Or for one hour retard th'inevitable end.
'Twoud be in vain, tho' you should slay,
My friend, three hundred beeves a day
To cruel Pluto, whose dire waters roll,
Geryon's threefold bulk, and Tityus to controul.
This is a voyage we all must make,
Who'er the fruits of earth partake,
Whether we sit upon a royal throne,
Or live, like cottage hinds, unwealthy and unknown.
The wounds of war we scape in vain,
And the hoarse breakers of the main;
In vain with so much caution we provide
Against the southern winds upon th'autumnal tide.
The black Cocytus, that delays
His waters in a languid maze,
We must behold, and all those Danaids fell,
And Sisyphus condemn'd to fruitless toil in hell.
Lands, house, and pleasing wife, by thee
Must be relinquish'd; nor a tree
Of all your nurseries shall in the end,
Except the baleful cypress, their brief lord attend.
Thy worthier heir the wine shall seize
You hoarded with a hundred keys,
And with libations the proud pavement dye,
And feasts of priests themselves shall equal and outvie.