Bitter art thou to him that lives in rest,
O Death! and grievous in the hour of joy
The thought of thy cold dwelling; but thou comest
Most welcome to the wretched; a best friend
To him that wanteth one; a comforter.
For the grave is peace.

If therefore whensoever the time of thy departing shall come, thou shalt readily leave all things, and shalt respect thy mind only, and that divine part of thine, and this shall be thine only fear, not that some time or other thou shalt cease to live, but thou shalt never begin to live according to nature : then shalt thou be a man indeed, worthy of that world, from which thou hadst thy beginning; then shalt thou cease to be a stranger in thy country, and to wonder at those things that happen daily, as things strange and unexpected, and anxiously to depend of divers things that are not in thy power.
[tr. Casaubon (1634)]

If, since your Life is almost up, you lay aside all other Matters, and only Cultivate your Mind, and pay a Regard to the Governing , and Diviner part of your self: If you are not at all afraid of losing your Life, but of Missing the Ends on't, and not Living as you should do; Then you'l act suitably to your Extraction, and deserve to have the Deity for your Maker: Then you'l be no longer a stranger in your own Country , nor be surpriz'd at common Accidents; you'll ne'er be anxious about the Future, nor stand to the Courtesy of Events.
[tr. Collier (1701)]

If, therefore, now that you are near your exit, you quit thought about other things, and honour only that governing and divine part within you, and dread not the ceasing to live, but the not commencing to live according to nature; you will become a man, worthy of that orderly universe which produced you, and will cease to be as a stranger in your own country; both astonished, with what happens every day, as if unexpected; and in anxious suspence about this and t’other thing.
[tr. Hutcheson/Moor (1742)]

If then, as you are now on the verge of life, you lay aside all other cares, and dedicate your whole attention to the improvement of your mind, and pay a due respect to the Deity within you, and fear less to die than not to live according to nature; you will, by this means, become worthy of that Universal Nature which produced you, and will no longer be a stranger in your own country; and will cease to be surprized at what happens every day, as if it were something extraordinary; nor be anxious and in suspense about the common events of life.
[tr. Graves (1792)]

If, then, whatever the time may be when thou shalt be near to thy departure, neglecting everything else thou shalt respect only thy ruling faculty and the divinity within thee, and if thou shalt be afraid not because thou must some time cease to live, but if thou shalt fear never to have begun to live according to nature -- then thou wilt be a man worthy of the universe which has produced thee, and thou wilt cease to be a stranger in thy native land, and to wonder at things which happen daily as if they were something unexpected, and to be dependent on this or that.
[tr. Long (1862)]

If, since your life is almost up, you lay aside all other matters, and only cultivate your mind, and pay a regard to the governing and diviner part of yourself; if you are not at all afraid of losing your life, but only of never beginning to live in accordance with nature, then you will act suitably to your extraction, and deserve to be the offspring of the universe; then you will be no longer a stranger in your own country, nor surprised at common accidents; you will never be dependent on this or that.
[tr. Collier/Zimmern (1887)]

If then, now that you near your end, leaving all else alone, you will reverence only your Inner Self and the god within, if you will fear not life some time coming to an end, but never beginning life at all in accord with nature's law, then indeed you will be a man, worthy of the universe that begat you, and no more a stranger to your fatherland, ever in amaze at the unexpectedness of what each day brings forth, and hanging upon this event or that.
[tr. Rendall (1898)]

If then, now that you are near your exit, setting behind you all other things, you will hold alone in reverence your ruling part, the spirit divine within you; if you will cease to dread the end of life, but rather fear to miss the beginning of life according to Nature, you will be a man, worthy of the ordered Universe that produced you; you will cease to be a stranger in your own country, gaping in wonder at every daily happening, caught up by this trifle or by that.
[tr. Hutcheson/Chrystal (1902)]

If then, when the time of thy departure is near, abandoning all else thou prize thy ruling Reason alone and that which in thee is divine, and dread the thought, not that thou must one day cease to live, but that thou shouldst never yet have begun to live according to Nature, then shalt thou be a man worthy of the Universe that begat thee, and no longer an alien in thy fatherland, no longer shalt thou marvel at what happens every day as if it were unforeseen, and be dependent on this or that.
[tr. Haines (Loeb) (1916)]

If then, when you arrive at last at your final exit, resigning all else, you honour your governing self alone and the divine element within you, if what you dread is not that some day you will cease to live, but rather never to begin at all to live with Nature, you will be a man worthy of the Universe that gave you birth, and will cease to be a stranger in your own country, surprised by what is coming to pass every day, as at something you did not look to see, and absorbed in this thing or in that.
[tr. Farquharson (1944)]

If then, when the time for your departure draws near, you have put all else behind you and you honour your governing faculty alone and what is divine within you, and if what you hold in fear is not that some day you will cease to live, but rather that you may never begin go live according to nature, you will be a person who is worthy of the universe that brought you to birth, and you will no longer be a stranger in your native land, wondering at what happens day after day as if it were beyond foreseeing, and in thrall to one thing and the next.
[tr. Hard (1997 ed.)]

And if, when it’s time to depart, you shunt everything aside except your mind and the divinity within ... if it isn’t ceasing to live that you’re afraid of but never beginning to live properly ... then you’ll be worthy of the world that made you.
No longer an alien in your own land.
No longer shocked by everyday events—as if they were unheard-of aberrations.
No longer at the mercy of this, or that.
[tr. Hays (2003)]

If, then, when you finally come close to your exit, you have left all else behind and value only your directing mind and the divinity within you, if your fear is not that you will cease to live, but that you never started a life in accordance with nature, then you will be a man worthy of the universe that gave you birth. You will no longer be a stranger in your own country, no longer meet the day’s events as if bemused by the unexpected, no longer hang on this or that.
[tr. Hammond (2006), 12.2]

But if, when you have come to the end, having let go of all other things, you honor only your guiding part and the divinity that is within you, and you do not fear ceasing to live so much as you fear never having begun to live in accordance with Nature -- then you will be a man who is worthy of the Cosmos that created you; and you will cease to live like a stranger in your own land, that is, surprised at unexpected everyday occurrences and wholly distracted by this and that.
[tr. Needleman/Piazza (2008)]

If then, when the time for your departure draws near, you have put all else behind you and you honour your ruling centre alone and what is divine within you, and if what you hold in fear is not that some day you will cease to live, but rather that you may never begin to live according to nature, you will be a man who is worthy of the universe that brought you to birth, and you will no longer be a stranger in your native land, wondering at what happens day after day as if it were beyond foreseeing, and hanging on to one thing after another.
[tr. Hard (2011 ed.)]

Hark ye Friend; you have been a Burgher of this Great City; what's matter tho' you have lived in't but a few Years; if you have observ'd the Laws of the Corporation, the length or shortness of the Time, makes no difference.
[tr. Collier (1701)]

You have lived, O man, as a denizen of this great state: Of what consequence to you, whether it be only for five years? What is according to the laws, is equal and just to all.
[tr. Hutcheson/Moor (1742)]

O! my friend, you have lived a citizen of this great commonwealth, the world; of what consequence is it to you, whether you have lived precisely five years or not? What is according to the laws of the community, is equal and just to all.
[tr. Graves (1792)]

Man, thou hast been a citizen in this great state [the world]; what difference does it make to thee whether for five years [or three]? for that which is conformable to the laws is just for all.
[tr. Long (1862)]

Hark ye friend; you have been a burgher of this great city, what matter though you have lived in it five years or three; if you have observed the laws of the corporation, the length or shortness of the time makes no difference.
[tr. Collier/Zimmern (1887)]

Man, you have been a citizen of the great world city. Five years or fifty, what matters it? To every man his due, as law allots.
[tr. Rendall (1898)]

You have lived, O man, as a citizen of this great city; of what consequence to you whether for five years or for three? What comes by law is fair to all.
[tr. Hutcheson/Chrystal (1902)]

Man, thou hast been a citizen in this World-City, what matters it to thee if for five years or a hundred? For under its laws equal treatment is meted out to all.
[tr. Haines (Loeb) (1916)]

Mortal man, you have been a citizen in this great City; what does it matter to you whether for five or fifty years? For what is according to its laws is equal for every man.
[tr. Farquharson (1944)]

O man, citizenship of this great world-city has been yours. Whether for five years or fivescore, what is that to you? Whatever the law of that city decrees is fair to one and all alike.
[tr. Staniforth (1964)]

My friend, you have been a citizen of this great city [of the universe]. What difference if you live in it for five years or a hundred? For what is laid down in its laws is equitable for all.
[tr. Hard (1997 ed.; 2011 ed.)]

You've lived as a citizen in a great city. Five years or a hundred -- what's the difference? The laws make no distinction.
[tr. Hays (2003)]

Mortal man, you have lived as a citizen in this great city. What matter if that life is five or fifty years? The laws of the city apply equally to all.
[tr. Hammond (2006)]

Man, you have been a citizen in this world city; what does it matter whether for five years or fifty? [...]
[tr. Oxford Dictionary of Quotations (2004)]

It is mortifying to feel that you belong to a mental mob and cry "crucify him," because others do; that you reap what the great and brave have sown, and that you can benefit the world only by leaving it.

That whensoever thou doest take on grievously, or makest great woe, little doest thou remember then that a man's life is but for a moment of time, and that within a while we shall all be in our graves.
[tr. Casaubon (1634)]

When you are most Angry and Gall'd, remember that Humane Life lasts but a Moment, and that we shall all of us very quickly , be laid in our Graves.
[tr. Collier (1701)]

When your anger and resentment is highest, remember human life is but for a moment. We shall be all presently stretched out dead corpses.
[tr. Hutcheson/Moor (1742)]

When you are excessively provoked and suffer some real injury, reflect that human life is but of a moment's duration, and that in a short time we shall all be laid in our tombes together.
[tr. Graves (1792)]

Consider when thou art much vexed or grieved, that man's life is only a moment, and after a short time we are all laid out dead.
[tr. Long (1862)]

When you are most angry and vexed remember that human life lasts but a moment, and that we shall all of us very quickly be laid in our graves.
[tr. Collier/Zimmern (1887)]

When sorely provoked and out of patience, remember that man's life is but for a moment; a little while, and we all lie stretched in death.
[tr. Rendall (1898)]

When you are vexed or worried overmuch, remember that man’s life is but for a moment, and that in a little we shall all be laid to rest.
[tr. Hutcheson/Chrystal (1902)]

When thou art above measure angry or even out of patience, bethink thee that man's life is momentary, and in a little while we shall all have been laid out.
[tr. Haines (Loeb) (1916)]

When you are highly indignant or actually suffering, that man's life is but a moment, and in a little we are one and all laid low in death.
[tr. Farquharson (1944)]

When you are annoyed beyond measure and losing all patience, remember that human life lasts but a moment, and that in a short while we shall all have been laid to rest.
[tr. Hard (1997 ed. and 2011 ed.)]

When you lose your temper, or even feel irritated: that human life is very short. Before long all of us will be laid out side by side.
[tr. Hays (2003)]

When you are high in indignation and perhaps losing patience, remember that human life is a mere fragment of time and shortly we are all in our grave.
[tr. Hammond (2006)]

Whenever you are excessively disturbed or even suffering, remember that human life lasts only a moment and that in a short time we will all be laid out for burial.
[tr. Needleman/Piazza (2008)]

Whenever you are really angry and upset, [remember] that human life is short and soon we will all be in the ground.
[tr. @sentantiq (2020)]

But thou desirest a more popular, and though not so direct and philosophical, yet a very powerful and penetrative recipe against the fear of death, nothing can make they more willing to part with thy life, than if thou shalt consider, both what the subjects themselves are that thou shalt part with, and what manner of disposition thou shalt no more have to do with.
[tr. Casaubon (1634)]

But if you stand in need of a Vulgar Remedy, and want a Cordial to make Dying go down the better, you shall have it. Consider then what sort of World, and what sort of Humours, you will be Rid of!
[tr. Collier (1701)]

If you want also a popular support, here is one which goes to the heart: you will be extremely easy with regard to death, if you consider the objects you are going to leave; and the manners of that confused croud from which you are to be disengaged.
[tr. Hutcheson/Moor (1742)]

But (if you would have a popular remedy, yet what may prove a cordial, against the fear of death) it will greatly contribute to this end, if you consider what sort of world you are to leave, and with what sort of characters you will no longer be conversant.
[tr. Graves (1792)]

But if thou requirest also a vulgar kind of comfort which shall reach thy heart, thou wilt be made best reconciled to death by observing the objects from which thou art going to be removed, and the morals of those with whom thy soul will no longer be mingled.
[tr. Long (1862)]

But if you stand in need of a vulgar remedy to soothe the mind, consider, then, what sort of world and what sort of customs you will be rid of!
[tr. Collier/Zimmern (1887)]

If your heart asks for some simple and effective reassurance, the best solace against death is correct appreciation of the material things from which you are to part, and of the moral natures with which your soul will then cease to intermingle.
[tr. Rendall (1898)]

If you wish for the common sort of comfort, here is a thought which goes to the heart. You will be completely resigned to death if you consider the things you are about to leave, and the morals of that confused crowd from which your soul is to be disengaged.
[tr. Hutcheson/Chrystal (1902)]

But if thou desirest a commonplace solace too that will appeal to the heart, nothing will enable thee to meet death with equanimity better than to observe the environment thou art leaving and the sort of characters with whom thy soul shall no longer be mixed up.
[tr. Haines (Loeb) (1916)]

And if you would have an everyday rule to touch your heart, it will make you most contented with death to dwell upon the objects from which you are about to be parted and the kind of characters with whom your soul will be no longer contaminated.
[tr. Farquharson (1944)]

But if your heart would have comfort of a simpler sort, then there is no better solace in the face of death than to think on the nature of the surroundings you are leaving, and the characters you will no longer have to mix with.
[tr. Staniforth (1964)]

Or perhaps you need some tidy aphorism to tuck away in the back of your mind. Well, consider two things that should reconcile you to death: the nature of the things you’ll leave behind you, and the kind of people you’ll no longer be mixed up with.
[tr. Hays (2003)]

If you want another criterion — unscientific but emotionally effective — you will find it quite easy to face death if you stop to consider the business you will be leaving and the sort of characters which will no longer contaminate your soul.
[tr. Hammond (2006)]

If you want a private passage at hand to soothe your heart, the knowledge of the world around you will give you some solace at death, the world you leave and the kind of people your soul will no longer be associated with.
[tr. @sentantiq (2017)]

If a person waiting for death should require some vulgar comfort, they can be more reconciled to death by remembering the evils from which they will be removed, and the morals of those they will no longer have to live with.
[tr. McNeill (2019)]

Death devours all lovely things;
Lesbia with her sparrow
Shares the darkness, -- presently
Every bed is narrow.

But if already -- may the Gods avert the omen! -- the State has been brought to its latest pass, let us, the leaders of the world and of all nations, do what stout gladiators do to die with honour, let us fall with dignity rather than serve with ignominy. [tr. Ker (Loeb) (1926)]

If -- may the Gods avert the omen! -- the final episode in the history of the Res publica has arrived, let us behave like champion gladiators: they meet death honorably; let us, who stand foremost in the world and all nations, see to it that we fall with dignity rather than serve with ignominy.
[tr. Manuwald (2007)]

But if, may the Gods avert the omen, final fate has come to the State, let us, leaders of the world and all nations, do what noble gladiators do to die with dignity: let us fall on our sword rather than serve with ignominy.
[tr. Wiseman]

Whatsoever dieth and falleth, however and wheresoever it die and fall, it cannot fall out of the world. here it have its abode and change, here also shall it have its dissolution into its proper elements. The same are the world's elements, and the elements of which thou dost consist. And they when they are changed, they murmur not; why shouldest thou?
[tr. Casaubon (1634), 8.16]

Whatever drops out of Life, is catch't up somewhere, for the World loses nothing. Within this Circumference of Corporeity, all things have their several Formes, and Revolutions ; And here 'tis likewise that they return into Element, and first Principle ; Under which Notion those of the World and your own, are the very same; And all these last Changes are made without the least Repining : And why then should the same Matter that lyes quiet in an Element, Grumble in a Man?
[tr. Collier (1701)]

What dies is not gone out of the verge of the universe. If that which is dissolved stays here, and is changed, it returns to those elements, of which the world and you too consist. These too are changed, and don’t murmur at it.
[tr. Hutcheson/Moor (1742)]

Nothing that dies, is lost to the universe, or annihilated. But, if it remains here, it undergoes some change, and is resolved into its proper elements. Now the same elements which compose the rest of the world make a part of your person; yet those undergo many changes, and do not murmur or repine.
[tr. Graves (1792)]

That which has died falls not out of the universe. If it stays here, it also changes here, and is dissolved into its proper parts, which are elements of the universe and of thyself. And these too change, and they murmur not.
[tr. Long (1862)]

Whatever drops out of life is somewhere, for the world loses nothing. If it stays here, it also changes here, and is dissolved into its proper parts, which are elements of the universe and of yourself. And these two change and do not complain.
[tr. Collier/Zimmern (1887)]

That which dies does not drop out of the universe. Here it bides, and here too it changes and is dispersed into its elements, the rudiments of the universe and of yourself. And they too change, and murmur not.
[tr. Rendall (1898)]

That which dies falls not out of the Universe. If then it stays here, here too it suffers a change, and is resolved into those elements of which the world, and you too, consist. These also are changed, and murmur not.
[tr. Hutcheson/Chrystal (1902)]

That which dies is not cast out of the Universe. As it remains here, it also suffers change here and is dissolved into its own constituents, which are the elements of the Universe and thy own. Yes, and they too suffer change and murmur not.
[tr. Haines (Loeb) (1916)]

What dies does not fall outside the Universe. If it remains here and changes here, it is also resolved here into the eternal constituents, which are elements of the Universe and of yourself. And the elements themselves change and make no grievance of it.
[tr. Farquharson (1944)]

That which dies does not drop out of the world. Here it remains; and here too, therefore, it changes and is resolved into its several particles; that is, into the elements which go to form the universe and yourself. They themselves likewise undergo change, and yet from them comes no complaint.
[tr. Staniforth (1964)]

What dies doesn’t vanish. It stays here in the world, transformed, dissolved, as parts of the world, and of you. Which are transformed in turn -- without grumbling.
[tr. Hays (2003)]

What dies does not pass out of the universe. If it remains here and is changed, then here too it is resolved into the everlasting constituents, which are the elements of the universe and of you yourself. These too change, and make no complaint of it.
[tr. Hammond (2006)]

What has died does not fall out of the universe; and if it remains here, it is also transformed here and resolved into its own constituents, which are the elements of the universe and of yourself. And these elements themselves are transformed and utter no complaint.
[tr. Hard (2011 ed.)]

Outrageous to destroy
The spear hath desolation spread,
With slaughter stain'd the widow'd bed,
And desolated Troy.
Yet well might Reason's suasive charms
Have made each warring foe a friend:
But many in the shock of arms
To Pluto's dreary realms descend;
Fires, like the flames of Jove, the walls surround,
And Ilium's ramparts smoke upon the ground.
[tr. Potter (1783), Antistrophe 2]

Hence from her home departs each Phrygian wife,
O Helen, when the cruel strife
Which from thy chamors arose,
One conference might have closed: now myriads dwell
With Pluto in the shades of Hell,
And flames, as when Jove's vengeance throws
The bolt, have caught her towers and finished Ilion's woes.
[tr. Wodhull (1809)]

Which left the dwellings of the land of Priam, when it was in their power to decide by words the strife concerning thee, O Helen. But now they indeed are the care of Hades below, and fire, like the lightning of Jove, has fallen on their walls.
[tr. Buckley (1850)]

By it [strife] they won as their lot bed-chambers of Priam's earth, when they could have set right by discussion the strife over you, O Helen. And now they are below in Hades' keeping, and fire has darted onto the walls like the bolt of Zeus.
[tr. Coleridge (1891)]

The maidens of the land of Priam left their bridal bowers, though arbitration might have put thy quarrel right, O Helen. And now Troy's sons are in Hades' keeping in the world below, and fire hath darted on her walls, as darts the flame of Zeus.
[tr. Coleridge (alt.)]

Lo, how its storm o'er homes of Ilium brake,
Yea, though fair words might once have wrought amending,
Helen, of wrong, of quarrel for thy sake!
Now are her sons in depths of Hades lying;
Flame o'er her walls leapt, like Zeus' levin-glare.
[tr. Way (Loeb) (1912)]

So to Priam's people came
Madness in the midst of ease,
Lust of battle. No man sought
Peace by suasion. Still they fought
For Helen's sake, and still from Greece
Thronged the fighters. Low they lie.
Death has won the victory.
The bolt of Zeus struck home. The towers of Troy
Perished for Helen's sake. Yet Helen hath no joy.
[tr. Sheppard (1925)]

It was that fate came to the homes
of Priam's land when, Helen, that strife of yours
still could have bene set aright by argument.
And now there are some in Hades' power
below, and upon the walls, like the flame of the lightning,
the fire has crept.
[tr. Warner (1951)]

By hate they won the chambers of Priam's city;
they could have solved by reason and words
the quarrel, Helen, for you.
Now these are given to the Death God below.
On the walls the flame, as of Zeus, lightened and fell.
[tr. Lattimore (1956)]

They received each one his portion of Trojan earth to slumber in, when reasoned argument might have solved the dispute you roused, Helen. Now they lie deep in Hades' lap, and Troy's walls, as if struck by Zeus' fiery thunderbolt, lie levelled.
[tr. Davie (2002)]

This time the Trojans won
The boxes, underground --
They could have talked,
Settled their quarrel over you, Helen,
With words.
Now they march in the ranks of Death,
While searing flames destroy their walls --
Downed by a force like
Zeus' lightning.
[tr. A. Wilson (2007)]

War, Helen, brought them their death on Priam’s land, when they argued about you, yet they could have resolved their differences about you with words alone.
Now they are in the hands of Hades!
Flames, shot like arrows from Zeus have spread across their towers.
[tr. Theodoridis (2011)]

Strife it was that won them chambers in Priam’s soil
They could have straightened out with words,
your quarrel, O Helen, ah!
As things are, Hades below welcomes them
and a deadly fire, like Zeus’, swept over the walls of Troy.
[tr. Ambrose et al. (2018), Antistrophe B]

By it they won as their lot bed-chambers of Priam’s earth, when they could have set right by discussion the strife [eris] over you, O Helen. And now they are below in Hādēs’ keeping, and fire has darted onto the walls like the bolt of Zeus.
[tr. Coleridge / Helen Heroization Team]

The time when thou shalt have forgotten all things, is at hand. And that time also is at hand, when thou thyself shalt be forgotten by all.
[tr. Casaubon (1634), 7.16]

'Twill not be long before you will have forgotten all the World; and in a little time, to be even, all the World will forget you too.
[tr. Collier (1701)]

The time approaches when you shall forget all things, and be forgotten by all.
[tr. Hutcheson/Moor (1742)]

The time is speedily approaching, when you will have forgotten every one, and every one will have forgotten you.
[tr. Graves (1792), 7.19]

Near is thy forgetfulness of all things; and near the forgetfulness of thee by all.
[tr. Long (1862)]

It will not be long before you will have forgotten all the world, and in a little time all the world will forget you too.
[tr. Collier/Zimmern (1887)]

Soon you will have forgotten all; soon all will have forgotten you.
[tr. Rendall (1898)]

The time is at hand when you shall forget all things, and when all shall forget you.
[tr. Hutcheson/Chrystal (1902)]

A little while and thou wilt have forgotten everything, a little while and everything will have forgotten thee.
[tr. Haines (Loeb) (1916)]

Near at hand is your forgetting all; near, too, all forgetting you.
[tr. Farquharson (1944)]

Close is the time when you will forget all things; and close, too, thie time when all will forget you.
[tr. Hard (1997 ed.)]

Close to forgetting it all, close to being forgotten.
[tr. Hays (2003)]

Soon you will have forgotten all things: soon all things will have forgotten you.
[tr. Hammond (2006)]

Close is the time when you will forget all things; and close, too, the time when all will forget you.
[tr. Hard (2011 ed.)]

A man should ever, as much as in him lieth, be ready booted to take his journey.
[tr. Florio (1603)]

We should always (as near as we can) be booted and spurr’d, and ready to go.
[tr. Cotton (1686)]

We should always, as far as possible, be booted and ready to depart.
[tr. Friswell (1868)]

We should always, as near as we can, be booted and spurred, and ready to go.
[tr. Cotton/Hazlitt (1877)]

We must always be booted and ready to depart, so far as lies in us.
[tr. Ives (1925), 1.20]

We must be always booted and ready to go, so far as it is in our power.
[tr. Frame (1943), 1.20]

As far as we possibly can we must always have our boots on, ready to go.
[tr. Screech (1987), 1.20]

We must always have our boots on, ready to leave, insofar as we can.
[tr. Atkinson/Sices (2012)]

We must always have our boots on and, as much as possible, be ready to go.
[tr. HyperEssays (2024)]

He sleeps. Although his fate was very strange, he lived. He died when he had no longer his angel. The thing came to pass simply, of itself, as the night comes when day is gone.
[tr. Hapgood (1887)]

He sleeps; although so much he was denied,
He lived. And when his dear love left him, died.
It happened of itself, in the calm way
That in the evening night-time follows day.
[tr. Denny (1976)]

He sleeps. Though fate dealt with him strangely,
He lived. Bereft of his angel, he died.
It came about simplly, of itself,
As night follows when the day is ended.
[tr. Donougher (2013)]

How now, who is heare?
I Robin of Doncastere,
And Margaret, my feare [wife]:
That I spent, that I had,
That I gave, that I have,
That I left, that I lost
A. D. 1579.
Quoth Robertus Byrks, who in this World did reign Three score years and seven, & yet lived not one.

It is nothing to die; it is frightful not to live.
[tr. Wilbour (1862)]

It is nothing to die, but it is frightful not to live.
[tr. Wraxall (1862)]

It is nothing to die; it is dreadful not to live.
[tr. Hapgood (1887)]

To die is nothing; but it is terrible not to live.
[tr. Denny (1976)]

It’s nothing to die. It’s dreadful not to live.
[tr. Donougher (2013)]

I killed two people, I mean, two Arabs. One was a boy. That was -- yesterday. I led him into a quicksand. The other was a man. That was -- before Aqaba, anyway. I had to execute him with my pistol. There was something about it I didn't like.

These travelers have departed, and of them all, not one has returned to tell us of the hidden things concealed behind the veil. Oh, devout man, it is by a humble heart, and not by prayer, that the things which concern thy soul will be brought to a favourable issue, for prayer is of no avail to a man without sincerity and contrition.
[tr. McCarthy (1879), # 81]

Of all who have set out upon the long journey, who has come back, that I may ask him tidings? My friends, take heed to let naught go by in the hope of hopes for, be sure, you will not come back again.
[tr. McCarthy (1879), # 160]

Full many a hill and vale I journeyed o'er;
Journeyed through the world's wide quarters four,
But never heard of pilgrim who returned;
When once they go, they go to come no more.
[tr. Whinfield (1883), # 129]

Who e'er returned of all that went before,
To tell of that long road they travel o'er?
Leave naught undone of what you have to do,
For when you go, you will return no more.
[tr. Whinfield (1883), # 144/258]

They go away, and none is seen returning,
To teach that other world's recondite learning;
'T will not be shown for dull mechanic prayers,
Gor prayer is naught without true heartfelt yearning.
[tr. Whinfield (1883), # 148/266]

Of Those who have the "Long Road" travelled o'er,
Not One will bring Thee News of it, before
Thou too shalt go, and heed Thee that Thou leavest
Without Regret, Thou shalt return no more.
[tr. Garner (1887), 2.7]

Alas, that joy takes flight: not many hearts
The pangs of desolating grief are spared;
No traveller from Death's dark realm returns
To tell us how his fellow-pilgrims fared.
[tr. Bowen (1976), # 56]

Much have I wandered about far and wide,
I have wandered as far as every horizon/;
I have heard of nobody who came from this road,
The road he went by, the road of no return.
[tr. Avery/Heath-Stubbs (1979), # 49]

No one is happy who lives upon such terms that his death not only goes unpunished, but even brings the highest glory to his murderers.
[tr. King (1877)]

No one is happy who holds his life on such terms that he may be slain, not only with impunity, but even to the greatest glory of his slayer.
[tr. Ker (Loeb) (1926)]

No one is happy who lives on such terms that he may be put to death not merely with impunity, but even to the great glory of his slayer.
[tr. Yonge (1903)]

No one is happy whose life is lived by this law: not only can someone kill him with impunity, but the killer gains enormous fame from the deed.
[tr. McElduff (2011)]

Even as if any of the gods should tell thee, Thou shalt certainly die to-morrow, or next day, thou wouldst not, except thou wert extremely base and pusillanimous, take it for a great benefit, rather to die the next day after, than to-morrow; (for alas, what is the difference!) so, for the same reason, think it no great matter to die rather many years after, than the very next day.
[tr. Casaubon (1634), 4.38]

Put the case some God should acquaint you, you were to Die to Morrow, or next Day at farthest. Under this Warning, you would be a very Poor Wretch if you should strongly solicit for the longest time: For alas ! how inconsiderable is the difference? In like manner if you would Reason right, and compute upon the Notion of Eternity, you would not be much concerned whether your Life was up to Morrow, or a Thousand Years hence.
[tr. Collier (1701)]

If any God would assure you, you must die either to morrow, or the next day at farthest, you would little matter whether it were to morrow or the day after; unless you were exceedingly mean-spirited: for how trifling is the difference? Just so, you should repute it of small consequence, whether you are to die in extreme old age, or to morrow.
[tr. Hutcheson/Moor (1742)]

If any God should inform you that you were infallibly to die, either to-morrow or the following day at fartherst; you would not be very solicitous, nor deem it any great favour, unless you were the most abject wretch breathing, to have a reprieve till the third day, instead of having your death take place to-morrow. For how inconsiderable is the difference! In like manner, you ought not to esteem it a matter of any great importance, whether your life be prolonged to the most distant period, or be terminated to-morrow.
[tr. Graves (1792)]

If any god told thee that thou shalt die to-morrow, or certainly on the day after to-morrow, thou wouldst not care much whether it was on the third day or on the morrow, unless thou wast in the highest degree mean-spirited; for how small is the difference! So think it no great thing to die after as many years as thou canst name rather than to-morrow.
[tr. Long (1862)]

Put the case, some god should acquaint you you were to die to-morrow, or next day at farthest. Under this warning, you would be a very poor wretch if you should strongly solicit for the longest time. For, alas! how inconsiderable is the difference? In like manner, if you would reason right, you would not be much concerned whether your life was to end to-morrow or a thousand years hence.
[tr. Collier/Zimmern (1887)]

Suppose some god informed you that to-morrow, or at most the day after, you would be dead, you would not be greatly exercised whether it were the day after rather than to-morrow, not if you have a spark of spirit -- for what difference is there worth considering? So, too, never mind whether it is ever so many years hence, or to-morrow.
[tr. Rendall (1898)]

If some God were to inform you that you must die tomorrow, or the next day at farthest, you would take little concern whether it was to be tomorrow or the next day; that is if you were not the most miserable of cowards. For how small is the difference? Wherefore, account it of no great moment whether you die after many years or tomorrow.
[tr. Hutcheson/Chrystal (1902)]

Just as, if a God had told thee, Thou shalt die to-morrow or in any case the day after, thou wouldest no longer count it of any consequence whether it were the day after to-morrow or to-morrow, unless thou art in the last degree mean-spirited, for how little is the difference! -- so also deem it but a trifling thing that thou shouldest die after ever so many years rather than to-morrow.
[tr. Haines (Loeb) (1916)]

Just as, if one of the gods told you: 'to-morrow you will be dead or in any case the day after to-morrow', you would no longer be making that day after important any more than to-morrow, unless you are an arrant coward (for the difference is a mere trifle), in the same way count it no great matter to live to a year that is an infinite distance off rather than till to-morrow.
[tr. Farquharson (1944)]

If a god were to tell you, “Tomorrow, or at best the day after, you will be dead,’ you would not, unless the most abject of men, be greatly solicitous whether it was to be the later day, rather than the morrow -- for what is the difference between them? In the same way, do not reckon it of great moment whether it will come years and years hence, or tomorrow.
[tr. Staniforth (1964)]

Suppose that a god announced that you were going to die tomorrow “or the day after.” Unless you were a complete coward you wouldn’t kick up a fuss about which day it was -- what difference could it make? Now recognize that the difference between years from now and tomorrow is just as small.
[tr. Hays (2003)]

Just as if a god told you that you would die tomorrow or at least the day after tomorrow, you would attach no importance to the difference of one day, unless you are a complete coward (such is the tiny gap of time): so you should think there no great difference between life to the umpteenth year and life to tomorrow.
[tr. Hammond (2006)]

If some god told you that you would die tomorrow, or the next day at the latest, you would not consider death on the third day to be anything better than death on the second day, unless you were a wholly base person. And so just the same, do not think that living many years is any better than dying tomorrow.
[tr. Needleman/Piazza (2008)]

If one of the gods informed you, ‘You will die tomorrow or, at any rate, the day after tomorrow’, you would consider it no great matter whether it were the day after tomorrow rather than tomorrow, unless, indeed, you were a terrible coward, for the difference is minimal; so likewise, consider it no great matter whether you will die after many a long year rather than tomorrow.
[tr. Hard (2011 ed.)]

If one of the gods told you that tomorrow you would be dead or at least all events the day after tomorrow, you would no longer consider that it mattered whether it was the day after tomorrow rather than tomorrow, unless you were extremely small-minded (what is the difference between them?). In the same way, do not regard it as very important whether you live for many years rather than tomorrow.
[tr. Gill (2013)]

But let those who desire not the future, think of it. In saying no to progress, it is not the future which they condemn, but themselves They give themselves a melancholy disease; they inoculate themselves with the past. There is but one way of refusing To-morrow, that is to die.
[tr. Wilbour (1862)]

But those who desire no future ought to reflect; by saying no to progress they do not condemn the future, but themselves, and they give themselves a deadly disease by inoculating themselves with the past. There is only one way of refusing to-morrow, and that is by dying.
[tr. Wraxall (1862)]

But let those who do not desire a future reflect on this matter. When they say "no" to progress, it is not the future but themselves that they are condemning. They are giving themselves a sad malady; they are inoculating themselves with the past. There is but one way of rejecting To-morrow, and that is to die.
[tr. Hapgood (1887)]

But those who do not want the future should think it over. In saying no to progress, it is not the future that they condemn, but themselves. They are giving themselves a melancholy disease; they are inoculating themselves with the past. There is only one way of refusing tomorrow, and that is to die.
[tr. Wilbour/Fahnestock/MacAfee (1987)]

My coming was not of mine own design,
And one day I must go, and no choice of mine;
Come, light-handed cupbearer, gird thee to serve,
We must wash down the care of this world with wine.
[tr. Cowell (1858), # 8]

What, without asking, hither hurried whence
And, without asking, wither hurried hence!
Another and another Cup to drown
The Memory of this Impertinence!
[tr. FitzGerald, 1st ed. (1859), # 30]

What, without asking, hither hurried whence
And, without asking, wither hurried hence!
Ah, contrite Heav'n endowed us with the Vine
To drug the memory of that insolence.
[tr. FitzGerald, 2nd ed. (1868), # 33]

What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence!
[tr. FitzGerald, 3rd ed. (1872), # 30; 4th ed. (1879); 5th ed. (1889)]

O Cup-Bearer, since Time lurks hard by ready to shatter you and me, this world can never be an abiding dwelling for you and me. But come what may, assure yourself that God is in our hands while this cup of wine stands between you and me.
[tr. McCarthy (1879), # 35]

I came not hither of my own free will,
And go against my wish, a puppet still;
Cupbearer! gird thy loins and fetch some wine;
To purge the world's despite, my goblet fill.
[tr. Whinfield (1883), # 110; (1882) # 641]

Since hither, willy nilly, I came the other day
And hence must soon be going, without my yea or nay,
Up, cupbearer! thy middle come gird without delay;
The world and all its troubles with wine I 'll wash away.
[tr. Payne (1898), # 94]

Seeing that my coming was not for me the Day of Creation,
and that my undesired departure hence is a purpose fixed for me,
get up and gird well thy loins, O nimble Cup bearer,
for I will wash down the misery of the world in wine.
[tr. Heron-Allen (1898), # 21]

As my first coming was no wish of mine
So my departure I can not devise.
Gird thyself, Saki! Fair bright Saki rise,
Lest time should fail to drink this skin of wine.
[tr. Cadell (1899), # 37]

Since coming at the first was naught of mine,
And I unwilling go by fixed design,
Cupbearer, rise! and quickly gird thy loins!
For worldly sorrows I'll wash down in wine!
[tr. Thompson (1906), # 157]

I was not asked to choose my natal morn,
I die as helplessly as I was born.
Bring wine, and I will strive to wash away
The recollection of Creation's scorn.
[tr. Talbot (1908), # 21]

Since my coming was not of my own choosing from
the first day, and my going has been irrevocably fixed without my will,
arise and gird thy loins, o nimble Sáqí, for I will
wash down the grief of the world with wine.
[tr. Christensen (1927), # 32]

Since here I came unwilling and perforce,
To go unplanning is my proper course;
Arise O Guide! and girdle up thy waist,
And with Thy Word absolve me from remorse.
[tr. Tirtha (1941), # 8.72]

My presence here has been no choice of mine;
Fate hounds me most unwillingly away.
Rise, wrap a cloth about your loins, my Saki,
And swill away the misery of this world.
[tr. Graves & Ali-Shah (1967), # 32]

Since at first my coming was not at my will,
And the going is involuntarily imposed,
Arise, fasten your belt brisk wine-boy,
I'll drown the world's sorrow in wine.
[tr. Avery/Heath-Stubbs (1979), # 94]

No one has ever passed behind the veil that masks the secrets of God. No one shall ever pass behind it ; there is no other dwellingplace for us than the bosom of the earth. Woe 's me that this secret, too, should be so short.
[tr. McCarthy (1879), # 19]

All mortal ken is bounded by the veil,
To see beyond man's sight is all too frail;
Yea! earth's dark bosom is his only home; --
Alas! 'twere long to tell the doleful tale.
[tr. Whinfield (1883), # 28 or # 47]

For none behind the veil of myst'ries way is;
None in the secret of the world's array is:
Save in earth's breast, for us no place of stay is;
Give ear, for no light matter this I say is.
[tr. Payne (1898), # 60]

No one can pass behind the curtain that veils the secret,
the mind of no one is cognizant of what is there;
save in the heart of earth we have no haven.
Drink wine, for to such talk there is no end.
[tr. Heron-Allen (1898), # 29]

Behind that veil no man has found a way,
Nor knows he anything of life's array,
He has no home but underneath the clay;
Thy truth thy sorrow is, O woeful lay!
[tr. Cadell (1899), # 14]

The secret 's hidden from the mortal eye,
Nor living soul can read the mystery;
Save in the heart of earth, we have no rest;
So fill the bowl, 'twill soon be time to die.
[tr. Roe (1906), # 19]

For none is there a way behind the veil.
Who tries to pierce its secrets but doth fail?
The only place of rest is earth's dark breast,
Alas, that far from short should be the tale!
[tr. Thompson (1906), # 29]

Behind the veil of the secrets there is no way for anybody.
Of this scheme of things the soul of no man has any knowledge.
There is no dwelling-place except in the heart of the dust.
Drink wine, for such tales are not short to tell.
[tr. Christensen (1927), # 61]

No one has access to the veil of mystery;
Of this system of life no one has any knowledge.
Except in the heart of the earth there is no resting-place.
Listen, for these tales are not short.
[tr. Rosen (1928), # 42]

Behind the secret curtain none can go,
How life is decked and painted none can know;
But then we have to wait in dusty pits --
Alas this endless tale! and weary show!
[tr. Tirtha (1941), # 148]

No man has the way within the veil of mysteries; of this arrangement the soul of none is aware: there is no alighting-place, save in the heart of the dark earth -- drink wine, for such fables are not short.
[tr. Bowen (1976), # 46]

The world we look at is a painted veil
Which hides God’s presence and the Will Divine,
And since its legends are not briefly told,
Here is their gist -- imbibe it with your wine:
This world’s the only pleasance that we know,
The home where we’ve been cherished since our birth,
And, when we die, our bodies lie at peace
Within a darkened sanctuary of earth.
[tr. Bowen (1976), # 46, "The World"]

No one knows the way through the curtain of mysteries,
No one's soul has true knowledge of this natural life,
There is no resting-place but in the heart of earth,
Drink wine because these tales are never finished.
[tr. Avery/Heath-Stubbs (1979), # 158]

"I don't want to die now!" he yelled. "I've still got a headache! I don't want to go to heaven with a headache, I'd be all cross and wouldn't enjoy it!"

One night, I beheld in a dream a sage, who said to me, "In sleep, O mhy friend, the rose of joy has never blossomed for any man. Why do you do a deed so like to death? Arise, and drink wine, for you will sleep sound enough beneath the earth.
[tr. McCarthy (1879), # 47] (1888)]

Last night I dreamed I met a sage who said:
"Doth e'er in sleep the rosebud lift its head?
Why sleep, for sleep is but akin to death,
And thou shalt sleep enough when thou art dead?"
[tr. Garner (1887), 91]

Life is so short, yet sleeps thy lovely head;
Why make so soon a death-bed of thy bed?
O love, awake! thy beauty wastes away --
Thou shalt sleep on and on when thou art dead.
[tr. Le Gallienne (1897), # 33]

In a dream of the night quoth a sage me unto:
"Rose of gladness for mortal from sleep never blew;
A thing, then, to death that akin is why do?
Up, for under the earth thou shalt slumber thy due!"
[tr. Payne (1898), # 196]

I fell asleep, and wisdom said to me: --
"Never from sleep has the rose of happiness blossomed for anyone;
why do a thing that is the mate of death?
Drink wine, for thou must sleep for ages."
[tr. Heron-Allen (1898), # 27]

'Twas while I slept, that thus a wise man spoke: --
"Sleep never caused joy's rose in man to bloom,
Why court you thus the fellow of death's yoke?
Drink now, you'll sleep enough in earth's dark womb."
[tr. Cadell (1899), # 16]

I lay upon my couch in slumber deep,
And Wisdom cried aloud, "Oh, wherefore sleep?
For sleep is kin to death; drink while you may;
Eternal slumber hastens o'er the steep!"
[tr. Roe (1906), # 20]

I dreamt that Wisdom came to me and said,
"In sleep for none joy's roses petals spread,
In life why dost thou mimic death? Arise!
For sleep thou must when 'neath earth is thy bed."
[tr. Thompson (1906), # 93]

Falling asleep, I heard my Fate confess
That Sleep ne'er bore the Rose of Happiness.
"Sleep is the Mate of Death," she cried. "Awake!
Drink, ere Her lips bestow the last caress!"
[tr. Talbot (1908), # 27]

I dropped asleep. A wise man said to me: "From sleep
the rose of pleasure did never bloom for anyone.
Why do you meddle with that which is of a piece
with death ? Drink wine for we must sleep during many a lifetime."
[tr. Christensen (1927), # 59]

I fell asleep, and a wise man said to me:
"Sleep has brought to no one the rose of bliss.
Why do a thing which is the twin of death?
Drink wine, for many a life-time you must slumber".
[tr. Rosen (1928), # 43]

In sleep I was -- A sage then told me so:
"In darkness fruit of bliss will never grow,
Arise and fight with Death, avoid his blow;
Ere long you sleep within The Pit below."
[tr. Tirtha (1941), # 7.1]

I was asleep, a wise man said to me
"The rose of joy does not bloom for slumberers;
Why are you asleep? Sleep is the image of death,
Drink wine, below the ground you must sleep of necessity.
[tr. Avery/Heath-Stubbs (1979), # 159]

Death maketh sceptres and mattocks equal, and as soon arresteth he the prince that carrieth the sceptre, as the poor man that diggeth with the mattock.
[tr. Grindal (1564)]

Scepter and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
[tr. Shirley (1654)]

Death mingles scepters with spades.
[tr. Henry (1806)]

Death is the head of the leveling party.
[tr. Cawdry (1869)]

In death there is no difference betwixt the king and the beggar.
[tr. Cawdry (1869)]

In death there is no difference made
Between the sceptre and the spade.
[Inverness tombstone of Samuel Urquhart (1700); see Swift, below]

In Death, no Difference is made,
Betweene the Sceptre, and the Spade.
[Inverness tombstone of John Cutherbert of Drakes (1711)]

Death makes sceptres and hoes equal.
[tr. Aavitsland (2012)]

Death makes scepters equal with hoes.
[tr. Stone (2013)]

Mors dominos servis et sceptra ligonibus æquat,
Dissimiles simili condicione trahens.
 
[Death comes alike to monarch, lord, and slave,
And levels all distinctions in the grave.]
 
[Hall (1909), from Colman (c. 1633)]

Ah! who, in our degenerate days,
As nature prompts, his offering pays?
Here nature never difference made
Between the sceptre and the spade.
[Swift (1730), regarding the goddess of the sewer, Cloacina]

Lip to lip I passionately kissed the bowl,
To learn from it the secret of length of days;
Lip to lip in answer it whispered reply,
"Drink wine, for once gone thou shalt never return!"
[tr. Cowell (1858), # 25]

Then to this earthen Bowl did I adjourn
My Lip the secret Well of Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd -- "While you live,
"Drink! -- for once dead you never shall return."
[tr. FitzGerald, 1st ed. (1859), # 34]

Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn
I lean'd, the secret Well of Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd -- "While you live,
"Drink! -- for, once dead, you never shall return."
[tr. FitzGerald, 2nd ed. (1868), # 34]

O offspring of the four and five, art puzzled by the four and five? Drink deep, for I have told thee time on time, that once departed, thou returnest no more.
[tr. McCarthy (1879), # 245]

I put my lips to the cup, for I did yearn
The secret of the future life to learn;
And from his lip I heard a whisper drop,
"Drink! for once gone you never will return."
[tr. Whinfield (1882), # 149]

I put my lips to the cup, for I did yearn
The means of gaining length of days to learn;
It leaned its lip to mine, and whispered low,
"Drink! for, once gone, you never will return."
[tr. Whinfield (1883), # 152, elsewhere # 274]

I put my lips to the cup, for I did yearn
The hidden cause of length of days to learn;
He leaned its lip to mine, and whispered low,
"Drink! for, once gone, you never will return."
[tr. Whinfield (188?), # 274]

Slave of four elements and sevenfold heaven,
Who aye bemoan the thrall of these eleven,
Drink! I have told you seventy times and seven,
Once gone, nor hell will send you back, nor heaven.
[tr. Whinfield (1882), #223]

Child of four elements and sevenfold heaven,
Who fume and sweat because of these eleven,
Drink! I have told you seventy times and seven,
Once gone, nor hell will send you back, nor heaven.
[tr. Whinfield (1883), # 431]

Sprung from the Four, and the Seven! I see that never
The four and the Seven respond to thy brain's endeavour --
Drink wine! for I tell thee, four times o'er and more,
Return there is none! -- Once gone, thou art gone for ever!
[tr. M. K. (1888)]

Lip to lip with the jar you know not what is intended
That is to say my lip also was like your lips (employed)
In the end since existence is no longer available
Your lips should be thus employed according to the friendly order.
[tr. Heron-Allen (1897), Calcutta # 227]

In great desire I pressed my lips to the lip of the jar,
To inquire from it how long life might be attained;
It joined its lip to mine and whispered: --
"Drink wine, for, to this world, thou returnest not."
[tr. Heron-Allen (1898), # 100]

With strong desire my lips the cup's lip sought
From it the cause of weary life to learn.
Its lip pressed my lips close and whisperèd: --
"Drink, in this world no moment can return."
[tr. Cadell (1899), # 110]

I prest my lip in yearning to the urn.
Thereby the means of length of life to learn.
And lip to my lip placed it whispered low,
"Drink! For to this world you will ne'er return!"
[tr. Thompson (1906), # 320]

To the jar's mouth my eager lip I press'd,
For Life's Elixir making anxious quest;
It join'd its lip to mine, and whisper'd low --
"Drink wine: thou shalt not wake from thy last rest!"
[tr. Talbot (1908), # 100]

I laid my lip to the lip of the wine-cup in the utmost
desire to seek from it the means of prolonging life.
It laid its lip to my lip and said mysteriously: "During
a whole life I was like thee; rejoice for a while in my company."
[tr. Christensen (1927), # 65]

I placed my lip on the lip of the jug and caught from it
The means of attaining a long life.
The jug then seemed to say to me:
"For a lifetime I have been as you; now, for a while, be my companion."
[tr. Rosen (1928), # 177]

My lip to lip of Jar I close in glee,
In hopes that life eternal I would see;
Then quoth the Jar: Like thee I once have been
For ages, hence a minute breathe with me."
[tr. Tirtha (1941), # 5.29]

Greedily to the bowl my lips I pressed
and asked how might I sue for green old age.
Pressing its lips to mine it muttered darkly:
"Drink up! Once gone, you shall return no more!"
[tr. Graves & Ali-Shah (1967), # 36]

I laid my lip against the pitcher's lip in the extremity of desire, that I might seek from it the means of long life: it laid (its) lip upon my lip and said secretly, "I too was (once) like thee: consort with me for a moment."
[tr. Bowen (1976), # 19, after Heron-Allen]

I pressed my lip upon the Winejar's lip,
And questioned how long life I might attain;
Then lip to lip it whispering replied:
"Drink wine -- this world thou shalt not see again."
[tr. Bowen (1976), # 19]

In the extremity of desire I put my lip to the pot's
To seek the elixir of life:
It put its lip on mine and murmured,
"Enjoy the wine, you'll not be here again."
[tr. Avery/Heath-Stubbs (1979), # 139]

I brought the cup to my lips with greed
Begging for longevity, my temporal need
Cup brought its to mine, its secret did feed
Time never returns, drink, of this take heed.
[tr. Shahriari (1998), literal]

The only secret that you need to know
The passage of time is a one way flow
If you understand, joyously you’ll grow
Else you will drown in your own sorrow.
[tr. Shahriari (1998), figurative]

Let no villain,
Tho' the first stage of his career he run
With prosperous Fortune, think he hath outstripp'd
Avenging Justice, till he reach the goal,
And end his life.
[tr. Wodhull (1809)]

Let none suppose, though he have run the first stage of his course with joy, that he will get the better of Justice, till he have reached the goal and ended his career.
[tr. Coleridge (1891)]

Let not a man, if he run the first course well, think he will win the victory, before he comes nigh the line, and turns the end of life.
[tr. Buckley (1892)]

Let none dream, though at starting he run well,
That he outrunneth Justice, ere he touch
The very goal and reach the bourn of life.
[tr. Way (1896)]

O vaunt not, if one step be proudly made
In evil, that all Justice is o'ercast:
Vaunt not, ye men of sin, ere at the last
The thin-drawn marge before you glimmereth
Close, and the goal that wheels 'twixt life and death.
[tr. Murray (1905)]

So let no evildoer suppose, even if he runs the first step well, that he will get the better of Justice, until he comes to the end of the finish-line and makes the last turn in life.
[tr. Coleridge (1938 ed.)]

Let every criminal like him know that just because his first criminal steps went according to his wishes that he has not defeated Justice before his life’s end.
[tr. Theodoridis (2006)]

May every criminal
see that he'll never win the race with Justice!
He may run quick at first, but play it out:
run on, right to the finish line of life.
[tr. Wilson (2016)]

The tragic drama has the great moral drawback of attaching too high an importance to life and death.
[tr. Hutchinson (1902), "The Cynic's Breviary"]

There is one great objection to the tragic Drama, it attaches too importance to life and death.
[tr. Mathers (1926)]

Tragic drama has the great moral disadvantage of attaching too much importance to life and death.
[tr. Merwin (1969)]

The tragic theatre suffers from the great moral disadvantage of attaching too much importance to life and death.
[tr. Pearson (1973)]

Tragic drama has the great ethical flaw of attaching too much importance to life and death.
[tr. Dusinberre (1992)]

Tragedies suffer from the moral defect of attaching too great an importance to life and death.
[tr. Parmée (2003), ¶66]

Who knows if Iove unto thy life's past score
Will adde one morning more?
When thou art dead, and Rhadamanthus just
Sentence hath spoke thee dust,
Thy blood, nor eloquence can ransome thee,
No nor thy piety.
[tr. Fanshaw; ed. Brome (1666)]

Who knows if stubborn Fate will prove so kind,
And joyn to this another day?
What e're is for thy greedy Heir design'd,
Will slip his Hands, and fly away:
When thou art gone, and Minos Sentence read,
Torquatus there is no return,
Thy Fame, nor all thy learned Tongue can plead,
Nor goodness shall unseal the Urn.
[tr. Creech (1684)]

Can Hope assure you one more day to live
From powers above?
You rescue from your heir whate'er you give
The self you love.
When life is o'er, and Minos has rehearsed
The grand last doom,
Not birth, nor eloquence, nor worth, shall burst
Torquatus' tomb.
[tr. Conington (1872)]

Who knows whether the gods above will add to this day’s reckoning the space of to-morrow? Every thing, which you shall indulge to your beloved soul, will escape the greedy hands of your heir. When once, Torquatus, you shall be dead, and Minos shall have made his awful decisions concerning you; not your family, not you eloquence, not your piety shall restore you.
[tr. Smart/Buckley (1853)]

Who knows, if they who all our Fates control,
Will add a morrow to thy brief to-day?
Then think of this, -- What to a friendly soul
Thy hand doth give shall 'scape thine heir's rapacious sway.
When thou, Torquatus, once hast vanish'd hence,
And o'er thee Minos' great decree is writ,
Nor ancestry, nor fire-lipp'd eloquence,
Nor all thy store of wealth to give thee back were fit.
[tr. Martin (1864)]

Who knows if the gods will yet add a to-morrow
To the sum of to-day?
Count as saved from an heir's greedy hands all thou givest
To that friend -- thine own self.
When once dead, the resplendent tribunal of Minos
Having once pronounced doom,
Noble birth, suasive tongue, moral worth, O Torquatus,
Reinstate thee no more.
[tr. Bulwer-Lytton (1870)]

Who can tell whether the Gods above will add an existence for us during to-morrow to that of to-day? All, however, thou mayest indulge thyself in will escape the greedy grasp of thy heir. When once thou hast fallen, and Minos shall have passed his impartial judgment upon thee, neither thy pedigree, Torquatus, thine eloquence, nor thy goodness, will restore thee back to earth.
[tr. Elgood (1893)]

Who can tell whether the Gods will add the hours of tomorrow
On to the sum of to-day?
All will escape your heir's greedy clutches, which with a friendly
Mind you have spent in your life.
For, when once thou hast died, and over thee Minos in judgment
Hath made his grand last award,
Then neither birth shall avail, Torquatus; nor eloquence bring thee
Back, nor thy fear of the Gods.
[tr. Phelps (1897)]

Who knoweth if the gods above may add to-morrow's time
To this day's count?
All that thou givest to thy soul's delighting will escape
An heir's greedy hands.
When once thou'rt dead, and Minos o'er thee shall have made
August decision.
Not, O Torquatus, not thy birth, or flow of word, not piety,
Will reinstate thee.
[tr. Garnsey (1907)]

Who knows that Heaven to this day's gift will please
To-morrow's sun to lend?
And all thy goods a greedy heir will seize,
Save what thyself did spend.
Once thou art dead, and Minos' high decree
Shall speak to seal thy doom
Though noble, pious, eloquent thou be,
These snatch not from the tomb.
[tr. Marshall (1908)]

Who knows whether the gods will add to-morrow’s time to the sum of today ? All things which thou grantest to thine own dear soul, shall escape the greedy clutches of thine heir. When once thou hast perished and Minos has pronounced on thee his august judgment, not family, Torquatus, nor eloquence, nor righteousness shall restore thee again to life.
[tr. Bennett (Loeb) (1912)]

Who knows whether the gods who reign above
Add a new day's span to the sum of this?
Live while you live; that which the soul you love,
Your self, enjoys, your greedy heir will miss.
Once you are dead, once Minos, judge of men,
Has fixed by doom august your destiny,
Not rank, Torquatus, shall restore you then;
Not eloquence; not even piety.
[tr. Mills (1924)]

Who knows whether the all-high gods intend an addition
Made to the sum of today?
Give to your own dear self: that gift is the only possession
Fingers of heirs cannot grasp.
Once you are dead, Torquatus, and Minos delivers his august
Verdict upon your affairs,
No blue blood, no good deeds done, no eloquent pleading
Ever shall conjure you back.
[tr. Michie (1963)]

Who knows if the gods will add tomorrow's
Hours to your time today?
Whatever you give yourelf, here, now,
No greedy heir can clutch at.
Torquatus, once you're buried, once
The Lord of Death has judged you,
Nothing will bring you back, no ancient
Name, no noble words, no one's love.
[tr. Raffel (1983)]

Who knows whether tomorrow the gods will have
Anything more to give than they have given?
What you can give to your own dear heart today
Will not fall into the clutch of your heir tomorrow.
Torquatus, once you've died and Minos the judge
Has spoken his words down there, then neither rank
Nor eloquence nor virtue -- none of these --
Can ever bring you back to life again.
[tr. Ferry (1997)]

Who knows whether the celestial gods will add tomorrow’s time to the sum of today’s. All which you bestow upon your very own soul escapes the avid hands of your heir. Once you are dead and Minos has pronounced on you his solemn judgment, neither your noble origin, Torquatus, nor your eloquence, nor your piety will bring you back to life.
[tr. Alexander (1999)]

Who knows whether the gods above will add tomorrow’s hours
to the total of today?
All those you devote to a friendly spirit will escape from
the grasping hands of your heirs.
When once you’re dead, my Torquatus, and Minos pronounces
his splendid judgement on you,
no family, no eloquence, no righteousness even,
can restore you again.
[tr. Kline (2015)]

But the decays of time, Time doth repair:
When we once plunged are
Where good Aeneas, with rich Ancus wades,
Ashes we are, and shades.
[tr. Fanshawe; ed. Brome (1666)]

When we shall view the gloomy Stygian Shore,
And walk amongst the mighty Dead
Where Tullus, where Aeneas went before:
We shall be Dust, and empty shade.
[tr. Creech (1684)]

Yet the swift moons repair Heaven's detriment:
We, soon as thrust
Where good Aeneas, Tullus, Ancus went,
What are we? dust.
[tr. Conington (1872)]

Nevertheless the quick-revolving moons repair their wanings in the skies; but when we descend [to those regions] where pious Æneas, where Tullus and the wealthy Ancus [have gone before us], we become dust and a mere shade.
[tr. Smart/Buckley (1853)]

But moons revolve, and all again is bright:
We, when we fall, as fell the good and just
Æneas, wealthy Tullus, Ancus wight,
Are but a nameless shade, and some poor grains of dust.
[tr. Martin (1864)]

But the swift moons restore change and loss in the heavens,
When we go where have gone
Sire Æneas, and Tullus, and opulent Ancus,
We are dust and a shade.
[tr. Bulwer-Lytton (1870)]

The swiftly-revolving Months however restore the gifts of the Seasons but we, when we have descended where good Æneas, wealthy Tullus, and Ancus, have gone, are dust and shadow.
[tr. Elgood (1893)]

The hastening moons all waste in heaven repair:
We, when we once descend
To Tullus, Ancus, sire Aeneas, there
In dust and shadow end.
[tr. Gladstone (1894)]

Yet the revolving Moons repair the losses of heaven;
But we, when once we have gone
Where pious Æneas, rich Tullus, and Ancus, have vanish'd,
Lo! dust and ashes are we!
[tr. Phelps (1897)]

Still, rapid moving moons repair the heavenly losses:
We, when we fall
Whither the good Æneas fell, Tullus and Ancus rich,
Are dust and shadow.
[tr. Garnsey (1907)]

Yet the swiftly changing moons repair their losses in the sky. We, when we have descended whither righteous Aeneas, whither rich Tullus and Ancus have gone, are but dust and shadow.
[tr. Bennett (Loeb) (1912)]

Yet, fast as moons wane in the sky, as fast
They wax; but we, poor mortals, when we fare
Whither Aeneas, Tullus, Ancus passed,
Are naught but dust here, naught but shadows there.
[tr. Mills (1924)]

Moons make speed to repair their heavenly losses, but not so
We, who, when once we have gone
Downwards to join rich Tullus and Ancus and father Aeneas,
Crumble to shadow and dust.
[tr. Michie (1963)]

Whatever the skies lose, quick-running
Months repair -- but men, good Aeneas
Or rich Tullus or Ancus king of Rome,
Die and turn to shadows, to dust.
[tr. Raffel (1983)]

Yet after a time, and time and time again,
The moon restores itself in the nighttime sky.
But when it's time for us to go down there
Where Aeneas went, the pious, and Tullus the rich,
And old King Ancus Martius, and all the others,
Then we're nothing but dust, we're nothing but shadows.
[tr. Ferry (1997)]

And yet the swiftly phasing moons repair their celestial mishaps. While we, once descended where dwells pious Aeneas and wealthy Tullus and Ancus, dust and shadow are.
[tr. Alexander (1999)]

Yet swift moons are always repairing celestial losses:
while, when we have descended
to virtuous Aeneas, to rich Tullus and Ancus, our kings,
we’re only dust and shadow.
[tr. Kline (2015)]

Yon rolling heaven for our destruction, yours and mine,
Aims its stroke at our lives, yours and mine;
Come, live, sit on the grass - it will not be long
Ere grass grows out of our dust, yours and mine.
[tr. Cowell (1858), # 3]

This wheel of heaven seeks my destruction and thine, it plots against my soul and thine. Come, seat thyself upon the grass, for in a little while fresh grass will spring from this dust of mine and thine.
[tr. McCarthy (1879), # 358]

The wheel of heaven still holds his set design
To take away thy life, O love and mine,
Sit we on this green turf, 'twill not be long
Ere turf will hide my dust along with thine
[tr. Whinfield (1882), # 205]

O Love, for ever doth heaven's wheel design
To take away thy precious life, and mine;
Sit we upon this turf, 't will not be long
Ere turf shall grow upon my dust, and thine!
[tr. Whinfield (1883), # 390]

The "wheel of heaven" in its Fatal Play
Will soon our Breath of Being steal away, --
Come rest thee on this bank, for from our dust
Will spring the Vedure at no distant day.
[tr. Garner (1887), 3.3]

The wheel of Heaven thy death and mine is bringing, friend!
Over our lives the cloud of doom 't is flinging, friend!
Come, sit upon this turf, for little time is left
Ere fresher turf shall from our dust be springing, friend!
[tr. M. K. (1888)]

Beautiful wheel of blue above my head,
Will you be turning still when I am dead?
Were you still turning long before I came? --
O bitter thought to take with me to bed.
[tr. Le Gallienne (1897), # 54]

The heavenly vault, for the sake of my destruction and thine,
wages war upon my pure sole and thine;
Sit upon the green sward, O my Idol! for it will not be long
ere that green sward shall grow from my dust and thine.
[tr. Heron-Allen (1898), # 129]

Against our dear lives holding its design,
This wheel of Heaven doth plot thy death and mine;
Come sit upon this grass, 'twill not be long
Ere verdure springs up from my dust and thine.
[tr. Thompson (1906), # 442]

The Heavens, that they may destroy us both,
On our pure souls to war are nothing loth;
Sit down, my Idol, on the grass, for soon
My dust and thine shall aid its vernal growth.
[tr. Talbot (1908), # 129]

This wheel of Heaven, for the sake of my destruction
and thine, has designs upon my pure soul and thine.
Sit down on the grass, o idol, for it will not be long
ere grass shall spring from my dust and thine.
[tr. Christensen (1927), # 35]

This Wheel of the Spheres revolves for your annihilation and for mine,
It has evil intentions on your pure soul and on mine.
Rest on the meadow, my Iove, for not much time will pass.
Until grass springs from your dust and from mine.
[tr. Rosen (1928), # 262]

This Wheel of time effaces me and thee,
To slaughter us it chases me and thee;
Sit on the lawn and love, for time arrives
When lawn would hide our traces, me and thee.
[tr. Tirtha (1941), # 2.53]

Allow no shadow of regret to cloud you,
No absurd grief to overcast your days.
Never renounce love-songs, or lawns, or kisses
Until your clay lies mixed with elder clay.
[tr. Graves & Ali-Shah (1967), # 24]

This wheel of heaven, in order to destroy me and thee, has fell purpose against my innocent soul and thine: sit on the grass, and drink wine, and be happy, for this grass shall spring from my dust and thine.
[tr. Bowen (1976), # 14]

The wheel of Fate is crooked. It destroys
Such innocent young souls as yours and mine:
So, joyously, sit down upon the grass
And while away this hour in drinking wine.
Alas! the herbage which delights our eyes,
On which you now recline your lovely head,
Is rooted in the dust of loves -- and
Will spring from ours one day when we are dead.
[alt. tr. Bowen (1976), # 14]

Don’t permit sorrow to be your friend
Sadness and pain become your trend
Don’t let the book or the farm you tend
Rule your life before to earth you descend.
[tr. Shahriari (1998), literal]

Before to dust you shall return
There is one thing that you must learn
Sorrow and pain your soul shall burn
Joy and bliss to light shall turn.
[tr. Shahriari (1998), figurative]

Necessity in a vast Pot
Shuffling the names of great and small,
Draws every one's impartial lot.
[tr. Fanshaw; ed. Brome (1666)]

Yet equal Death doth strike at all,
The haughty Great, and humble Small,
She strikes with an impartial Hand;
She shakes the vast capacious Urn,
And each Man's Lot must take his turn;
Thro every glass she presses equal Sand.
[tr. Creech (1684)]

What are great or small?
Death takes the mean man with the proud;
The fatal urn has room for all.
[tr. Conington (1872)]

Fate, by the impartial law of nature, is allotted both to the conspicuous and the obscure; the capacious urn keeps every name in motion.
[tr. Smart/Buckley (1853)]

Still Fate doth grimly stand.
And with impartial hand
The lots of lofty and of lowly draws
From that capacious urn,
Whence every name that lives is shaken in its turn.
[tr. Martin (1864)]

Necessity with equal law assorts the varying lots;
Though this may bear the lofty name and that may bear the low,
Each in her ample urn she shakes,
And casts the die for all.
[tr. Bulwer-Lytton (1870)]