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.

Let us disregard present gains, let us care only for the reputation we shall have with posterity; let us hope for that which we desire to have, but let us bear what shall have befallen us; lastly, let us reflect that the bodies of brave heroes and great men are mortal, but the emotions of the soul and the glory of their merits eternal.
[tr. Hickie (1888)]

Let us disregard present rewards, and fix our eyes on the glory which we shall receive from posterity. Let us think that the most desirable conduct, which is the most upright; let us hope for whatever we choose, but bear whatever befalls us, let us consider, lastly, that the bodies of brave men and great citizens are mortal, but that the impulses of the mind and the glory of virtue are everlasting.
[tr. Yonge (1891)]

Neglecting present gain, let us be in bondage to posterity; let us count best what is right; hoping to achieve our ends, let us nevertheless bear what may befall us; let us remember that the body of the great and brave is mortal, but the fame of their spirit and their virtues is eternal.
[tr. Rogers/Harley (1928)]

Let us disregard present advantages, let us work for glory in years to come; let us regard that as best which is most truly good ; let us hope for our wishes, but let us bear what comes. Lastly, let us remember, that if the body of a brave and great man is mortal, yet the impulses of the mind and the glory of virtue are eternal.
[tr. Gardner (Loeb) (1958)]

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)]

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)]

Why, O Gish, does thou run about?
The life that thou seekest, thou wilt not find.
when the gods created mankind,
Death they imposed on mankind;
Life they kept in their power.
Thou, O Gish, fill thy belly,
Day and night do you rejoice,
Daily make a rejoicing!
Day and night a renewal of jollification!
Let thy clothes be clean,
Wash thy head and pour water over thee!
Care for the little one who takes hold of thy hand!
Let the wife rejoice in thy bosom!
[tr. Jastrow/Clay (1920)]

Gilgamesh, where are you hurrying to? You will never find the life for which you are looking. When the gods created man they allotted to him death, but life they retained in their own keeping. As for you, Gilgamesh, fill your belly with good things; day and night, night and day, dance and be merry, feast and rejoice. Let your clothes be fresh, bathe yourself in water, cherish the little child that holds your hand, and make your wife happy in your embrace; for this too is the lot of man.
[tr. Sandars (1960)]

Gilgamesh, where are you wandering? The life that you are seeking all around you will not find. When the gods created mankind they fixed Death for mankind, and held back Life in their own hands. Now you, Gilgamesh, let your belly be full! Be happy day and night, of each day make a party, dance in circles day and night! Let your clothes be sparkling clean, let your head be clean, wash yourself with water! Attend to the little one who holds onto your hand, let a wife delight in your embrace. This is the [true] task of mankind.
[tr. Kovacs (1989)]

[...] Remember always, mighty king, that gods decreed the fate of all many years ago. They alone are let to be eternal, while we frail humans die as you yourself must someday do. What is best for us to do now to sing and dance. Relish warm food and cool drinks. Cherish children to whom your love gives life. Bathe easily, in sweet, refreshing waters. Play joyfully with your chosen wife. It is the will of the gods for you to smile on simple pleasure in the leisure time of your short days.
[tr. Jackson (1997)]

[...] But you, Gilgamesh, let your belly be full,
enjoy yourself always by day and by night!
Make merry each day,
dance and play day and night!
Let your clothes be clean,
let your head be washed, may you bathe in water!
Gaze on the child who holds your hand,
let your wife enjoy your repeated embrace!
[tr. George (1999)]

What you want, you cannot have. You will not find a life that does not die. When maknind was created by the gods, they kept undying life for themselve; they gave death to man.
So, Gilgamesh, fill your stomach. Enjoy yourself. Take pleasure every day and every night in every way you can. Play. Dance. Refresh yourself with baths. Wash your hair. Put on clean clothes. Take your child's hand in yours and take your wife on your lap. That is life.
[tr. Harris (2001)]

Thy constant grief shall never cease; nor mild
Thy life shall ever be if thou persist
Upon this foolish quest; thy deeds resist
The will of heaven's way's the gods bestowed
On us the ways of death with sorrow owed
To every living man; the gods reserved
Eternal life for their delight; -- unnerved
By this? This is the scheme of things, -- accept
Thy lot; enjoy the sun, thy children kept
In later years, and fleeting life today;
Remove thy needless burden; come what may.
[tr. Watson (2023)]

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.

Twixte hope to have, and care to kepe, twixte feare and wrathe, awaye
Consumes the time: eche daye that cummes thinke it the latter daye,
The hower that cummes unloked for shall cum more welcum ay.
[tr. Drant (1567)]

When thou'rt tost up and down' twixt hope and care,
Enflam'd with anger and shrunk up with fear:
As soon as such a day is overpast,
Comfort thy self, that that's to be the last:
When an hour comes that brings thee joy and bliss,
If unexpected, Oh! how grateful is!
[tr. A. B.; ed. Brome (1666)]

Whilst mid'st strong hopes and fears thy time doth wast,
Think every rising Sun will be thy last;
And so the grateful unexpected Hour
Of Life prolong'd, when come, will please the more.
[tr. Creech (1684)]

By hope inspir'd, deprest with fear,
By passion warm'd, perplext with care,
Believe that every morning's ray
Hath lighted up thy latest day;
Then, if to-morrow's sun be thine,
With double lustre shall it shine.
[tr. Francis (1747)]

In the midst of hope and care, in the midst of fears and disquietudes, think every day that shines upon you is the last. [Thus] the hour, which shall not be expected, will come upon you an agreeable addition.
[tr. Smart/Buckley (1853)]

Let hopes and sorrows, fears and angers be,
And think each day that dawns the last you'll see;
For so the hour that greets you unforeseen
Will bring with it enjoyment twice as keen.
[tr. Conington (1874)]

'Twixt hopes and tremors, fears and frenzies passed,
Regard each day as though it were thy last.
So shall chance seasons of delight arise.
And overtake thee with a sweet surprise.
[tr. Martin (1881)]

Unswayed then either by hopes or fears, by apprehensive or angry feelings, regard each day, as it shines upon you, as your last. death will one day come upon you acceptably because unexpectedly.
[tr. Elgood (1893)]

Amid hopes and cares, amid fears and passions, believe that every day that has dawned is your last. Welcome will come to you another hour unhoped for.
[tr. Fairclough (Loeb) (1926)]

Between your hopes
And cares, between your rages and fears, believe
That each day's down is the last to shine upon you:
The unhoped-for hours will be welcome.
[tr. Palmer Bovie (1959)]

Among men’s cares and hopes, their fears and rages,
count as your last each morning that illuminates the sky:
then the next day, unhoped for, will always please you.
[tr. Fuchs (1977)]

Live with hope and with fear, with worry and with angry passion,
But expect every hour to be your last:
Days come even more delightful, unexpected.
[tr. Raffel (1983)]

Between hope and discouragement, fears, and angers, and such,
Treat every new day as the last you're going to have,
Then welcome the next as unexpectedly granted.
[tr. Ferry (2001)]

In a world torn by hope and worry, dread and anger,
imagine every day that dawns is the last you'll see;
the hour you never hoped for will prove a happy surprise.
[tr. Rudd (2005 ed.)]

Beset by hopes and anxieties, indignation and fear,
Treat every day that dawns for you as the last.
The unhoped-for hour’s ever welcome when it comes.
[tr. Kline (2015)]

The profit of life consistes not in the space, but rather in the use. Some man hath lived long, that hath had a short life. Follow it whilst you have time. It consists not in number of yeares, but in your will, that you have lived long enough.
[tr. Florio (1603)]

Neither does the Utility of living consist in the length of days, but in the well husbanding and improving of Time, and such an one may have been who has longer continued in the World than the ordinary Age of Man; that has yet liv’d but a little while. Make use of Time while it is present with you. It depends upon your Will, and not upon the number of Days, to have a sufficient length of Life.
[tr. Cotton (1686)]

The benefit of life consists not in the space, but in the use of it. Such a one may have lived a long time who yet may be said to have enjoyed but a short life. Give attention to time while it is present with you. It depends upon your will and not upon the nujmber of years that you have lived long enough.
[tr. Friswell (1868)]

The utility of living consists not in the length of days, but in the use of time; a man may have lived long, and yet lived but a little. Make use of time while it is present with you. It depends upon your will, and not upon the number of days, to have a sufficient length of life.
[tr. Cotton/Hazlitt (1877)]

The usefulness of living is not in length of time, but in its use. A man may have lived long who has lived little. Look well to life whilst you are in life. It depends on your will, not on the number of your years, whether you ahve loved long enough.
[tr. Ives (1925)]

Wherever your life ends, it is all there. “The advantage of living is not measured by length, but by use; some men have lived long, and lived little; attend to it while you are in it. It lies in your will, not in the number of years, for you to have lived enough.
[tr. Frame (1943)]

The value of life lies not in the length of days but in the use you make of them; he has lived for a long time who has little lived. Whether you have lived enough depends not on the number of your years but on your will.
[tr. Rat (1958), 1.20]

The usefulness of living lies not in duration but in what you make of it. Some have lived long and lived little. See to it while you are still here. Whether you have lived enough depends not on a count of years but on your will.
[tr. Screech (1987)]

Life is worth not its extent but its use. Some lived little who lived a long while. Pay attention to life while you live yours. Whether you have lived enough depends on your will, not on a number of years.
[tr. HyperEssays (2025)]

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)]

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)]

For herein lieth all indeed, ever to look upon all worldly things, as things for their continuance, that are but for a day: and for their worth, most vile, and contemptible, as for example, What is man? That which but the other day when he was conceived was vile snivel; and within few days shall be either an embalmed carcass, or mere ashes. Thus must thou according to truth and nature, throughly consider how man's life is but for a very moment of time, and so depart meek and contented: even as if a ripe olive falling should praise the ground that bare her, and give thanks to the tree that begat her.
[tr. Casaubon (1634) 4.39]

Mankind are poor Transitory Things! They are one Day in the Rudiments of Life, and almost the next, turn'd to Mummie, or Ashes. Your way is therefore to manage this Minute Wisely, and part with it chearfully; And like a ripe Nut when you drop out of the Husk, be sure to speak well of the Season, and make your Acknowledgments to the Tree that bore you.
[tr. Collier (1701)]

And, in general, all human affairs are mean, and but for a day. What yesterday was a trifling embryo, to morrow shall be an embalmed carcase, or ashes. Pass this short moment of time according to nature, and depart contentedly; as the full ripe olive falls of its own accord, applauding the earth whence it sprung, and thankful to the tree that bore it.
[tr. Hutcheson/Moor (1742)]

On the whole, then, a wise man will consider all human affairs as of a day's continuance, contemptible, and of little importance. Man himself is to-day in embryo, to-morrow a mummy or a handful of ashes.
Let us then employ properly this moment of time allotted us by fate, and leave the world contentedly; like a ripe olive dropping from its stalk, speaking well of the soil that produced it, and of the tree that bore it.
[tr. Graves (1792)]

To conclude, always observe how ephemeral and worthless human things are, and what was yesterday a little mucus, to-morrow will be a mummy or ashes. Pass then through this little space of time conformably to nature, and end thy journey in content, as an olive falls off when it is ripe, blessing nature who produced it, and thanking the tree on which it grew.
[tr. Long (1862)]

In short, mankind are poor, transitory things! They are one day in the rudiments of life, and almost the next turned to mummy or ashes. Your way is therefore to manage this minute in harmony with nature, and part with it cheerfully; and like a ripe olive when you droop, be sure to speak well of the mother that bare you.
[tr. Collier/Zimmern (1887)]

In a word, look at all human things, behold how fleeting and how sorry -- but yesterday a mucus-clot, to-morrow dust or ashes! Spend your brief moment then according to nature's law, and serenely greet the journey's end, as an olive falls when it is ripe, blessing the branch that bears it and giving thanks to the tree which gave it life.
[tr. Rendall (1898)]

In sum, look upon human things, and behold how short-lived and how vile they are; mucus yesterday, tomorrow ashes or pickled carrion. Spend, then, the fleeting remnant of your time in a spirit that accords with Nature, and depart contentedly. So the olive falls when it is grown ripe, blessing the ground from whence it sprung, and thankful to the tree that bore it.
[tr. Hutcheson/Chrystal (1902)]

In a word, fail not to note how short-lived are all mortal things, and how paltry -- yesterday a little mucus, to-morrow a mummy or burnt ash. Pass then through this tiny span of time in accordance with Nature, and come to thy journey's end with a good grace, just as an olive falls when it is fully ripe, praising the earth that bare it and grateful to the tree that gave it growth.
[tr. Haines (Loeb) (1916)]

This is the whole matter: see always how ephemeral and cheap are the things of man -- yesterday, a spot of albumen, to-morrow, ashes or a mummy. Therefore make your passage through this span of time in obedience to Nature and gladly lay down your life, as an olive, when ripe, might fall, blessing her who bare it and grateful to the tree which gave it life.
[tr. Farquharson (1944)]

Observe, in short, how transient and trivial is all mortal life; yesterday a drop of semen, tomorrow a handful of spice or ashes. Spend, therefore, these fleeting moments on earth as Nature would have you spend them, and then go to your rest with good grace, as an olive falls in its season, with a blessing for the earth that bore it and a thanskgiving to the tree that gave it life.
[tr. Staniforth (1964)]

In a word, never cease to observe how evanescent are all things human, and how worthless: today a drop of mucus, and tomorrow a mummy or a pile of ash. So make your eay through this brief moment of time as one who is obedient to nature, and accept your end with a cheerful heart, just as an olive might ripen and fall, blessing the earth that bare it and grateful to the tree that gave it growth.
[tr. Hard (1997 ed.); Hard (2011 ed.)]

In general, consider always how ephemeral and cheap human affairs are; yesterday slime, tomorrow pickle or ashes. Go through this momentary time in accordance with nature, and come to an end cheerfully, like an olive that falls when it is ripe, speaking well of the earth who bore it you and giving thanks to the tree that begat you.
[tr. Hard? (1997 ed.)]

In short, know this: Human lives are brief and trivial. Yesterday a blob of semen; tomorrow embalming fluid, ash.
To pass through this brief life as nature demands. To give it up without complaint.
Like an olive that ripens and falls.
Praising its mother, thanking the tree it grew on.
[tr. Hays (2003)]

The conclusion of this? You should always look on human life as short and cheap. Yesterday sperm: tomorrow a mummy or ashes.
So one should pass through this tiny fragment of time in tune with nature, and leave it gladly, as an olive might fall when ripe, blessing the earth which bore it and grateful to the tree which gave it growth.
[tr. Hammond (2006)]

So always keep in mind how short-lived and insignificant human things really are: yesterday a glob of mucous, tomorrow a corpse or a pile of ashes. So pass this brief amount of time in accordance with Nature and dissolve graciously, just as a ripe olive falls to the ground praising both he earth which gave it life and the tree which nourished it.
[tr. Needleman/Piazza (2008)]

Mark how fleeting and paltry is the estate of man, yesterday in infancy, tomorrow embalmed or in ashes. For the hairsbreadth of time assigned to thee, live rationally, and part with life gracefully, as a ripe olive falls, blessing the season that bore it and thanking the tree that gave it life.
[ed. Yeroulanos (2016)]

For Nature doth not Me or Him Create,
The proper Lord of such and such Estate:
He forc't us out, and doth possess my Plain;
Another cheat shall force him out again,
Or quircks in Law, or when those fears are past,
His long-liv'd Heir shall force him out at last:
That which was once Ofellus Farm is gone,
Now call'd Umbrena's, but 'tis no Mans own:
None hath the Property, it comes and goes,
As merry Chance, or stubborn Fates dispose,
As God thinks fit, and his firm Nods Decree,
Now to be us'd by Others, now by Me.
[tr. Creech (1684)]

Nature will no perpetual heir assign,
Or make the farm his property or mine.
He turn'd us out: but follies all his own,
Or law-suits, and their knaveries unknown,
Or, all his follies and his law-suits past,
Some long-lived heir shall turn him out at last.
The farm, once mine, now bears Umbrenus' name,
The use alone, not property we claim.
[tr. Francis (1747)]

For view'd as property, the land, my sons,
Is neither his, nor mine, nor any one's.
He turn'd me out; and him his own excess
Or the law's quirks shall shortly dispossess:
At best, stern Death's ejectment, soon or late,
Shall prove these acres but a life-estate.
Umbrenus' name the farm at present bears;
'Twas lately mine, and shall be soon his heir's:
Now this, now that may sow the ground and till;
But all like are tenants but at will.
[tr. Howes (1845)]

For nature has appointed to be lord of this earthly property, neither him, nor me, nor any one. He drove us out: either iniquity or ignorance in the quirks of the law shall [do the same by] him: certainly in the end his long-lived heir shall expel him. Now this field under the denomination of Umbrenus', lately it was Ofellus', the perpetual property of no man; for it turns to my use one while, and by and by to that of another.
[tr. Smart/Buckley (1853)]

And I say "resident," because nor him nor me nor any one has nature fixed to be the owner of the land in perpetuity. He turned me out, and him profuse expenditure, or ignorance of legal quirk, or certainly at last, his heir, who's longer lived, will oust. The farm now bears Umbrenus' name, and lately bore Ofella's ; 'twill belong in perpetuity to none, but pass into the tenancy now of myself, now of some other man.
[tr. Millington (1870)]

Holder, I say, for tenancy's the most
That he, or I, or any man can boast:
Now he has driven us out: but him no less
His own extravagance may dispossess
Or slippery lawsuit: in the last resort
A livelier heir will cut his tenure short.
Ofellus' name it bore, the field we plough,
A few years back: it bears Umbrenus' now:
None has it as a fixture, fast and firm,
But he or I may hold it for a term.
[tr. Conington (1874)]

Nature, in truth, makes neither him nor me nor anyone else lord of the soil as his own. He drove us out, and he will be driven out by villainy, or by ignorance of the quirks of the law, or in the last resort by an heir of longer life. To-day the land bears the name of Umbrenus; of late it had that of Ofellus; to no one will it belong for good, but for use it will pass, now to me and now to another.
[tr. Fairclough (Loeb) (1926)]

Nature indeed has appointed not him, not me,
Nor anyone else as lord and master of the earth.
He drove us off; some force will in turn drive him out:
Inefficiency, ignorance of some subtle clause of law,
Or at least and at last, no doubt, an heir that outlives him.
The land now known as Umbrenus' was recently called
Ofellus'; it will never belong to anyone, really:
It is loaned to use for our use, now mine, now others'.
[tr. Palmer Bovie (1959)]

The land has no owners: nature never granted him a title,
she gave no rights to me or anyone. He pushed us out;
his sloth, or his ignorance of our complicated law,
a surviving heir, if nothing else, will push him out.
Now this field is named after Umbrenus; Ofellus was
the old name. It belongs to no one, but lets itself be used
now by me, now by others.
[tr. Fuchs (1977)]

I call him so because nature has not
made him absolute master of
this land; neither he nor I nor anyone else.
He drove us out. His incapacity
or ignorance or quirks of the law will push
him out in turn, or ultimately
without fail, the heir who succeeds him.
Now the farm is under the name of
Umbrenus; once it was owned by
Ofellus. It will never be the absolute
property of anyone but will pass
in use now by me now by another.
[tr. Alexander (1999)]

Nobody can own the land.
Nature signs no deeds. He harried us out,
and in his turn, his sloth or ignorance
of legal trickery, or at the last, an heir
will supplant him. Now the land bears the name
of Umbrenus. Once the name was Ofellus.
Still it belongs to none, and uses us
to till it, one by one.
[tr. Matthews (2002)]

I say "occupant," for by nature's decree possession of the land
isn't his or mine or anyone else's. He turned us out,
and he'll be turned out by his own improvidence, his inability
to cope with the law's cunning, or at last by the heir who outlives him.
The farm is now in Umbrenus' name; not long ago
it was called Ofellus'; no one will own it, but its use will still
be enjoyed -- now by me, in time by another.
[tr. Rudd (2005 ed.)]

Nature makes no-one, not he nor I, the true owner
Of the land: he replaced us, and he’ll be replaced
Through incompetence, not grasping legal subtlety,
Or, failing all that, by the heir that outlives him.
Today it’s Umbrenus’ farm, it was Ofellus’ lately,
No one will truly own it, but it will be worked
Now by me, now another.
[tr. Kline (2015)]

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)]

The time therefore that any man doth live, is but a little, and the place where he liveth, is but a very little corner of the earth, and the greatest fame that can remain of a man after his death, even that is but little, and that too, such as it is whilst it is, is by the succession of silly mortal men preserved, who likewise shall shortly die, and even whiles they live know not what in very deed they themselves are: and much less can know one, who long before is dead and gone.
[tr. Casaubon (1634)]

Life moves in a very narrow Compass; yes, and Men live in a poor Corner of the World too : And the most lasting Fame will stretch but to a sorry Extent. The Passage on't is uneven and craggy, and therefore it can't run far. The frequent Breaks of Succession drop it in the Conveyance : For alas ! poor transitory Mortals, know little either of themselves, or of those who were long before them.
[tr. Collier (1701)]

It is a very little time which each man lives, and in a small corner of the earth; and the longest surviving fame is but short, and this conveyed through a succession of poor mortals, each presently a-dying; men who neither knew themselves, nor the persons long since dead.
[tr. Hutcheson/Moor (1742)]

The life of every one, therefore, is evidently a mere point in time. This world indeed in which we live is but a mere corner of the universe, and the most extensive posthumous fame a very trifling affair; and is to pass through a succession of insignificant mortals, who know little of themselves, and much less therefore of those who have long submitted to their destiny.
[tr. Graves (1792)]

Short then is the time which every man lives; and small the nook of the earth where he lives; and short too the longest posthumous fame, and even this only continued by a succession of poor human beings, who will very soon die, and who know not even themselves, much less him who died long ago.
[tr. Long (1862)]

Life moves in a very narrow compass; yes, and men live in a small corner of the world too. And the most lasting fame will stretch but to a sorry extent; for, alas! poor transitory mortals who hand it down know little even of themselves, much less of those who died long before their time.
[tr. Collier/Zimmern (1887)]

Man's life has but a tiny span, tiny as the corner of earth on which he lives, short as fame's longest tenure, handed along the line of short-lived mortals, who do not even know themselves, far less the dead of long ago.
[tr. Rendall (1898)]

Short is the time which each of us has to live, and small the corner of the earth he has to live in. Short is the longest posthumous fame, and this preserved through a succession of poor mortals, soon themselves to die; men who knew not themselves, far less those who died long ago.
[tr. Hutcheson/Chrystal (1902)]

Little indeed, then, is a man's life, and little the nook of earth whereon he lives, and little even the longest after-fame, and that too handed on through a succession of manikins, each one of them very soon to be dead, with no knowledge even of themselves, let alone of a man who has died long since.
[tr. Haines (Loeb) (1916)]

Little the life each lives, little the corner of the earth he lives in, little even the longest fame hereafter, and even that dependent on a succession of poor mortals, who will very soon be dead, and have not learnt to know themselves, much less the man who was dead long years ago.
[tr. Farquharson (1944)]

Human life is thus a little thing, and little too even the fame that endures for the longest, and even that is passed on from one poor mortal to another, all of whom will die in no great while, and who have no knowledge even of themselves, let alone of one who has died many long years before.
[tr. Hard (1997 ed.)]

The span we live is small -- small as the corner of the earth in which we live it. Small as even the greatest renown, passed from mouth to mouth by short-lived stick figures, ignorant alike of themselves and those long dead.
[tr. Hays (2003)]

Sure, life is a small thing, and small the cranny of the earth in which we live it: small too even the longest fame thereafter, which is itself subject to a succession of little men who will quickly die, and have no knowledge even of themselves, let alone of those long dead.
[tr. Hammond (2006)]

Small indeed is the life which each person lives, and tiny is the corner of the earth where he lives. Small too is even the longest after-glory, which is handed off, as in a relay race, to others who will soon be dead, not having know even themselves, let alone someone who died long ago.
[tr. Needleman/Piazza (2008)]

The space of each person’s existence is thus a little thing, and little too is the corner of the earth on which it is lived, and little too even the fame that endures for the longest; and even that is passed on from one poor mortal for another, all of whom will die in no great while, and who have no knowledge even of themselves, let alone of one who has died many long years before.
[tr. Hard (2011 ed.)]

For each of us, small is our life and small is the corner of earth where it is lived; small too is even the longest fame after death, and this depends on a succession of little human beings who will quickly die and who do not know themselves, let along the one who has died first.
[tr. Gill (2013)]

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]

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]

Ah Posthumus! the years of man
Slide on with winged pace, nor can
Vertue reprieve her friend
From wrinkles, age, and end.
[tr. Fanshawe; ed. Brome (1666)]

Time (Posthumus) goes with full sail,
Nor can thy honest heart avail
A furrow'd brow, old age at hand,
Or Death unconquer'd to withstand:
One long night,
Shall hide this light
From all our sight,
And equal Death
Shall few dayes hence,
stop every breath.
[tr. S. W.; ed. Brome (1666)]

The whirling year, Ah Friend! the whirling year Rouls on apace;
And soon shall wrinkles plough thy wither'd Face:
In vain you wast your Pious breath,
No prayers can stay, no vows defer
The swift approach of Age, and conqu'ring Death.
[tr. Creech (1684)]

Alas! my Postumus, my Postumus, the fleeting years glide on; nor will piety cause any delay to wrinkles, and advancing old age, and insuperable death.
[tr. Smart/Buckley (1853)]

Ah, Posthumus, the years, the fleeting years
Still onwards, onwards glide;
Nor mortal virtue may
Time's wrinkling fingers stay,
Nor Age's sure advance, nor Death's all-conquering stride.
[tr. Martin (1864)]

Postumus, Postumus, the years glide by us,
Alas! no piety delays the wrinkles,
Nor old age imminent,
Nor the indomitable hand of Death.
[tr. Bulwer-Lytton (1870)]

Ah! Postumus! Devotion fails
The lapse of gliding years to stay,
With wrinkled age it nought avails
Nor conjures conquering Death away.
[tr. Gladstone (1894)]

Ah me! how quickly, Postumus, Postumus,
Glide by the years! nor even can piety
Delay the wrinkles, and advancing
Age, and attacks of unconquer'd Hades.
[tr. Phelps (1897)]

Alas! Postumus, Postumus, the fleeing years
Slip by, and duteousness does not give pause
To wrinkles, or to hasting age,
Or death unconquerable.
[tr. Garnsey (1907)]

Ah! Postumus, Postumus, fast fly the years,
And prayers to wrinkles and impending age
Bring not delay; nor shalt assuage
Death's stroke with pious tears.
[tr. Marshall (1908)]

Alas, O Postumus, Postumus, the years glide swiftly by, nor will righteousness give pause to wrinkles, to advancing age, or Death invincible.
[tr. Bennett (Loeb) (1912)]

Ah, Postumus, my Postumus, the fleeting years roll by;
Wrinkles and ever nearing eld stay not for piety:
Relentless they, relentless death's unconquered tyranny.
[tr. Mills (1924)]

Ah, how they glide by, Postumus, Postumus,
The years, the swift years! Wrinkles and imminent
Old age and death, whom no one conquers --
Piety cannot delay their onward
March.
[tr. Michie (1963)]

Oh year by year, Póstumay,
Póstumay, time slips by,
And holiness can't stop us drying,
Or hold off death.
[tr. Raffel (1983)]

How the years go by, alas how the years go by.
Behaving well can do nothing at all about it.
Wrinkles will come, old age will come, and death,
Indomitable. Nothing at all will work.
[tr. Ferry (1997)]

Alas! O Postumus, Postumus! Swiftly the years glide by, and no amount of piety will wrinkles delay or halt approaching age or ineluctable death.
[tr. Alexander (1999)]

Oh how the years fly, Postumus, Postumus,
they’re slipping away, virtue brings no respite
from the wrinkles that furrow our brow,
impending old age, Death the invincible.
[tr. Kline (2015)]

Come and let us live, my Deare,
Let us love and never feare
What the sourest Fathers say:
Brightest Sol that dyes to-day
Lives againe as blithe to-morrow;
But if we darke sons of sorrow
Set, ô then, how long a Night
Shuts the Eyes of our short light!
[tr. Crashaw (1648)]

Lesbia, live to love and pleasure,
Careless what the grave may say:
When each moment is a treasure
Why should lovers lose a day?
Setting suns shall rise in glory,
But when little life is o'er,
There's an end of all the story --
We shall sleep, and wake no more.
[tr. Langhorne (c. 1765)]

Let's live, and love, my darling fair!
And not a single farthing care
For age's babbling spite;
Yon suns that set again shall rise,
but, when our transient meteor dies,
We sleep in endless night.
[tr. Nott (1795)]

My Lesbia, let us love and live,
And to the winds, my Lesbia, give
Each cold restraint, each boding fear
Of age and all her saws severe.
Yon sun now posting to the main
Will set -- but 'tis to rise again: --
But we, when once our mortal light
Is set, must sleep in endless night!
[tr. Coleridge (1798)]

Love, my Lesbia, while we live,
Value all the cross advice
That the surly greybeards give
At a single farthing's price.
Suns that set again may rise;
We, when once our fleeting light,
Once our day in darkness dies,
Sleep in one eternal night.
[tr. Lamb (1821)]

Live we, love we, Lesbia dear,
And the stupid saws austere,
Which your sour old dotards prate,
Let us at a farthing rate!
When the sun sets, ' tis to rise
Brighter in the morning skies;
But, when sets our little light,
We must sleep in endless night.
[tr. T. Martin (1861)]

The while we live, to love let's give
Each hour, my winsome dearie!
Hence, churlish rage of icy age!
Of love we 'll ne'er grow weary.
Bright Phoebus dies, again to rise;
Returns life's brief light never;
When once 'tis gone, we slumber on
For ever and for ever.
[tr. Cranstoun (1867)]

Living, Lesbia, we should e'en be loving.
Sour severity, tongue of eld maligning,
All be to us a penny's estimation.
Suns set only to rise again to-morrow.
We, when sets in a little hour the brief light,
Sleep one infinite age, a night for ever.
[tr. Ellis (1871)]

Love we (my Lesbia!) and live we our day,
While all stern sayings crabbed sages say,
At one doit's value let us price and prize!
The Suns can westward sink again to rise
But we, extinguished once our tiny light,
Perforce shall slumber through one lasting night!
[tr. Burton (1893)]

Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love, and count all the rumors of stern old men at a penny's fee. Suns can set and rise again: we when once our brief light has set must sleep through a perpetual night.
[tr. Smithers (1894)]

Come, my Lesbia, no repining;
Let us love while yet we may!
Suns go on forever shining;
But when we have had our day,
Sleep perpetual shall o'ertake us,
And no morrow's dawn awake us.
[tr. Field (1896)]

Let us live, my Lesbia, and love, and value at one farthing all the talk of crabbed old men.
Suns may set and rise again. For us, when the short light has once set, remains to be slept the sleep of one unbroken night.
[tr. Warre Cornish (1904)]

Let us live, my Lesbia, let us love, for the reprobation of soured age let us not care a sou. Suns can set and rise again; but to our brief light, when once it sets, there comes a never-ending night that must be passed in never-ending sleep.
[tr. Stuttaford (1912)]

We live, Lesbia,
And we love, Lesbia,
And what do we care what the world may say?
The sun goes down,
And the sun comes up,
But our little lives pass away
In a day,
Our poor little lives pass away.
[tr. Dement (1915)]

Let us revel in life and love, my darling;
All that crabbed antiquities say idly
We will value together at a farthing.
Suns may set , and return again as brightly:
When our light to its dying spark has fluttered,
We must sleep an eternity of slumber.
[tr. Symons-Jeune (1923)]

O! let us love and have our day,
All that the bitter greybeards say
Appraising at a single mite.
My Lesbia , suns can set and rise:
For us the brief light dawns and dies
Once only, and the rest is night.
[tr. MacNaghten (1925)]

Come let us live and let us love,
And the stern voice of censors prove,
Who bid us from our loving cease,
Exactly worth a penny piece.
For suns can rise and suns can wane
And on the morrow rise again;
But when our one brief day is gone,
For ever we must sleep alone.
[tr. Wright (1926)]

Come, Lesbia, let us live and love,
nor give a damn what sour old men say.
The sun that sets may rise again
but when our light has sunk into the earth,
it is gone forever.
[tr. Gregory (1931)]

Lesbia, let us live only for loving,
and let us value at a single penny
all the loose flap of senile busybodies!
Suns when they set are capable of rising,
but at the setting of our on brief light
night is one sleep from which we never awaken.
[tr. C. Martin (1979)]

Let us live, my Lesbia, let us love,
and all the words of the old, and so moral,
may they be worth less than nothing to us!
Suns may set, and suns may rise again:
but when our brief light has set,
night is one long everlasting sleep.
[tr. Kline (2001)]

Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love,
and let us judge all the rumors of the old men
to be worth just one penny!
The suns are able to fall and rise:
When that brief light has fallen for us,
we must sleep a never ending night.
[tr. Negenborn (1997)]

Let's live, Lesbia mine, and love --
and as for scandal, all the gossip, old men's strictures,
value the lot at no more than a farthing!
Suns can rise and set ad infinitum --
for us, though, once our bref life's quenched,
there's only one unending night that's left to sleep through.
[tr. Green (2005)]

Come live with me, Lesbia, and be my love,
And ignore the wagging tongues
Of wilted crones and toothless geezers.
Suns rise and set, rise and set again,
But we, when our brief light is blacked,
Must sleep forever, and then forever.
[tr. Hager (2006)]

My Lesbia, let’s live and let’s love,
Let all the rumors of harsh old men
count for only a penny.
Suns can set and rise again:
but when our brief light sets
we must sleep a lonely endless night.
[tr. @sentantiq (2015)]

Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love,
and let's value all the rumors
of rather stern old men as one penny!
Suns can set and return;
as for us, once our brief light sets,
there is one perpetual night to be slept.
[tr. Wikibooks (2017)]

Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love,
and let us value all the rumors of
more severe old men at only a penny!
Suns are able to set and return:
when once the short light has set for us
one perpetual night must be slept by us.
[tr. Wikisource (2018)]

My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love;
And though the sager sort our deeds reprove,
Let us not weigh them: Heaven's great lamps do dive
Into their west, and straight again revive,
But, soon as once set is our little light,
Then must we sleep one ever-during night.
[Thomas Campion, A Book of Airs (1601)]

Come my Celia, let us prove,
While we can, the sports of love;
Time will not be ours forever,
He at length our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vain;
Suns that set may rise again,
But if once we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetual night.
[Ben Jonson, Volpone, Act 3, sc. 6 (1616)]

if any thing should fall out amiss, I shall be contented and ready to die: For Death can never come dishonourable to a Valiant Person, nor untimely to him that is Consular, nor unfortunate to a Wise man.
[tr. Wase (1671), 4.3]

If I am doomed to fall a sacrifice in your cause, I am resigned to my fate. To a well-prepared spirit death can never be dishonourable; to a consul never premature; to a wise man it never can be an evil.
[tr. Sydney (1795)]

If anything shall happen to me, I shall die with a mind contented and prepared. For neither can a disgraceful death happen to a brave man, nor an untimely one to a man of consular rank, nor a wretched one to a wise man.
[tr. Mongan (1879), 4.2]

If any (thing) shall have befallen, I shall die with an equal and prepared mind. For neither a base death is able to happen to a brave man, nor an immature (death) to a consular (man), nor a wretched (death) to a wise man.
[tr. Underwood (1885), 4.2]

If any (thing) shall have befallen, I shall die with an equal [a calm] and prepared mind. For neither a base death is able to happen to a brave man, nor an immature (one) to a consular (man), nor a wretched (one) to a wise (man).
[tr. Dewey (1916), 4.2]

Death cannot be dishonorable to the brave man, or premature to him who has held high office, or lamentable to the philosopher.
[Source]

And look -- a thousand Blossoms with the Day
Woke -- and a thousand scatter'd into Clay
[tr. FitzGerald, 1st ed. (1859), # 8]

Morning a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of yesterday?
[tr. FitzGerald, 2nd Ed (1868), # 9]

Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say:
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
[tr. FitzGerald, 3rd ed. (1872), # 9; same in later editions]

Sit in the shade of the rose, for many times this rose from earth has come, and unto earth has gone.
[tr. McCarthy (1879), # 463]

Sit we beneath this rose, which many a time
Has sunk to earth, and sprung from earth again.
[tr. Whinfield (1883), # 414]

Sit in the shade of the rose, for, by the wind, many roses
have been scattered to earth and have become dust.
[tr. Heron-Allen (1898), # 135]

Sit we 'neath this rose shade, for many a rose
Wind strewn in earth has turned to earth again!
[tr. Thompson (1906), # 522]

Sit in her fragrant bower, for oft the wind
Hath strewn and turn'd to dust such flowers as these.
[tr. Talbot (1908), # 135]

Rest in the shadow of the rose, for many of its leaves will the rose
Shed on the earth while we lie under the earth.
[tr. Rosen (1928), # 270]

Stay, Dearest One! beneath the rosy shade,
The roses bloom for Thee but soon would blight.
[tr. Tirtha (1941), # 3.7]

Rest in the rose's shade, though winds have burst
A world of blossoml petals fall to dust --
[tr. Graves & Ali-Shah (1967), # 74, ll. 1-2]

Sit in the rose's shadow, for oftentimes this rose shall spill upon the dust, when we are dust.
[tr. Bowen (1976), # 5a]

The Rosetree spills her petals in the dust,
And nothing of her fragrant harvest saves;
And yet this Rose, a plaything of the breeze,
Will bloom each year when we are in our graves.
[tr. Bowen (1976), # 5b]