Long Exercised In Woes.

And His Good Wife Will Tear Her Cheeks In Grief, His Sons Are Orphans And He, Soaking The Soil Red With His Own Blood, He Rots Away Himself-more Birds Than Women Flocking Round His Body!

Heaven Hears And Pities Hapless Men Like Me, For Sacred Ev'n To Gods Is Misery.

't Is Fortune Gives Us Birth, But Jove Alone Endues The Soul With Worth.

Rather I'd Choose Laboriously To Bear A Weight Of Woes, And Breathe The Vital Air, A Slave To Some Poor Hind That Toils For Bread, Than Reign The Sceptred Monarch Of The Dead.

Too Dear I Prized A Fair Enchanting Face: Beauty Unchaste Is Beauty In Disgrace.