Whether from Argos' founder bornIn wealth you lived beneath the sun,Or nursed in beggary and scorn,You fall to Death, who pities none.One way all travel; the dark urnShakes each man's lot, that soon or lateWill force him, hopeless of return,On board the exile-ship of Fate.Why, Xanthias, blush to own you loveYour slave? Briseis, long ago,A captive, could Achilles moveWith breast of snow.Tecmessa's charms enslaved her lord,Stout Ajax, heir of Telamon;Atrides, in his pride, adoredThe maid he won,When Troy to Thessaly gave way,And Hector's all too quick deceaseMade Pergamus an easier preyTo wearied Greece.