Alas for mortal matters! Happy-fortuned, —Why, any shade would turn them: if unhappy,By throws the wetting sponge has spoiled the picture!And more by much in mortals this I pity.The being well-to-do —Insatiate a desire of thisBorn with all mortals is,Nor any is there whoWell-being forces off, arointsFrom roofs whereat a finger points,No more come in! exclaiming. This man, too,To take the city of Priamos did the celestials give,And, honoured by the god, he homeward comes;But now if, of the former, he shall payThe blood back, and, for those who ceased to live,Dying, for deaths in turn new punishment he dooms—