Ah, Postumus! they fleet away,Our years, nor piety one hourCan win from wrinkles and decay,And Death's indomitable power;Not though three hundred bullocks flameEach year, to soothe the tearless kingWho holds huge Geryon's triple frameAnd Tityos in his watery ring,That circling flood, which all must stem,Who eat the fruits that Nature yields,Wearers of haughtiest diadem,Or humblest tillers of the fields.In vain we shun war's contact redOr storm-tost spray of Hadrian main:In vain, the season through, we dreadFor our frail lives Scirocco's bane.Cocytus' black and stagnant oozeMust welcome you, and Danaus' seedIll-famed, and ancient SisyphusTo never-ending toil decreed.