GetPassage urn:cts:latinLit:phi0893.phi001.perseus-eng2:3.29.41-3.29.60 urn:cts:latinLit:phi0893.phi001.perseus-eng2:3.29.41-3.29.60

Have stirr'd to madness. Happy he,Self-centred, who each night can say,“My life is lived: the morn may seeA clouded or a sunny day:That rests with Jove: but what is gone,He will not, cannot turn to nought;Nor cancel, as a thing undone,What once the flying hour has brought.”Fortune, who loves her cruel game,Still bent upon some heartless whim,Shifts her caresses, fickle dame,Now kind to me, and now to him:She stays; 'tis well: but let her shakeThose wings, her presents I resign,Cloak me in native worth, and takeChaste Poverty undower'd for mine.Though storms around my vessel rave,I will not fall to craven prayers,Nor bargain by my vows to saveMy Cyprian and Sidonian wares,