What marvel, when at those sweet airsThe hundred-headed beast spell-boundEach black ear droops, and Furies' hairsUncoil their serpents at the sound?Prometheus too and Pelops' sireIn listening lose the sense of woe;Orion hearkens to the lyre,And lets the lynx and lion go.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.