Whether in gloom you spend each year,Or through long holydays at easeIn grassy nook your spirit cheerWith old Falernian vintages,Where poplar pale, and pine-tree highTheir hospitable shadows spreadEntwined, and panting waters tryTo hurry down their zigzag bed.Bring wine and scents, and roses' bloom,Too brief, alas! to that sweet place;While life, and fortune, and the loomOf the Three Sisters yield you grace.Soon must you leave the woods you buy,Your villa, wash'd by Tiber's flow,Leave,—and your treasures, heap'd so high,Your reckless heir will level low.Whether from Argos' founder bornIn wealth you lived beneath the sun,Or nursed in beggary and scorn,You fall to Death, who pities none.