Horace, Book II. Ode XIV

Ah! friend, the posting years how fast they fly? Nor can the strictest piety. Defer incroaching age, Or Death's resistless rage: If you each day A hecatomb of bulls should slay, The smoaking host could not subdue The tyrant to be kind to you. From Geryon's head he snatch'd the triple crown, Into th' infernal lake the monarch tumbled down. The prince and peasant of this world must be Thus wasted to eternity.

In vain from bloody wars are mortals free, Or the rough storms of the tempestuous sea; In vain they take such care To shield their bodies from autumnal air. Dismal Cocytus they must ferry o'er, Whose languid stream moves dully by the shore. And in their passage we shall see Of tortur'd ghosts the various misery. Thy stately house, thy pleasing wife And children (blessings dear as life), Must all be left, nor shalt thou have, Of all thy grateful plants, one tree; Unless the dismal cypress follow thee, The short-liv'd lord of all, to thy cold grave. But the imprison'd Burgundy Thy jolly heir shall straight set free. Releas'd from lock and key, the sparkling wine Shall flow, and make the drunken pavement shine.