In travail
remain steadfast;
in joy temper your pride.
You will die, Dellius.
Whether you waste your days in sorrow
or recline on the grass drinking
Falernian wine at every festival:
it is the same.
Why do the tall pine
and white poplar
offer shade?
Why does the river run?
While the fates let the black thread of your life
spin out uncut,
enjoy the wine, walk serenely
in your garden, bathe with sweet oils.
Your house and fields
and all your wealth
your heirs will come to own
once you leave.
Born of a king
or the lowest field slave
it doesn’t matter:
your last road is always the same.
And you will follow it until,
almost by chance, you come upon
a certain ferryman who will take you
into the eternal exile.