Ovid lies here, the poet, skilled in love's gentle sport; By his own talents he worked his undoing. Oh, you who pass by, if ever you have loved, Think it not a burden to wish him calm repose.
Great talents, by the rust of long disuse, Grow lethargic and shrink from what they were.
Seeking is all very well, but holding requires greater talent: Seeking involves some luck; now the demand is for skill.
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