Alas, Postumus, the fleeting years slip by, nor will piety give any stay to wrinkles and pressing old age and untamable death.
What has this unfeeling age of ours left untried, what wickedness has it shunned?
In my youth I thought of writing a satire on mankind! but now in my age I think I should write an apology for them.
We rarely find anyone who can say he has lived a happy life, and who, content with his life, can retire from the world like a satisfied guest.
Our years Glide silently away. No tears, No loving orisons repair The wrinkled cheek, the whitening hair That drop forgotten to the tomb.
Our sires' age was worse than our grandsires'. We their sons are more worthless than they: so in our turn we shall give the world a progeny yet more corrupt.
It is time for thee to be gone, lest the age more decent in its wantonness should laugh at thee and drive thee of the stage. [Lat., Tempus abire tibi est, ne . . . Rideat et pulset lasciva decentius aetas.]
Boys must not have th' ambitious care of men, Nor men the weak anxieties of age.
Either a peaceful old age awaits me, or death flies round me with black wings. [Lat., Seu me tranquilla senectus Exspectat, seu mors atris circumvolat alis.]
What does not wasting time change! The age of our parents, worse than that of our grandsires, has brought us forth more impious still, and we shall produce a more vicious progeny.
My age, my inclinations, are no longer what they were.
Not even piety will stay wrinkles, nor the encroachments of age, nor the advance of death, which cannot be resisted.
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