Alas, Postumus, the fleeting years slip by, nor will piety give any stay to wrinkles and pressing old age and untamable death.
Our years Glide silently away. No tears, No loving orisons repair The wrinkled cheek, the whitening hair That drop forgotten to the tomb.
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.]
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