For It Would Be Better

They Who Prosper Take On Airs Of Vanity.

Alas, Poor Men, Their Destiny. When All Goes Well A Shadow Will Overthrow It. If It Be Unkind One Stroke Of A Wet Sponge Wipes All The Picture Out.

Misfortune Wandering The Same Track Lights Now Upon One And Now Upon Another.

For In Pure Maidens, Knowing Not The Marriage-bed, The Glance Of The Eyes Sinks From Shame.

Of All The Gods, Death Only Craves Not Gifts: Nor Sacrifice, Nor Yet Drink-offering Poured Avails; No Altars Hath He, Nor Is Soothed By Hymns Of Praise. From Him Alone Of All The Powers Of Heaven Persuasion Holds Aloof.