Unnumbered were the ages past, O man,
Before thy day began.
Unnumbered, too, the ages yet shall be,
That Hades hath for thee.
What store of life, then, doth to thee remain?
Scarce as it were a grain!
Scanty thy life and short--nor mayest thou
Even enjoy it now;
For it is hateful, and its poisoned breath
More dire than loathèd death.
Then scorn this stormy life of thine and shun--
As I indeed have done,
I, Pheido, son of Krita--and like me,
Seek the still haven of tranquility,
The haven of dark Hades' silent sea.
