Nature, not content with denying him the ability to think, has endowed him with the ability to write.

The mortal sickness of a mind too unhappy to be kind.

The fairies break their dances And leave the printed lawn.

All knots that lovers tie Are tied to sever. Here shall your sweetheart lie, Untrue for ever.

Mithridates, he died old. Housman's passage is based on the belief of the ancients that Mithridates the Great [c. 135-63 B.C.] had so saturated his body with poisons that none could injure him. When captured by the Romans he tried in vain to poison himself, then ordered a Gallic mercenary to kill him.

Strapped, noosed, nighing his hour, He stood and counted them and cursed his luck; And then the clock collected in the tower Its strength, and struck.

We now to peace and darkness And earth and thee restore Thy creature that thou madest And wilt cast forth no more.