Too many kings can ruin an army
By turns the nine delight to sing
For love deceives the best of woman kind.
Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men. Now the wind scatters the old leaves across the earth, now the living timber bursts with the new buds and spring comes round again. And so with men: as one generation comes to life, another dies away.
We are quick to flare up, we races of men on the earth.
There is a fullness of all things, even of sleep and love.