By Jove the stranger and the poor are sent, and what to those we give, to Jove is lent.
Noblest minds are easiest bent.
See now, how men lay blame upon us gods for what is after all nothing but their own folly.
How delicate her feet who shuns the ground, Stepping a-tiptoe on the heads of men.
From now on walking is my beer and feeling good is my hangover.
Like leaves on trees the race of man is found,- Now green in youth, now withering on the ground; Another race the following spring supplies: They fall successive, and successive rise.