I have raised for myself a monument more durable than brass.
Lighten grief with hopes of a brighter morrow; Temper joy, in fear of a change of fortune.
And take back ill-polished stanzas to the anvil.
The short span of life forbids us to take on far-reaching hopes.
Drive Nature out with a pitchfork, yet she hurries back, And will burst through your foolish contempt, triumphant.
The one who prosperity takes too much delight in will be the most shocked by reverses.