What impropriety or limit can there be in our grief for a man so beloved?.
In Rome you long for the country. In the country you praise to the skies the distant town.
Alas, Postumus, the fleeting years slip by, nor will piety give any stay to wrinkles and pressing old age and untamable death.
Life grants nothing to us mortals without hard work.
Better wilt thou live...by neither always pressing out to sea nor too closely hugging the dangerous shore in cautious fear of storms.
I have completed a monument more lasting than brass.