Rest, brother, rest. Have you done ill or well Rest, rest, There is no God, no gods who dwell Crowned with avenging righteousness on high Nor frowning ministers of their hate in hell.

Human life lay foul before men's eyes, crushed to the dust beneath religion's weight.

The gods and their tranquil abodes appear, which no winds disturb, nor clouds bedew with showers, nor does the white snow, hardened by frost, annoy them; the heaven, always pure, is without clouds, and smiles with pleasant light diffused.

Do we not see all humans unaware Of what they want, and always searching everywhere, And changing place, as if to drop the load they bear?

The highest summits and those elevated above the level of other things are mostly blasted by envy as by a thunderbolt.

We, peopling the void air, make gods to whom we impute the ills we ought to bear.

For thee the wonder-working earth puts forth sweet flowers.