Eurydice, dying now a second time, uttered no complaint against her husband. What was there to complain of, but that she had been loved?
OvidThat fair face will as years roll on lose its beauty, and old age will bring its wrinkles to the brow.
OvidFrom high Meonia's rocky shores I came, Of poor decsent, Acoetes is my name, My sire was measly born: no oxen ploughed, His fruitful fields, nor in his pastures lowed, His whole estate within the waters lay' With lines and hooks he caught the finny prey; His art was all his livelehood, which he Thus with his dying lips bequeathed to me: In streams, my boy, and rivers take thy chance; There swims', said he, Thy whole inheritance.
Ovid