Sleep, rest of nature, O sleep, most gentle of the divinities, peace of the soul, thou at whose presence care disappears, who soothest hearts wearied with daily employments, and makest them strong again for labour!
Today is truly the Golden Age: gold buys hornor, gold procures love
Take rest; a field that has rested gives a bountiful crop
The poet's labors are a work of joy, and require peace of mind.
I too am not powerless, and my weapons strike hard.
Everything comes gradually and at its appointed hour.