Your descendants shall gather your fruits.
In youth alone, unhappy mortals live; But, ah! the mighty bliss is fugitive: Discolour'd sickness, anxious labour, come, And age, and death's inexorable doom.
I shudder when relating it.
Time passes irrevocably.
The Britons are quite separated from all the world.
How can there be such anger in the minds of the gods?