Oh, now let grief and fear depart;
Let haunting hunger flee away.
The grim companion of the lot
Of trembling exiles; and disgrace,
A heavy load for mourning souls. 925
More boots it from what height thou fall'st,
Than to what depth. How noble is't,
When fallen from the pinnacle,
With dauntless step and firm, to tread
The lowly plain; and noble too,
Though by a mass of cares o'erwhelmed,
To bolster up the shattered throne 930
With neck unbending; and with soul
Heroic, undismayed by ills,
To stand erect beneath the weight
Of ruined fortunes.
But away,
Ye gloomy clouds of fate; ye marks
Of former misery, depart. 935
Thy happy fortune greet with face
Of joy, and utterly forget
The old Thyestes. But alas!
This fault is linked with wretchedness,
That never can the woeful soul
Accept returned prosperity.
Though kindly fortune smile again, 940
He who has suffered finds it hard
To give himself to joy. But why
Dost thou restrain me? Why forbid
To celebrate this festal day?
Why wouldst thou have me weep, O grief,
For no cause rising? Why with flowers 945
Dost thou forbid to wreathe my hair?
It does, it does forbid! For see,
Upon my head the flowers of spring
Have withered; and my festal locks,
Though dripping with the precious nard,
Stand up in sudden dread; my cheeks,
That have no cause to weep, are wet 950
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The Tragedies of Seneca
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