Ah god how they race

Ah god, how they race, Postumus, "postumus,

how the year run out, and doing's what is right

will not delay wrinkles and age's

onslaught and death who cannot be beaten;

no, dear friend, not even if every day

you tried with three hundred bulls to please pluto.

who has no tears, who holds in prison

three-bodied Geryon and Tityos

by the sorrowful river whose crossing is

certain for those who live by the gifts of the earth.

a must for all, the high and mighty,

 and the poverty-stricken small farmers.

It will do no good to escape bloody Mars

and breaking waves on the rough Adriatic,

it will do no good to spend autumn

in terror, if sirocco and sickness:

we must see the dark waters of Cocytos

winding slowly, and the infamous daughters

of Danaus, and Sisyphus, son of 

Aeolus, condemned to endless labor.

We must leave behind us earth and home and dear

wife, and of all the trees that you care for now,

not one will follow you, so briefly

its master, only the loathsome cypress. 

An heir who deserves it will drink Caecuban

you kept safe with a hundred Keys, and he will

soak the floor with magnificent wine,

finer than the priests drink at their festivals.