“Those lovely gifts of the fragrant-breasted Muses, girls, seek them eagerly in thrilling song of the lyre. Old age has grasped my earlier delicate skin and my black hair has become white, my spirit turned heavy, my knees no longer carry me nimble for dancing like a fawn. About these things I groan. What can I do? For a human not to grow old is impossible. They say Dawn, dazzled by love, took Tithonos in her rose arms to the utter end of the earth. Once beautiful and young, time seized him into gray old age, husband of a deathless wife.”
