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BACCHYLIDES


Of Happiness to Mortal Man


Of happiness to mortal man

One is the road, and one the goal--

To keep unburthen'd, all he can,

From loads of care the tranquil soul.

But whoso toileth night and day,

Nor day nor night permits sweet rest.

To steal him from himself away,

Or still the fever of his breast,

Nought will it profit, though he bear

On gloomy brow the stamp of care.


The Cloud of Fate


Peaceful wealth, or painful toil,

Chance of war, or civil broil,

'Tis not for man's feeble race

These to shun, or those embrace.

But that all-disposing Fate

Which presides o'er mortal state,

Where it listeth, casts its shroud

Of impenetrable cloud.

( translated by John Herman Merivale)