Theseus
I've said enough ; no more. I will not boast,
But thou art safe if Heaven forsake not me.
In sacred wisdom's path is seldom seen
The wretch, whom sordid love of wealth inspires ;
Neglectful of the happy golden mean,
His soul nor truth nor heavenly knowledge fires ;
No length of days to him can pleasure bring,
In death alone he finds repose,
End of his wishes and his woes;
In that uncomfortable night
Where never music's charms delight,
Nor virgin choirs their hymeneals sing.
The happiest fate of man is not to be ;
And next in bliss is he who soon as bom,
From the vain world and all its sorrows free,
Shall whence he came with speediest foot return ;
For youth is full of folly, toils, and woes,
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Of war, sedition, pain, and strife.
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With all the busy ills of life.
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Till helpless age come creeping on,
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Deserted, friendless, and alone.
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Which neither power nor joy nor pleasure knows.
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E'pode.
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The hapless CEdipus, like me,
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Is doomed to age and misery ;
E'en as around the northern shore
The bleak winds howl and tempests roar,
Contending storms in terror meet,
And dashing waves for ever beat;
Thus is the wretched king with grief oppressed,
And woes on woes afflict his long-distempered breast.
Oedipus at Colonus. Sophocles. Thomas Francklin (Translator). London. 1758–1759.