Cheer Up, Postumus
Horace, Book II, Ode 14.
“Eheul fugaces, Postume, Postume—”
O Postumus, dear Postumus, Old Father Time’s a sprinter, The summer of my life is spent, approaches now the winter; Nor all my Wit nor Piety, to quote Omar Fitzgerald, Can keep my obit from appearing in the Sabine Herald.
If for a daily sacrifice you killed three hundred cattle, Think you that it would keep from you the Dread and Final Rattle? Nix! Though you build eight colleges and lib’ries eighty-seven,You can’t avoid what Rhyme demands I designate as Heaven.