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,
tny 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.
