So length of days Drags down the haughty spirit, and life prolonged When power has perished.

Fortune's latest hour, Be the last hour of life! Nor let the wretch Live on disgraced by memories of fame! But for the boon of death, who'd dare the sea Of prosperous chance?
Upon the ocean marge By red Peneus blushing from the fray, Borne in a sloop, to lightest wind and wave Scarce equal, he, whose countless oars yet smote Upon Coreyra's isle and Leucas point, Lord of Cilicia and Liburnian lands, Crept trembling to the sea.

He bids them steer For the sequestered shores of Lesbos isle; For there wert thou, sharer of all his griefs, Cornelia! Sadder far thy life apart Than wert thou present in Thessalia's fields.
Racked is thy heart with presages of ill; Pharsalia fills thy dreams; and when the shades Give place to coming dawn, with hasty step Thou tread'st some cliff sea-beaten, and with eyes Gazing afar art first to mark the sail Of each approaching bark: yet dar'st not ask Aught of thy husband's fate.
Behold the boat Whose bending canvas bears her to the shore: She brings (unknown as yet) thy chiefest dread, Rumour of evil, herald of defeat, Magnus, thy conquered spouse.

Fear then no more, But give to grief thy moments.

From the ship He leaps to land; she marks the cruel doom Wrought by the gods upon him: pale and wan His weary features, by the hoary locks Shaded; the dust of travel on his garb.
Dark on her soul a night of anguish fell; Her trembling limbs no longer bore her frame: Scarce throbbed her heart, and prone on earth she lay Deceived in hope of death.