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The snows have melted, the grass renews the fields,
the trees are green again;
change succeeds change on earth, and now more calmly
the streams flow past their banks.

Naked, the Nymphs and Graces dance their rounds,
but the year, the hurried hour
snatching from us each lovely day, give warning: do not hope
for immortality.

The cold eases to the western winds, spring gives way
to summer, which in turn must die
when fruit-bearing autumn has achieved the harvest—then
motionless winter returns.

The moon swift-changing in the sky regains her losses
but we, when we have fallen
where good Aeneas is, and Ancus and rich Tullus,
are only dust and shadow.

Who know whether the gods will add a tomorrow
to what we have today?
Everything you give your own dear self will be saved
from grasping hands of your heir.

Once you are dead and over you Minos has uttered
his notable verdict,
then, Torquatus, not family, nor eloquence, nor goodness
itself shall bring you back.

Diana may not release her chaste Hippolytus
from darkness down below,
nor has Theseus strength to burst the chains that bind
his dear and loyal friend.