How has it come to this? So short a time ago
I had all that could be wanted, but I thought too frequently
of art. I considered my enemies too rarely.
The immortals punish vanity, as I have often proved.
Of my mother I will not speak, here where the trees are tall and green
and forgiving of faults; they who have outlasted storms
are contemptuous of their wind-broken relations.
I have walked the path of many who have died on unfair blades,
and so am unsurprised to find that my fate is similar.
Shall I be damned for necessary violence
or for flames I never cast upon my fair city?
Are those hoof-beats? Epaphroditus, I have not the courage
that my task demands. I must ask a final service.
Quickly now, I can hear the horses!
The knife.
Thank you for your kindness, old friend.
Tell me that my songs will be remembered.
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