Ah, Melanippus, why dost thou lament to me?
How canst thou think once more the sun's pure light to see,
When over Acheron's whirling stream thou wilt have crossed?
Come, seek not after lofty things: recall the boast
Of Aeolus' son, King Sisyphus, of men most sly,
Who thought to him alone death never would come night.
Yet he, for all his cunning, met his fate at last:
The second time he Acheron's whirling river passed,
The mighty son of Cronos in the world below
Imposed on him a heavy task of grievous woe.
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