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There be the wine, the odours brought, While Time and Fate allow!

For thou, resigning to thine heir, Thy halls, thy bowers, thy treasured store, Must leave that home, those woodlands fair, On yellow Tyber's shore.

What then avails it if thou trace From Inachus thy glorious line? Or, sprung from some ignoble race, If not a roof be thine?

Since the dread lot for all must leap Forth from the dark revolving urn, And we must tempt the gloomy deep, Whence exiles ne'er return.