After The Event, Even A Fool Is

For Too Much Rest Becomes A Pain.

The Bitter Dregs Of Fortune's Cup To Drain.

Praise Me Not Too Much, Nor Blame Me, For Thou Speakest To The Greeks Who Know Me.

We Mortals Hear Only The News, And Know Nothing At All.

And Rest At Last Where Souls Unbodied Dwell, In Ever-flowing Meads Of Asphodel.