In no time at all ashes or bare bones, a mere name or not even a name: and if a name, only sound and echo. The 'prizes' of life empty, rotten, puny: puppies snapping at each other, children squabbling, laughter turning straight to tears. And Faith, Honor, Justice, and Truth 'fled up to Olympus from the wide-wayed earth'.
So what else is there to keep us here, if the objects of sense are ever changeable and unstable, if our senses themselves are blurred and easily smudged like wax, if our very soul is a mere exaltation of blood, if success in such a world is vacuous? What then? A calm wait for whatever it is, either extinction or translation. And until the time for that comes what do we need? Only to worship and praise the gods, and to do good to men - to bear and forebear. And to remember that all that lies within the limits of our poor carcass and our little breath is neither yours nor in your power.
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