Excerpt from The Satires of Decimus Junius Juvenalis, Vol. 2: Translated Into English Verse The rostrum, where with so much pride you sat, The beams, and scaffolds, and I know not what. Still we persist; plough the light sand, and sow Seed after seed, where none can ever grow Nay, should we, conscious of our fruitless pain, Strive to escape, we strive, alas! In vain; Long habit, and the thirst of praise, beset And close us in the inextricable net. Th' insatiate itch of scribbling, hateful pest Creeps, like a tetter, through the human breast, Nor knows, nor hopes a cure; since years, which chill All other passions, fire this growing ill.
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