Thy sire in solitude foments his care: The court is joyless, for thou art not there! No costly carpets raise his hoary head, No rich embroidery shines to grace his bed; Even when keen winter freezes in the skies, Rank’d with his slaves, on earth the monarch lies: Deep are his sighs, his visage pale, his dress The garb of woe and habit of distress. And when the autumn takes his annual round, The leafy honours scattering on the ground, Regardless of his years, abroad he lies, His bed the leaves, his canopy the skies. Thus cares on cares his painful days consume, And bow his age with sorrow to the tomb!
For thee, my son, I wept my life away; For thee through hell’s eternal dungeons stray: Nor came my fate by lingering pains and slow, Nor bent the silver-shafted queen her bow; No dire disease bereaved me of my breath; Thou, thou, my son, wert my disease and death; Unkindly with my love my son conspired, For thee I lived, for absent thee expired.
— The Odyssey: The Verse Translation by Alexander Pope (1725–1726), Book XI. The Descent Into Hell
