What, do you not see that the year advances into

four parts, completing an imitation of our own life?

For with spring, in its new life, is tender and full of sap and

similar of a child. Then the

shoots are swelling/blooming, fresh and free

from purpose, it is both tender and amusing the rustic farmer(s) with hope.

Then all things are blossoming, and the fostering lands tricks the flower/blossom

with colors. Thus strength is not in any foliage,

after spring, the year [growing] more robust, crosses into summer

and the youth become prevailing: For in fact no season is more robust,

nor is any more abundant, nor is there any which burns/sparkles more.

Autumn follows, when with the passion of youth having been placed aside,

mature and gentle between youth and old age,

with a proper mixture of ordinary gray (hairs) also having been spattered on its forehead.

Then an aged winter came with trembling, frightful steps,

either its own hair having been despoiled, or what it has, [having turned] white.

Also our bodies are always being changed of themselves

and without any pause; nor tomorrow will we be what we were

and what we are; there was a day, when we were hidden in the womb of our mother.

so much seed and the hope of of a principal human being:

Nature applied her skillful hand and she is unwilling

for our bodies to be strangled, having been stored away in the internal organs of our mother having been stretched,

expelled us from our home and into the empty air.

The infant, having been thrown into the light, lay there without power.

Soon it beared its own limbs four-footed and as a right of animals

and little by little, trembling and not yet with a having been established knee, it stood having been helped in some direction from a harness.

Thus it was strong and swift and it crossed the interval of youth

and with the years of middle time/condition having been burnt out,

the setting perishes through the journey of declining age.

This undermines that (journey) of age and demolishes previous

resolve. And the aged Milon cries when he sees those hollow

arms, hanging which had been similar with respect to the mass of solid brawn to Hercules;

also she (the daughter of Tyndaris) cries as she observes an old-womanish crease in the mirror, and with herself, asks why she has having been pillaged twice.

Time, devourer of things, and you, jealous age,

destroy all things and having destroyed “time” with your teeth

little by little, you consume all with a slow death.