As many as are mortal men, so many are the objects of their pursuit.
And, over and about all men, by reason of their bondage to avarice,
ambition, appetite, and passion, hovers Black Care. It flits above their
sleepless eyes in the panelled ceiling of the darkened palace, it sits
behind them on the courser as they rush into battle, it dogs them as
they are at the pleasures of the bronze-trimmed yacht. It pursues them
everywhere, swifter than the deer, swifter than the wind that drives
before it the storm-cloud. Not even those who are most happy are
entirely so. No lot is wholly blest. Perfect happiness is unattainable.
Tithonus, with the gift of ever-lasting life, wasted away in undying old
age. Achilles, with every charm of youthful strength and gallantry, was
doomed to early death. Not even the richest are content. Something is
always lacking in the midst of abundance, and desire more than keeps
pace with satisfaction.
Nor are the multitude less enslaved to their desires than the few. Glory
drags bound to her glittering chariot-wheels the nameless as well as the
nobly-born. The poor are as inconstant as the rich.
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