Heu mihi quid patior? qua me violenta retorquent Fata retro? Video pereuntia tempora mundi Praecipiti transire fuga, moventia circum Agmina conspicio iuvenumque senumque; nec usquam Tuta patet statio, non toto portus in orbe Panditur, optatae non spes patet ulla salutis. Funera crebra quidem, quocunque paventia flecto Lumina, conturbant aciem: perplexa feretris Templa gemunt, passimque simul sine honore cadaver Nobile plebeiumque iacet. Subit ultima vitae Hora animum; casusque meos meminisse coactus, Heu! charos abiisse greges, et amica retracto Colloquia, et dulces subito vanescere vultus, Telluremque sacram assiduis non deesse sepulchris. Hoc gemit Italiae populus tot mortibus impar; Hoc exhausta viris defectaque Gallia plorat; Hoc aliae, quocunque iacent sub sydere, gentes. Sive est ira Dei, quod crimina nostra mereri Certe ego crediderim, seu sola iniuria coeli, Natura variante vices. Hic pestifer annus Humano generi incubuit, flendumque minatur Excidium, mortique favet densissimus aer. Saevus ab infecto prospectat Iupiter axe; Inde pluit morbos et tristia funera terris, Staminaque immites properant abrumpere Parcae, Omnia, si possent, pariter; vereorque superne Quod cupiunt ne posse datum: tot pallida vulgi Ora videns miseri, tot Tartara nigra petentes. Haec meditans, fateor, trepido, mortisque propinquae Auguror insidias; ubi nam caput abdere possim, Nec mare, nec tellus, nec opacis saxa cavernis Ostendunt profugo; quoniam mors omnia vincit, Inque parum tutas venit impetuosa latebras.

Alas, what am I suffering? Where are the violent fates dragging me back? I see the dying days of the world rush past in headlong flight. All around me I see crowds of young and old on the move. Nowhere is there a safe place to stop. No harbor opens anywhere in the world, and there is no hope of the safety I long for. Wherever I turn my frightened eyes, funeral after funeral troubles my sight. The churches groan, crowded with coffins. Everywhere the bodies of nobles and commoners lie together, without honor. The last hour of life comes into my mind. I am forced to remember what has befallen me. Alas, I think of the dear company of friends now gone, of our friendly talks, of beloved faces suddenly vanishing, and of the holy ground that never lacks new graves. The people of Italy groan at this, too weak for so many deaths. France, drained of men and worn out, weeps at it, and so do other nations, under whatever star they lie. Perhaps it is the anger of God, and I would surely believe our crimes deserve it. Or perhaps it is only some harm from the sky, as nature changes its course. This deadly year has fallen on the human race. It threatens a destruction to weep over, and the thick air favors death. Savage Jupiter looks down from an infected sky. From there he rains down sickness and grim deaths on the earth. The cruel Fates hurry to cut the threads of life, all of them at once, if they could. When I see so many pale faces among the wretched common people, and so many heading for black Tartarus, I fear that heaven has given them the power to do what they want. As I think about these things, I admit, I tremble. I sense death lying in wait for me, close by. Where can I hide my head? Neither sea nor land nor rocks with shady caves offer a refuge to someone running away. Death conquers everything, and it bursts into hiding places that are never safe enough.