Horace looks forth upon a world of discontented and restless humanity.
The soldier, the lawyer, the farmer, the trader, swept over the earth in
the passion for gain, like dust in the whirlwind,--all are dissatisfied.
Choose anyone you will from the midst of the throng; either with greed
for money or with miserable ambition for power, his soul is in travail.
Some are dazzled by fine silver, some lose their senses over bronze.
Some are ever straining after the prizes of public life. There are many
who love not wisely, but too well. Most are engaged in a mad race for
money, whether to assure themselves of retirement and ease in old age,
or out of the sportsman's desire to outstrip their rivals in the course.
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. What of the man who
is not rich? You may well smile. He changes from garret to garret, from