High hills of the City, and sacred ruins, to which it is hardly given to keep the name of Rome, alas, what relics, that were the living bodies of our fathers, you hold — what monuments of the men of old time! And you, triumphal columns, high beauty of princes, now your glories lie overthrown in dust; your honour is now a fable to the vile herd, and dense shadow covers your ancient pride. But since Time dissolves all men's works, since age destroys all men, I may hope to end my sorrows and at last be rid of my cares.