Góngora: De la brevedad engañosa de la Vida

No less than the swift arrow solicited
a mark sharply destined to be bitten,
nor with more silence than the agonistic chariot
glided across mute sands to a winning finish,

does our century run to its prompt, secret end. Who doubts,
though he be beast destitute of reason,
yet may he read the portent of every dawn.
Carthage testifies, & still you don't admit it?

You'll run into trouble, Licio, if you persist
in chasing phantoms & embracing frauds...
Badly the hours'll account you to yourself:
the hoürs that are grinding down the days,
the days that are gnawing away the years.


Warrior.