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Dear to me is youth always, but old age is hanging over my head, a burden heavier  than Aetna's crags, casting its pall of gloom upon my eyes. Oh! never may the wealth of Asia's kings tempt me  to barter for houses stored with gold my happy youth, which is in wealth and poverty alike most fair! But old age is gloomy and deadly;  I hate it; let it sink beneath the waves! Would it had never found its way to the homes and towns of mortal men, but were still drifting on for ever down the wind.