How many thousands my heir will get to make ducks and drakes of!

Alas for my young children!

Who will gather grapes from the vines I planted for myself last year?

Mikyllos, do you make no lament? It is impious for any one to cross without a tear.

Nonsense. I have nothing to lament for on a prosperous voyage.

Still, just join a little in the groaning for custom's sake.

I will make my moan, then, since you think best, Hermes. Alas for my soles! Alas for my old lasts! Woe is me for my rotten sandals! Poor wretch, I shall never again go without food from daybreak to nightfall! Never again shall I stalk about in winter barefoot and half naked, my teeth chattering with the cold! Who, pray tell, will have my knife and my awl?

You have mourned enough; we have almost finished our voyage.