than day,
And led the light along the slope that down before him lay.

Claudius began to breathe his last, and could not 3
make an end of the matter. Then Mercury, who had always been much pleased
with his wit, drew aside one of the three Fates, and said: "Cruel beldame,
why do you let the poor wretch be tormented? After all this torture cannot
he have a rest? Four and sixty years it is now since he began to pant for
breath. What grudge is this you bear against him and the whole empire? Do
let the astrologers tell the truth for once; since he became emperor, they
have never let a year pass, never a month, without laying him out for his
burial. Yet it is no wonder if they are wrong, and no one knows his hour.
Nobody ever believed he was really quite born. [Footnote: A proverb for a
nobody, as Petron, 58 _qui te natum non putat._] Do what has to be done:
Kill him, and let a better man rule in empty court."
[Sidenote: Virg. Georg iv. 90]

Clotho replied: "Upon my word, I did wish to give him another hour or two,
until he should make Roman citizens of the half dozen who are still
outsiders. (He made up his mind, you know, to see the whole world in the
toga, Greeks, Gauls, Spaniards, Britons, and all.) But since it is your
pleasure to leave a few foreigners for seed, and since you command me, so
be it." She opened her box and out came three spindles. One was for
Augurinus, one for Baba, one for Claudius. [Footnote: "Augurinus" unknown.
Baba: see Sep. Ep. 159, a fool.] "These three," she says, "I will cause to
die within one year and at no great distance apart, and I will not dismiss
him unattended. Think of all the thousands of men he was wont to see
following after him, thousands going before, thousands all crowding about
him, and it would never do to leave him alone on a sudden. These boon
companions will satisfy him for the nonce."

This said, she twists the thread around his ugly spindle once, 4
Snaps off the last bit of the life of that Imperial dunce.
But Lachesis, her hair adorned, her tresses neatly bound,
Pierian laurel on her locks, her brows with garlands crowned,
Plucks me from out the snowy wool new threads as white as snow,
Which handled with a happy touch change colour as they go,
Not common wool, but golden wire; the Sisters wondering gaze,
As age by age the pretty thread runs down the golden days.
World without end they spin away, the happy fleeces pull