You, conspicuous with your shining staff, were wont so often to summon the Palladian band; but, beadle as you were, fell Death, the last of all beadles, has seized you, and shows no favor even to his own office. Although your temples were whiter than the downy feathers under which we have heard that Jove disguised himself, still you were worthy to renew your youth with a Haemonian potion, worthy like Aeson to relive your early days, worthy that Coronis's son, at the insistent prayer of a goddess, should with his healing art recall you from the waves of Styx. Whenever you were sent by your Apollo to go as a swift messenger to summon the gowned ranks, you stood like wing-footed Cyllenius in the Trojan halls, sent from the ethereal citadel of his father; or stood like Eurybates, when before the face of angry Achilles he announced the stern commands of his lord, the son of Atreus. O great queen of sepulchres, attendant of Avernus, too cruel to the Muses, too cruel to Pallas, why not seize those who are useless burdens to this earth? At that crowd should you aim your shafts. Therefore, Academia, mourn in sable raiments for this man, and let his dark bier be wet with your tears. Let plaintive Elegy herself pour forth sad measures, and let a melancholy dirge sound through all the schools.