And by equivalent degrees grew the dark hours of night:
Victorious Cynthia now held sway over a wider space,
Grim winter drove rich autumn out, and now usurped his place;
And now the fiat had gone forth that Bacchus must grow old,
The few last clusters of the vine were gathered ere the cold:

I shall make myself better understood, if I say the month was October, the
day was the thirteenth. What hour it was I cannot certainly tell;
philosophers will agree more often than clocks; but it was between midday
and one after noon. "Clumsy creature!" you say. "The poets are not content
to describe sunrise and sunset, and now they even disturb the midday
siesta. Will you thus neglect so good an hour?"

Now the sun's chariot had gone by the middle of his way;
Half wearily he shook the reins, nearer to night 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]