Classic Poem

Who can outwit his fate? There was a king
To whom the Oracle revealed a thing
Of solemn import: “Know,” it said, “that thou,
Great king, to death's all potent spell shalt bow
In twelve short years.” The monarch bent his head
In reverent wise: “The gods know best,” he said:
But to himself he muttered, “Since 't is so,
I 'll crowd the fleeting moments as they go
With twice their fill of pleasure; and so pour
Into twelve years the bliss of twenty-four.”
He got him servants; got him gold and gear;
Loaded his groaning tables with good cheer;
Drank wine by flagons; gave himself no rest
Pursuing pleasures; when one lost its zest,
Turned to another; changed night into day
With grand illuminations; left no way
Unsought, untried, whereby to tax his powers
Twofold, and conjure from the sated hours
A double tribute.
Thus six years went by;
Then spoke his Fate: “How couldst thou hope to fly
My fiat? Who would cope with gods must be
Himself immortal: bow to destiny!
Thy twelve years are accomplished.”
That same night
The stricken king lay shrouded, cold, and white;
And they who robed him spoke whereof they knew:
“Who flies his fate, but dares it to pursue;
And, score who may, the unerring gods count true!”