“On Losing Again in the Tournament” Meditations , Book XXIV, lines 50-62 (My translation) Now again our brave lads lie bleeding and broken on the hardwood, Ridden roughshod over by the implacable foe, Yea, the merciless mercenary host from the East, And abandoned again by the unjust zebra-striped officials. And scorned by the scurrilous scribes. Now, again, our fondest hopes are dashed, Our families and friends cover their faces to hide their shame and grief. Even before the tender buds sprout from the trees, And the crocus and daffodil shoot forth from the wet dirt, Lo, the birds, so unconcerned with the affairs of men, Sing from the branches, searching for mates. So again, as every year, our fondest aspirations lie ruin’d in dust, Therefore, we must compose our hearts and minds, Equanimously to relearn the lesson we have learned every year, But have apparently forgotten, our memories annually befogged by Lethe: O, fellow fans! Why rend your raiments