Wither on the vine

Even as a vine on her dry pole I support myself now on a staff,
and death calls me to Hades. Be not obstinately deaf, O Gorgus ;
what is it the sweeter for thee if for three or four summers yet thou
shalt warm thyself beneath the sun?’ So saying the aged man
quietly put his life aside, and removed his house to the greater
Leonidas of Tarentum