More lightly do his sorrows press upon a man, when to a friend or fellow traveller he tells his griefs.

O Charidas, what of the under world? Great darkness. And what of the resurrection? A lie. And Pluto? A fable we perish utterly.

Nothing unattested do I sing.

A good man never dies.

You're walking by the tomb of Battiades, Who knew well how to write poetry, and enjoy Laughter at the right moment, over the wine.

A big book is a big misfortune.

Two goddesses now must Cyprus adore The Muses are ten, and the Graces are four Stella's wit is so charming, so sweet her fair face, She shines a new Venus, a Muse, and a Grace.

Here sleeps Saon, of Acanthus, son of Dicon, a holy sleep: say not that the good die.

I wept as I remembered how often you and I had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.

To little men, gods send little things.

Someone spoke of your death, Heraclitus. It brought me Tears, and I remembered how often together We ran the sun down with talk . . . somewhere You've long been dust, my Halicarnassian friend. But your Nightingales live on. Though the Death world Claws at everything, it will not touch them.