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

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

A big book is a big misfortune.

A good man never dies.

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.

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.

Nothing unattested do I sing.

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.

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.

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