XIII.

The heavenly Cypris, not the popular this:
So call her bending lowly on thy knees.
The chaste Chrysogona, for nuptial bliss,

Had it set in the house of Amphicles,

Her life-long spouse - his home, heart, children, hers:
Their life, begun with thee, from year to year
Was happier, goddess! They are ministers
Of their own blessings, who the gods revere.

XIV.

Leaving a little son, Eurymedon!

Dead in thy prime, thou in this tomb dost lie; Thou dwellest with the blest: thy little son

The state will prize for thy dear memory.

XV.

Traveller by this it will be understood,

If thou dost equal hold the bad and good :
If not, then say: light lie this mound upon
The sacred head of good Eurymedon."

i

XVI.

Stranger! this statue view with care,
And say, when homeward you repair :
"In Teos lately saw these eyes
The statue of Anacreon wise.

If ever bard in bower or hall
Sang sweetly, sweetest he of all.
Most of all things he loved in sooth
The unblown loveliness of youth."
Thus will you, stranger, in a little
Express the whole man to a tittle.

XVII.

We Dorian Epicharmus praise in Dorian,
Who first wrote comedy, but now, alas!

Instead of the true man, the race Pelorian,
Bacchus to thee present him wrought in brass.

Here stands he in their wealthy Syracuse,

Known for his wealth and other service true :

To all he many a saw of practic use

Declared and mighty honour is his due.

XVIII.

Medeius to his Thracian nurse had made

This way-side monument, scored with her name:

Her nursing cares are to the woman paid:
Why not? her usefulness shall live to fame.

XIX.

Stay, and behold the old Iambic poet,

Archilochus, of infinite renown

That he is known to east and west doth shew it:

The Muses and Apollo him did crown

With choicest gifts: his was the poet's fire,

And he could sing his verses to the lyre.

XX.

The poet of Camirus, first to sing
The labours of the lion-slaying king,
The quick-hand son of Zeus omnipotent,
Was our Pisander: this his monument.
They suffered many months and years to pass
After his death but now 'tis done in brass.

XXI.

The bard Hipponax, traveller! lies here:

If wicked, keep aloof; if in the number

Of good men thou, of good men born, draw near, Sit down, and, if thou wilt, in safety slumber.

XXII.

I am Theocritus, not he that was

Of Chios, bnt a man of Syracuse.
Philina bore me to Praxagoras:

I never flirted with another's muse.

XXIII.

With stranger and with citizen the same
I deal: your own deposit take away,
Paying the charge: excuse let others frame;

His debts Caïcus e'en at night will pay.