V.

    Prythee, sing something sweet to me—­you that can play
    First and second at once.  Then I too will essay
    To croak on the pipes:  and yon lad shall salute
    Our ears with a melody breathed through his flute. 
    In the cave by the green oak our watch we will keep,
    And goatish old Pan we’ll defraud of his sleep.

    VI.

    Poor Thyrsis!  What boots it to weep out thine eyes? 
      Thy kid was a fair one, I own: 
    But the wolf with his cruel claw made her his prize,
      And to darkness her spirit hath flown. 
    Do the dogs cry?  What boots it?  In spite of their cries
      There is left of her never a bone.

    VII.

    For a Statue of AEsculapius.

    Far as Miletus travelled Paean’s son;
    There to be guest of Nicias, guest of one
    Who heals all sickness; and who still reveres
    Him, for his sake this cedarn image rears. 
    The sculptor’s hand right well did Nicias fill;
    And here the sculptor lavished all his skill.

    VIII.

    Ortho’s Epitaph.

    Friend, Ortho of Syracuse gives thee this charge: 
    Never venture out, drunk, on a wild winter’s night. 
    I did so and died.  My possessions were large;
    Yet the turf that I’m clad with is strange to me quite.

    IX.

    Epitaph of Cleonicus.

    Man, husband existence:  ne’er launch on the sea
      Out of season:  our tenure of life is but frail. 
    Think of poor Cleonicus:  for Phasos sailed he
      From the valleys of Syria, with many a bale: 
    With many a bale, ocean’s tides he would stem
      When the Pleiads were sinking; and he sank with them.

    X.

    For a Statue of the Muses.

    To you this marble statue, maids divine,
    Xenocles raised, one tribute unto nine. 
    Your votary all admit him:  by this skill
    He gat him fame:  and you he honours still.

    XI.

    Epitaph of Eusthenes.

    Here the shrewd physiognomist Eusthenes lies,
    Who could tell all your thoughts by a glance at your eyes. 
    A stranger, with strangers his honoured bones rest;
    They valued sweet song, and he gave them his best. 
    All the honours of death doth the poet possess: 
    If a small one, they mourned for him nevertheless.

    XII.

    For a Tripod Erected by Damoteles to Bacchus.

    The precentor Damoteles, Bacchus, exalts
      Your tripod, and, sweetest of deities, you. 
    He was champion of men, if his boyhood had faults;
      And he ever loved honour and seemliness too.

    XIII.

    For a Statue of Anacreon.

    This statue, stranger, scan with earnest gaze;
      And, home returning, say “I have beheld
    Anacreon, in Teos; him whose lays
      Were all unmatched among our sires of eld.” 
    Say further:  “Youth and beauty pleased him best;”
      And all the man will fairly stand exprest.