Behold Hipponax’ burialplace,
A true bard’s grave. 
Approach it not, if you’re a base
And base-born knave. 
But if your sires were honest men
And unblamed you,
Sit down thereon serenely then,
And eke sleep too.

* * * * *

Tuneful Hipponax rests him here. 
Let no base rascal venture near. 
Ye who rank high in birth and mind
Sit down—­and sleep, if so inclined.

XXII.

On his own Book.

    Not my namesake of Chios, but I, who belong
    To the Syracuse burghers, have sung you my song. 
    I’m Praxagoras’ son by Philinna the fair,
    And I never asked praise that was owing elsewhere.