A great book is like great evil.
Set a thief to catch a thief.
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.
Nothing unattested do I sing.
I wept as I remembered how often you and I had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.
I abhor, too, the roaming lover, nor do I drink from every well; I loathe all things in common
Here sleeps Saon, of Acanthus, son of Dicon, a holy sleep: say not that the good die.
To little men, gods send little things.
O Charidas, what of the under world? Great darkness. And what of the resurrection? A lie. And Pluto? A fable; we perish utterly.
A good man never dies.
Big book, a big bore.
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.
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.
And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest, Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales awake; For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.
More lightly do his sorrows press upon a man, when to a friend or fellow traveller he tells his griefs.
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