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.
Big book, a big bore.
A big book is a big misfortune.
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.
I abhor, too, the roaming lover, nor do I drink from every well; I loathe all things in common
A good man never dies.
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.
Here sleeps Saon, of Acanthus, son of Dicon, a holy sleep: say not that the good die.
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.
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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