“A good man never dies.”

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.

More lightly do his sorrows press upon a man, when to a friend or fellow traveller he tells his griefs.

A big book is a big misfortune.

I abhor, too, the roaming lover, nor do I drink from every well; I loathe all things in common.

A great book is like great evil.

Nothing unattested do I sing.

Set a thief to catch a thief.

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.

O Charidas, what of the under world? Great darkness. And what of the resurrection? A lie. And Pluto? A fable; we perish utterly.

Big book, a big bore.

To little men, gods send little things.

I wept as I remembered how often you and I had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.

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.