Big book, a big bore.
CALLIMACHUSBig book, a big bore.
CALLIMACHUSTo little men, gods send little things.
CALLIMACHUSHere sleeps Saon, of Acanthus, son of Dicon, a holy sleep: say not that the good die.
CALLIMACHUSA good man never dies.
CALLIMACHUSA great book is like great evil.
CALLIMACHUSAnd 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.
CALLIMACHUSNothing unattested do I sing.
CALLIMACHUSO Charidas, what of the under world? Great darkness. And what of the resurrection? A lie. And Pluto? A fable; we perish utterly.
CALLIMACHUSI abhor, too, the roaming lover, nor do I drink from every well; I loathe all things in common.
CALLIMACHUSTwo 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.
CALLIMACHUSSet a thief to catch a thief.
CALLIMACHUSMore lightly do his sorrows press upon a man, when to a friend or fellow traveller he tells his griefs.
CALLIMACHUSA big book is a big misfortune.
CALLIMACHUSI wept as I remembered how often you and I had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.
CALLIMACHUSYou’re walking by the tomb of Battiades, Who knew well how to write poetry, and enjoy Laughter at the right moment, over the wine.
CALLIMACHUS