Anthologia Polyglotta: A Selection of Versions in Various Languages Chiefly from the Greek Anthology |
Other editions - View all
Popular passages
Page 7 - Of those who at Thermopylae were slain, Glorious the doom, and beautiful the lot ; Their tomb an altar : men from tears refrain To honour them, and praise, but mourn them not Such sepulchre nor drear decay, Nor all-destroying time shall waste ; this right have they. Within their grave the home-bred glory Of Greece was laid ; this witness gives Leonidas the Spartan, in whose story A wreath of famous virtue ever lives."f $ 16.
Page 91 - THOU wert the morning star among the living, Ere thy fair light had fled ; Now, having died, thou art as Hesperus, giving New splendour to the dead.
Page 151 - To my dishonour, shall be known The mother still of such a son ; But Sparta will be safe and free, And that shall serve to comfort me.
Page 447 - I'll wreath my sword in myrtle bough, The sword that laid the tyrant low, When patriots, burning to be free, To Athens gave equality. " Harmodius, hail! though reft of breath, Thou ne'er shalt feel the stroke of death! The heroes' happy isles shall be The bright abode allotted thee.
Page 135 - Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, Or pains his head : Those that live single, take it for a curse, Or do things worse : Some would have children: those that have them, moan Or wish them gone : What is it, then, to have, or have no wife, But single thraldom, or a double strife?
Page 390 - H1s lamp, his bow, and quiver, laid aside, A rustic wallet o'er his shoulders tied: Sly Cupid, always on new mischief bent, To the rich field and furrow'd tillage went; Like any ploughman toil'd the little god, His tune he whistled, and his wheat he sow'd ; Then sat and laugh'd, and to the skies above Raising his eye, he thus insulted Jove : Lay by your hail, your hurtful storms restrain, And, as I bid you, let it shine or rain, Else you again beneath my yoke shall bow, * Feel the sharp goad, and...
Page 183 - DEMOCRITUS, dear droll, revisit earth, And with our follies glut thy heighten'd mirth : Sad Heraclitus, serious wretch, return, In louder grief our greater crimes to mourn. Between you both I unconcern'd stand by ; Hurt, can I laugh ? and honest, need I cry ? FOR MY OWN TOMBSTONE.
Page 186 - You give your cheeks a rosy stain, With washes dye your hair, But paint and washes both are vain To give -a youthful air. Those wrinkles mock your daily toil, No labour will efface 'em, 290 You wear a mask of smoothest oil, Yet still with ease we trace e'm.
Page 92 - THAT morne which saw me made a bride, The ev'ning witnest that I dy'd. Those holy lights, wherewith they guide Unto the bed the bashfull bride, Serv'd but as tapers, for to burne, And light my reliques to their urne. This epitaph, which here you see, Supply'd the epithalamie.
Page 259 - WHILE on the cliff with calm delight she kneels, And the blue vales a thousand joys recall,, See, to the last, last verge her infant steals ! O fly — yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall. Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare, And the fond boy springs back to nestle there.