XIII
Mute was Phoebus in this grievous anguish. All herbs he sought, and strove to win some wise healing art, and he anointed all the wound with nectar and ambrosia, but remedeless are all the wounds of Fate.
XIV
But I will go my way to yon sloping hill; by the sand and the sea-banks murmuring my song, and praying to the cruel Galatea. But of my sweet hope never will I leave hold, till I reach the uttermost limit of old age.
XV
It is not well, my friend, to run to the craftsman, whatever may befall, nor in every matter to need another’s aid, nay, fashion a pipe thyself, and to thee the task is easy.
XVI
May Love call to him the Muses, may the Muses bring with them Love. Ever may the Muses give song to me that yearn for it,—sweet song,—than song there is no sweeter charm.
XVII
The constant dropping of water, says the proverb, it wears a hole in a stone.