EPITAPH
His little son of twelve years old Philippus here has laid,
Nicoteles, on whom so much his father's hopes were stayed
EPIGRAM
(Admired and Paraphrased by Horace)
The hunter in the mountains every roe
And every hare pursues through frost and snow,
Tracking their footsteps. But if some one say,
"See, here's a beast struck down," he turns away.
Such is my love: I chase the flying game,
And pass with coldness the self-offering dame.
EPITAPH ON HERACLEITUS
They told me, Heracleitus, they told me you were dead;
They brought me bitter news to hear, and bitter tears I shed.
I wept, as I remembered how often you and I
Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.