And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest,
A handful of gray 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.
Translation of William Johnson.
EPITAPH
Would that swift ships had never been; for so
We ne'er had wept for Sopolis: but he
Dead on the waves now drifts; whilst we must go
Past a void tomb, a mere name's mockery.
Translation of J. A. Symonds.
THE MISANTHROPE
Say, honest Timon, now escaped from light,
Which do you most abhor, or that or night?
"Man, I most hate the gloomy shades below,
And that because in them are more of you."