Nor burn the watch fire—’tis an empty stone—
Thy waste is useless, for my race is run.
Give what thou hast, while life is in its bud—
These late libations turn my dust to mud.
The buried drink not; for, with life’s last charms,
Forgetfulness enshrouds them in her arms.
There is very little poetry in the following commemoration: but, if the poor fellow did actually perform the subscribed feats, and that for fame, he deserved to be immortalized.
To the statue of Phayllus, a Crotonian, and victor in the five games.
Feet fifty-five Phayllus leaped,
(At which the Muses wondered)