Bewail not much, my parents! me, the prey
Of ruthless Ades, and sepulchred here.
An infant, in my fifth scarce finish'd year,
He found all sportive, innocent, and gay,
Your young Callimachus; and if I knew
Not many joys, my griefs were also few.
Hast thou a friend? thou hast indeed
A rich and large supply.
Treasure to serve your every need,
Well managed, till you die.
They call thee rich -- I deem thee poor,
Since, if thou darest not use thy store,
But savest only for thine heirs,
The treasure is not thine, but theirs.
With seeds and birdlime, from the desert air,
Eumelus gather'd free, though scanty fare.
No lordly patron's hand he deign'd to kiss
Nor luxury knew, save liberty, nor bliss.
Thrice thirty years he lived, and to his heirs
His seeds bequeath'd, his birdlime, and his snares.
Hair, wax, rouge, honey, teeth you buy,
A multifarious store!
A mask at once would all supply
Nor would it cost you more.
Did Cytherea to the skies
From this pellucid lymph arise?
Or was it Cytherea's touch,
When bathing here, that made it such?
I often saw you at the palace of the prince,
And twice at Cui’s I heard you sing for hours.
This southern scenery seems colorful indeed,
When you are here among the fallen flowers.
So smooth, so sweet, so silv'ry is thy voice,
As, could they hear, the Damned would make no noise,
But listen to thee (walking in thy chamber)
melting melodious words to Lutes of Amber.
On New Year's Day
each thought a loneliness
as winter dusk descends
Once fairly set out on his party of pleasure,
Taking towns at his liking, and crowns at his leisure,
From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes,
Making balls for the ladies, and bows tohis foes.
