A boy and a horse are alike in mind, for the horse does not
Weep for its rider when he lies in the dust,
But, fed full with barley, it carries the next man;
And in just this way the boy too loves whoever is at hand.
Let us devote our hearts to merriment and feasting
While the enjoyment of delights still brings pleasure.
For quick as thought does radiant youth pass by;
Nor does the rush of horses prove to be swifter
When carrying their master to the labor of men's spears
With furious energy, taking joy in the plain that brings forth wheat.
Yes, I went once to the land of Sicily too,
I went to Euboia's vineyard-covered plain,
And to Sparta, that splendid city on Eurotas' reedy banks;
And everywhere I went they welcomed me with kindness.
But no pleasure came to my heart from any of them:
So true is it, after all, that nothing is dearer than one's homeland.
Not to be born is the best of all things for those who live on earth,
And not to gaze on the radiance of the keen-burning sun.
Once born, however, it is best to pass with all possible speed through Hades' gates
And to lie beneath a great heap of earth.
The noblest thing is justice; the most advantageous, health;
But what gives greatest delight is to gain the object of one's desire.
Do not distress yourself too much at the turbulence of your fellow citizens,
Kyrnos, but walk down the middle of the road, as I do.
My heart, display toward all your friends a changeful character,
Adding into it the disposition that each one has.
Adopt the disposition of the octopus, crafty in its convolutions, which takes on
The appearance of whatever rock it has dealings with.
At one moment follow along this way, but at the next change the color of your skin:
You can be sure that cleverness proves better than inflexibility.
Of all things it is poverty that most subdues a noble man,
More even than hoary old age, Kyrnos, or fever;
Indeed, to avoid it one should even throw oneself into the sea's
Deep gulfs, Kyrnos, or off sheer cliffs.
For the man subdued by poverty can neither say
Nor do anything, because his tongue is tied.
Lord Phoibos, when the goddess, lady Leto, bore you,
Clasping a palm tree in her slender hands,
You the most beautiful of immortals, beside the wheel-round lake,
Then all of boundless Delos was filled
With an ambrosial scent; the huge earth laughed,
And the deep waters of the hoary sea rejoiced.
O lord, son of Leto, child of Zeus, you I shall never
Forget, either beginning or coming to an end,
But always, first and last and in the middle,
I shall sing of you. And you, hear me and grant good things.
