While the cicada calls shrilly about me, you. Pholoi, lie in fresh sleep. But I have wandered about all night, and now I bring wreathed flowers to your gate. I have kissed the polished lintel where your naked foot touched it, and it is wet with my tears.
Either pity me, or bid me die here, if you will yet be cruel.

TRUTH

When by night the frogs are croaking, kindle but a torch's fire,
Ha! how soon they all are silent! Thus Truth silences the liar.

Whilom Love was like a fire, and warmth and comfort it bespoke;
But, alas! it now is quenched, and only bites us, like the smoke.

Man-like is it to fall into sin,
Fiend-like is it to dwell therein,
Christ-like is it for sin to grieve,
God-like is it all sin to leave.

When the east wind sweeps from the woods, or the clouds of the west fall in rain, the hearth-fire shall glow within doors. The shepherd will bring us beech-logs and split oak; he will throw on the flames olive-boughs and juniper to send sweet scent from the fire.
The lad, Iulus, will be by the hearth; he will play and caress you and talk his broken chatter. I myself will read great Virgil's monument with you.
O too happy we! if, in that little time yet left us, the Fates give us such days together.

Mighty Mother, you who bring forth all things in the light winds, who shine afar decked with many boughs, who from your breast all-bearing in all lands largely afford sustenance to the trees and the swaying grass, tenderly take up this lad and his dying limbs; out of your might, O Goddess, grant that for ever he live.
So when the new year blows with the West-wind sweetly returning still as a snow-bright flower shall his body endure.

I once a King and chief
Now am the tree-bark's thief,
Ever 'twixt trunk and leaf
Chasing the prey.

The fountain is cold and there is no water more healing. The margin is green with fine grass, and the alders ward off the sunlight with many-leaved boughs. Burning Titan now hangs in mid-heaven and the parched meads glare under the afflicting star.
Stay, wayfarer, since you are heated by the noon sunshine and your languid feet can bear you no further. Here you may rest from your weariness, and grow cool in the wind and the green shadows, and ease your thirst with the limpid water.

Under this weeping Marble lies,
Care, and his Pacquet of Advice; Earn.
The famous Dialoguing Care!
Who Church, nor State nor King would spare: Jest.
But like a subtle Whiggish Jilt, he,
Of Pop'ry found true Loyalty still Guilty. Earn.
Thus did he live, thus did he die, Jest.
Oh! did he so? there let him lye.

The garland of woven roses binds the head of Heliodora, and none shall say if it gives or takes the goodlier grace.
Truly the wreath blossoms redder and sweetlier breathes into perfume; and — Heliodora of roses — the Kharites name the rose.