Short Poems

Death carried off Erinna for his bride, Erinna, the young singer who gathered the flowers of the Muses.
And the maiden spoke truly and wisely when she said: " You are covetous, O Death. "

" I cling to my staff for support, like a vine to its dry pole, and death summons me to Hades: " Be not deaf as a stone, Gorgos! Is the thought of three or four summers beneath the sun so sweet to you?" "
The old man said this and died.

These are not my trophies. Who has disgraced the temple of Ares with these shameful trappings: unbruised helmets; flashing shields, unstained with blood; unbroken spear-shafts? My face reddens at the sight, and sweat falls from my brow upon my chest.
Deck a festive hall or a bridal chamber with such arms, but enrich this temple with the blood-stained spoils of war!

This virgine locke of haire
To Idmon Anthea giues,
Idmon for whom shee liues,
Though oft shee mixe his hopes with cold despaire:
This now, but absent if hee constant proue,
With gift more deare shee vowes to meet his loue.

When sunne doth bring the day
From the Hesperian sea,
Or moone her coach doth rolle
Aboue the northerne pole,
When serpents can not hisse,
And louers shall not kisse;
Then may it be, but in no time till then,
That Daphnis can forget his Orienne.

As all beneath yon aged oak I stray'd,
The merry Fays in dazzling sheen array'd
'Gan tune their Roundelay;
Whilst all about the sacred ground
Was heard the sweetly solemn Sound:
" Come, mortals, come away"

In fields Ribaldo stray'd
Maye's tapestrie to see,
And hearing on a tree
A cuckooe sing, hee sigh'd, and softly said,
Loe how, alas! euen birds sit mocking mee.

The kisse with so much strife
Which I late got, sweet heart,
Was it a signe of death, or was it life?
Of life it could not bee,
For I by it did sigh my soule in thee;
Nor was it death, death doth no ioy impart.
Thou silent stand'st, ah! what thou didst bequeath,
To mee a dying life was, liuing death.

Old age! The sound is harsh, and grates:
Yet life's a semblance, not a truth:
Time binds an hourly changing mask
On souls in changeless light that bask —
Younger we grow when near the gates
Of everlasting youth!

That sensitive genius Turner
Simply detested Smyrna.
He said, give him Mozambique
Any day in the week.