English

So oft mein Lob die Wahrheit geigt,
So nimmt es Heucheley und Neid und Argwohn übel.
Drum sag ich itzo nichts, als was der Titel zeigt:
Du bist, gelehrtes Buch, was: die verkehrte Bibel .

Ambrosia, freed from the bitter pains of childbirth, places at your feet, Ilithyia, this crown of leaves, and the veil in which she bore twins after ten months of pregnancy.

This is the work of Aretos, the scholar, who pointed out the long-lived stars with infinite genius. He showed us the stars that remain fixed, and those that rove the heavens, and he enchained the revolving sky in circles.
Let the author of this great work be praised, for he who has given the stars a new brilliance is second only to Zeus.

O grave, what bones you cover! O earth, what a head lies in your embrace! You possess Aristokrates, the delight of the beautiful-haired Muses, whom all men loved. He conversed gracefully, and never frowned in a fair argument. He knew how to direct babbling conversation at a banquet with many cups of wine, and rendered kind services to both townspeople and strangers.
O happy earth, to possess the remains of such a man!

Tell me Sileno , why you fill
With fancy'd Woes your Life,
Why's all your Time expended still,
In Thinking, or in Talking ill,
Of your too virtuous Wife?

For faith, I can't see to what end,
You keep her up so close;
Nor how you cou'd your self offend,
That like a Snail, my gloomy Friend,
You never leave your House.

Ah! Were she but advis'd by me,
Her many Taunts and Scorns,
With Int'rest shou'd refunded be,
She'd make a perfect Snail of thee,
By decking thee with Horns,

The loue Alexis did to Damon beare,
Shall witness'd bee to all the woods and plaines
As singulare, renown'd by neighbouring swaines,
That to our relicts time may trophees reare:
Those madrigals wee sung amidst our flockes,
With garlands guarded from Apollo's beames,
On Ochells whiles, whiles neare Bodotria's streames,
Are registrate by ecchoes in the rockes.
Of forraine shepheards bent to trie the states,
Though I, world's guest, a vagabond doe straye,
Thou mayst that store which I esteeme suruaye,

And wilt thou then, Alexis mine, depart,
And leaue these flowrie meads, and christall streames,
These hills as greene as great with gold and gemmes,
Which courte thee with rich treasure in each part?
Shall nothing hold thee, not my loyall heart,
That burstes to lose the comfort of thy beames,
Nor yet this pipe which wildest Satyres tames,
Nor lambkins' wayling, nor old Dorus' smart?
O ruethlesse shepheard, forrests strange among
What canst thou else but fearfull dangers finde?
But, ah! not thou, but honour doth mee wrong;

Anakreon is carved upon this rounded stone, reeling with too much wine, a wreath upon his head. The old man's watery eyes stare greedily, and his robe hangs down to his heels. The old tippler has lost one of his boots; the other clings to his crooked foot. He is singing to gay Bathyllos or to Megistes, holding his plaintive lyre in his hands. Guard him well, O God of Wine, for a servant of Bakkhos must not fall by the hand of Bakkhos.

Faire Diane, from the hight
Of heauen's first orbe who chear'st this lower place,
Hide now from mee thy light,
And pittying my case,
Spread with a skarfe of clouds thy blushing face.

Come with your dolefull songs,
Night's sable birds, which plaine when others sleepe,
Come, solemnize my wrongs,
And consort to mee keepe,
Sith heauen, earth, hell, are set to cause mee weepe.

This griefe yet I could beare,
If now by absence I were only pinde,
But, ah! worse euill I feare,
Men absent proue vnkinde,

Pass by quietly and do not disturb Hipponax, the waspish old woman who is lying in this tomb. Her relatives live in peace at last, freed from her bitter tongue-lashings. But let them take warning, for her fiery words will not lose their sting in Hades.