BY HERACLIDES,

A

IN Cnidus born, the consort I became
Of Euphron. Aretimias was my name.
His bed I shar'd, nor prov'd a barren bride,
But bore two children at a birth, and died,"
One child I leave to solace and uphold
Euphron hereafter, when infirm and old;
And one, for his remembrance sake, I bear
To Pluto's realm, till he shall join me there,'

I was of late a barren plant,

Useless, insignificant,...........

Nor fig, nor grape, nor apple bore,
A native of the marshy shore;e

But gather'd for poetic use,

And plung'd into a sable juice,

Of which my modicum I sip,

With narrow mouth and slender lip,
At once, although by nature dumb,
All eloquent I have become,

And speak with fluency untired,
As if by Phoebus' self inspired.

TO HEALTH.

ELDEST born of pow'rs divine!
Blest Hygeia! be it mine,

To enjoy what thou canst give,

And henceforth with thee to live:

For in pow'r if pleasure be,

Wealth, or num'rous progeny,
Or in amorous embrace,

Where no spy infests the place:
Or in aught that Heav'n bestows

To alleviate human woes,

When the wearied heart despairs

Of a respite from its cares;

These and ev'ry true delight

Flourish only in thy sight;

And the sister Graces Three

Owe, themselves, their youth to thee,
Without whom we may possess
Much, but never happiness,

ON THE ASTROLOGERS,

TH' Astrologers did all alike presage
My uncle's dying in extreme old age;
One only disagreed. But he was wise,
And spoke not, till he heard the fun'ral cries.

ON AN OLD WOMAN.

MYCILLA dyes her locks 'tis said;

But 'tis a foul aspersion;

She buys them black; they therefore need

No subsequent immersion.

ON INVALIDS.

FAR happier are the dead, methinks, than they Who look for death, and fear it ev'ry day.

ON FLATTERERS.

No mischief worthier of our fear

In nature can be found,

Than friendship, in ostent sincere,
But hollow and unsound.

For lull'd into a dangerous dream

We close infold a foe,

Who strikes, when most secure we seem,

Th' inevitable blow.

ON THE SWALLOW.

ATTIC maid! with honey fed,

Bear'st thou to thy callow brood

Yonder locust from the mead,

Destin'd their delicious food!

Ye have kindred voices clear,

Ye alike unfold the wing,

Migrate hither, sojourn here,

Both attendant on the spring!

Ah for pity drop the prize!
Let it not, with truth, be said,
That a songster gasps and dies,
That a songster may be fed.

ON LATE ACQUIRED WEALTH.

POOR in my youth, and in life's later scenes
Rich to no end, I curse my natal hour;

Who nought enjoy'd, while young, denied the

means;

And nought, when old, enjoy'd, denied the

pow'r.