“They say, dear boy, that wine and truth agree; And, being in wine, I’ll tell the truth to thee— Yes, all that works in secret in my soul. ’Tis this: thou dost not love me with thy whole Untampered heart. I know; for half my time Is spent in gazing on thy beauty’s prime; The other half is nought. When thou art good, My days are like the gods’; but when the mood Tormenting takes thee, ’tis my night of woe. How were it right to vex a lover so? Take my advice, my lad, thine elder friend, ’Twill make thee glad and grateful in the end: In one tree build one nest, so no grim snake May creep upon thee. For to-day thou’lt make Thy home on one branch, and to-morrow changing Wilt seek another, to what’s new still ranging; And should a stranger praise your handsome face, Him more than three-year-proven friend you’ll grace, While him who loved you first you’ll treat as cold As some acquaintanceship of three days old. Thou fliest high, methinks, in love and pride; But I would say: keep ever at thy side A mate that is thine equal; doing so, The townsfolk shall speak well of thee alway, And love shall never visit thee with woe— Love that so easily men’s hearts can flay, And mine has conquered that was erst of steel. Nay, by thy gracious lips I make appeal: Remember thou wert younger a year agone And we grow grey and wrinkled, all, or e’er We can escape our doom; of mortals none His youth retakes again, for azure wings Are on her shoulders, and we sons of care Are all too slow to catch such flying things. Mindful of this, be gentle, is my prayer, And love me, guileless, ev’n as I love thee; So when thou hast a beard, such friends as were Achilles and Patroclus we may be.” [Sidenote: _Bion_] Bion was a poet of about the same period as Theocritus, but of whom little is known. The following is a fragment translated by A. Lang:— “Happy are they that love, when with equal love they are rewarded. Happy was Theseus, when Pirithöus was by his side, yea tho’ he went down to the house of implacable Hades. Happy among hard men and inhospitable was Orestes, for that Pylades chose to share his wanderings. And _he_ was happy, Achilles Æacides, while his darling lived,—happy was he in his death, because he avenged the dread fate of Patroclus.” _Theocritus_, _Bion and Moschus_, _Golden Treasury series_, p. 182. [Sidenote: _Lament for Bion by Moschus_] The beautiful _Lament for Bion_ by Moschus is interesting in this connection, and should be compared with Shelley’s lament for Keats in _Adonais_—for which latter poem indeed it supplied some suggestions:—