XXXV ON CLEOETES AUTHOR UNKNOWN Looking on the monument of a dead boy, Cleoetes son of Menesaechmus, pity him who was beautiful and died. XXXVI ON A BEAUTIFUL BOY AUTHOR UNKNOWN Not death is bitter, since that is the fate of all, but to die ere the time and before our parents: I having seen not marriage nor wedding- chant nor bridal bed, lie here the love of many, and to be the love of more. XXXVII ON A BOY OF NINETEEN AUTHOR UNKNOWN Bidding hail to me, Diogenes beneath the earth, go about thy business and obtain thy desire; for at nineteen years old I was laid low by cruel sickness and leave the sweet sun. XXXVIII ON A SON, BY HIS MOTHER DIOTIMUS What profits it to labour in childbirth? what to bear children? let not her bear who must see her child's death: for to stripling Bianor his mother reared the tomb; but it was fitting that the mother should obtain this service of the son. XXXIX ON A GIRL CALLIMACHUS The daughters of the Samians often require Crethis the teller of tales, who knew pretty games, sweetest of workfellows, ever talking; but she sleeps here the sleep to which they all must come. XL ON A BETROTHED GIRL ERINNA I am of Baucis the bride; and passing by my oft-wept pillar thou mayest say this to Death that dwells under ground, "Thou art envious, O Death"; and the coloured monument tells to him who sees it the most bitter fortune of Bauco, how her father-in-law burned the girl on the funeral pyre with those torches by whose light the marriage train was to be led home; and thou, O Hymenaeus, didst change the tuneable bridal song into a voice of wailing dirges. XLI ON THE SAME ANTIPATER OF THESSALONICA Ausonian earth holds me a woman of Libya, and I lie a maiden here by the sea-sand near Rome; and Pompeia, who nurtured me like a daughter, wept over me and laid me in a free tomb, while hastening on that other torch-fire for me; but this one came first, and contrary to our prayers Persephone lit the lamp. XLII ON A SINGING-GIRL AUTHOR UNKNOWN Blue-eyed Musa, the sweet-voiced nightingale, suddenly this little grave holds voiceless, and she lies like a stone who was so accomplished and so famous; fair Musa, be this dust light over thee.