"O CYCLOPS, CYCLOPS! whither is thy wit and reason flown? If thou would'st baskets make; and cut down brouzing from the tree, And bring it to thy lambs, a great deal wiser thou should'st be! Go, coy some present Nymph! Why dost thou follow flying wind? Perhaps another GALATE, and fairer, thou shalt find! For many Maidens in the evening tide with me will play, } And all do sweetly laugh, when I stand heark'ning what they say: } And I somebody seem, and in the earth do bear a sway." } Thus POLYPHEMUS singing, fed his raging love of old; Wherein he sweeter did, than had he sent her sums of gold. POLYPHEM's Emblem. _Ubi Dictamum inventiam?_ [Illustration] THE SIXTEENTH IDILLION. Argument. The style of this Poem is more lofty than any of the rest, and THEOCRITUS wrote it to HIERO, King of Syracuse in Sicily. Wherein he reproveth the nigardise of Princes and Great Men towards the Learned, and namely [_especially_] Poets: in whose power it is to make men famous to all posterity. Towards the end, he praiseth HIERO; and prayeth that Sicily may be delivered by his prowess from the invasions of the Carthaginians. This Idillion is named HIERO in respect of the person to whom it was written; or _Charites_, that is, "Graces," in respect of the matter whereof it treateth. _CHARITES, or HIERO_ [Illustration] Poets have still this care, and still the Muses have this care; To magnify the gods with Songs, and men that worthy are. The Muses they are goddesses, and gods with praise they crown; But we are mortal men, and mortal men let us renown! But who, of all the men under the cope of heaven that dwell, By opening of his doors, our Graces entertains so well That unrewarded quite he doth not send them back again? They in a chafe, all barefoot, home to me return with pain: And me they greatly blame, and that they went for nought they grudge; And all too weary, in the bottom of an empty hutch, Laying their heads upon their knees full cold, they still remain: Where they do poorly dwell, because they home returned in vain. Of all that living are, who loves a man that speaketh well? I know not one. For now a days for deeds that do excel Men care not to be praised: but all are overcome with gain. } For every man looks round, with hand in bosom, whence amain } Coin he may get: whose rust rubbed off, he will not give again. } But straightway thus he says, "The leg is further than the knee, Let me have gold enough; the gods to Poets pay their fee!" Who would another hear, "Enough for all, one HOMER is; Of poets he is Prince: yet gets he nought of me iwis!"