'Tis born anew and dies. No eye can see it,
And yet to all 'tis known.
B. A plague upon you! You bore me with your riddles. A. Still, all this Is plain and easy. B. What then can it be? A. Sleep—that puts all our cares and pains to flight. J. A. St. John.
The same.
Nor mortal fate, nor yet immortal thine,
Amalgam rare of human and divine;
Still ever new thou comest, soon again
To vanish, fleeting as the phantom train;
Ever invisible to earthly eye,
Yet known to each one most familiarly.—F. Metcalfe.
Eubulus. (Book x. § 71, p. 710.)
A. What is it that, while young, is plump and heavy,
But, being full grown, is light, and wingless mounts
Upon the courier winds, and foils the sight?
B. The Thistle's Beard; for this at first sticks fast
To the green seed, which, ripe and dry, falls off
Upon the cradling breeze, or, upwards puff'd
By playful urchins, sails along the air.—J. A. St. John.
Antiphanes. (Book x. § 73, p. 711.)
There is a female which within her bosom
Carries her young, that, mute, in fact, yet speak,
And make their voice heard on the howling waves,
Or wildest continent. They will converse
Even with the absent, and inform the deaf.
J. A. St. John.
