IX.
Nay, I aver, in very sooth, that he,
Dead from his birth to love, to beauty blind,
Who, by quaint rules of cold philosophy,
Contemn'd the sex, and hated womankind,—
That he,—e'en he,—with all his stoic craft,
Cave to imperial Love unwilling way,
And, sore empierced with Cupid's tyrant shaft,
Could neither sleep by night, nor rest by day;
What time, in Archelaus' regal hall,
Ægino, graceful handmaid, viands brought
Of choicest savour, to her master's call
Obsequious, or wine's impurpled draught:
Nor didst thou cease, through streets and highways broad,
Euripides! to chase the royal slave,
Till vengeance met thee, in his angry mood,
And deep-mouth'd bloodhounds tore thee to the grave.
X.
And him too of Cythera,—foster child
Of all the Muses, train'd to love and song,—
Philoxenus,—thou knowest,—how with wild
And loud acclaim, (as late he pass'd along
Through Colophon,) and shouts of joyfulness,
The air was riv'n: for thou didst hear the tale
Of Galatea lost, fair shepherdess,
Whom e'en the firstlings of her flock bewail.
XI.
Nor is Philetas' name to thee unknown,
Than whom a sweeter minstrel never was;
Whose statue lives in his own native town,
Hallow'd to fame, and breathes in deathless brass,
Under a platane,—seeming still to praise
The nimble Bittis, in the Coan grove,
With am'rous ditties, and harmonious lays,
And all the art, and all the warmth of love.
