Either Zeus came to earth to shew his form to thee, Phidias, or thou to heaven hast gone the god to see.

Some thoughtlessly proclaim the Muses nine: A tenth is Sappho, maid divine.

Say, Bacchus, why so placid? What can there be In commune held by Pallas and by thee? Her pleasure is in darts and battles; thine In joyous feasts and draughts of rosy wine.

I, Phoebus, sang those songs that gained so much renown I, Phoebus, sang them; Homer only wrote them down.

Go thou, deceased, to this earth which is a mother, and spacious and kind. May her touch be soft like that of wool, or a young woman, and may she protect thee from the depths of destruction. Rise above him, O Earth, do not press painfully on him, give him good things, give him consolation, as a mother covers her child with her cloth, cover thou him.

In the day, do the day's work.