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Praise for the Thracians

The Thracians have a way: they mourn
Their sons as soon as they are born,
And those on whom Death lays a hand,
Unforseen drudge of Fates, they commend.
For the span of the living is desolate;
Only the death have found an antidote.

   [Archias of Mitylene, from Book IX, No 111]

*

You are all words, man, but soon your mouth
Is filled with earth.
Stay quiet while you still can breathe
And think on death.

   [Palladas, from Book XI, No 300]

*

For self, children and wife
Androtion built me. As yet
I’m no one’s tomb, long may this remain;
But if the time comes let
Me greet earlier the earlier born.

   [Anonymous, from Book VII, No 228]

Niketas Returns to Stay

Why bury me close to the sea, sailors?
The crashing of waves makes me shudder;
They destroyed me. A shipwrecked man’s tomb
Should be inland. Yet at least you pitied Niketas.

   [Posidippos, from Book VII, No 267]

*

My tomb is surrounded by thorns and stakes
And you will wound your feet if you approach.
Timon the misanthrope lives within;
But pass on, curse me if you will, but pass.

   [Hegesippos, from Book VII, No 320]

*

Heliodoros died before her,
Diogenia followed within the hour:
Both content to share a tomb
As, before, a room.

   [Apollonides, from Book VII, No 378]

*

While he lived the miller owned me,
A loud-growling, rotating millstone
Grinding fertile Demeter’s wheat.
When he died he placed me on his tomb,
As symbol of his calling. I was heavy in his work,
Now I rest heavy on his bones.

   [Philippos of Thessalonika, from Book VII, no 394]

*

Tread softly by Hipponax’s grave,
Don’t wake that malicious wasp
Only just now laid to rest:
His sharp words stung even his parents,
His red-hot lines can sear you even in Hell.

   [Leonidas, from Book VII, No 408]

*
Ploughman, is no more earth left?
Must your oxen now stumble on tomb-roofs,
Your ploughshare cut the bones of the dead?
How much wheat will ashes yield?
Your time will come, and someone will plough you
Who broke ground in evil tillage.

   [Antiphilos, from Book VII, No 175]

*

Hand me the sweet cup made of the clay
I came from and shall return to one day.

   [Zonas, from Book XI, No 43]