[p. 393]
When with my parted lips my love I kiss,
And quaff the breath's sweet balm from open mouth,
Smitten with love my soul mounts to my lips,
And through my love's soft mouth its way would take,
Passing the open gateway of the lips.
But if our kiss, delayed, had been prolonged,
By love's fire swayed my soul that way had ta'en,
And left me. Faith, a wondrous thing it were,
If I should die, but live within my love.
XII
[12arg] A discourse of Herodes Atticus on the power and nature of pain, and a confirmation of his view by the example of an ignorant countryman who cut down fruit-trees along with thorns.I ONCE heard Herodes Atticus, the ex-consul, holding forth at Athens in the Greek language, in which he far surpassed almost all the men of our time in distinction, fluency, and elegance of diction. He was speaking at the time against the ἀπάθεια, or “lack of feeling” of the Stoics, in consequence of having been assailed by one of that sect, who alleged that he did not endure the grief which he felt at the death of a beloved boy with sufficient
