By Callimachus
At morn we placed on his funeral bier
Young Melanippus; and, at eventide,
Unable to sustain a loss so dear,
By her own hand his blooming sister died.
Thus Aristippus mourn’d his noble race,
Annihilated by a double blow,
Nor son could hope nor daughter more to embrace
And all Cyrene sadden’d at his woe.
