applauded the grace of his epigram than if it whispered the success of his suit.”  How have these manifest defects been condoned?  Why is it that, in spite of much that is artificial and commonplace, the poetry of the Anthology still exercises, and will continue to exercise, an undying charm alike over the student, the moralist, and the man of the world?  The reasons are not far to seek.  In the first place, no productions of the Greek genius conform more wholly to the Aristotelian canon that poetry should be an imitation of the universal.  Few of the poems in the Anthology depict any ephemeral phase or fashion of opinion, like the Euphuism of the sixteenth century.  All appeal to emotions which endure for all time, and which, it has been aptly said, are the true raw material of poetry.  The patriot can still feel his blood stirred by the ringing verse of Simonides.  The moralist can ponder over the vanity of human wishes, which is portrayed in endless varieties of form, and which, even when the writer most exults in the worship of youth ([Greek:  polyeratos hebe]) or extols the philosophy of Epicurus, is always tinged with a shade of profound melancholy, inasmuch as every poet bids us bear in mind, to use the beautiful metaphor of Keats, that the hand of Joy is “ever on his lips bidding adieu,” and that the “wave of death”—­the [Greek:  koinon kym’ Aida] of Pindar—­persistently dogs the steps of all mankind.  The curious in literature will find in the Anthology much apparent confirmation of the saying of Terence that nothing is ever said that has not been said before.  He will note that not only did the gloomy Palladas say that he came naked into the world, and that naked he will depart, but that he forestalled Shakespeare in describing the world as a stage ([Greek:  skene pas ho bios kai paignion]), whilst Philostratus, Meleager, and Agathias implored their respective mistresses to drink to them only with their eyes and to leave a kiss within the cup.  The man of the world will give Agathias credit for keen powers of observation when he notes that the Greek poet said that gambling was a test of character ([Greek:  kubos angellei benthos echephrosyes][78]), whilst if for a moment he would step outside the immediate choir of the recognised Anthologists, he may smile when he reads that Menander thought it all very well to “know oneself,” but that it was in practice far more useful to know other people ([Greek:  chresimoteron gar en to gnothi tous allous]).

Then, again, the pungent brevity of such of the poetry of the Anthology as is epigrammatic is highly attractive.  Much has at times been said as to what constitutes an epigram, but the case for brevity has probably never been better stated than by a witty Frenchwoman of the eighteenth century.  Madame de Boufflers wrote: 

    Il faut dire en deux mots
      Ce qu’on veut dire;
    Les longs propos
      Sont sots.

In this respect, indeed, French can probably compete more successfully than any other modern language with Greek.  Democritus (410 B.C.) wrote, [Greek:  ho kosmos skene, ho bios parados; elthes, eides, apelthes].  The French version of the same idea is in no way inferior to the Greek: