MELEAGER

1.

Help! He is gone. That wild boy, Love, has escaped! Just now, as day was breaking, he flew from his bed and was gone. Description? Sweetly tearful, talks forever, swift, irreverent, Slyly laughing, wings on his back, and carries a quiver. His last name? I dont know, for his father and mother, Whoever they are, in earth or heaven, wont admit it. Everyone hates him, you see. Take care, take care, Or even now hell be weaving new snares for your heart. But hushlook there, turn slowly. You dont deceive me, boy, Drawing your bow so softly where you hide in Zenophiles eyes. (AP V.177)

2.

Didnt I tell you, oh soul, Look out, youll be caught, You silly thing, if you flutter so near her net?

Didnt I warn you? And now the trap is sprung. Why struggle in vain? Love has tied your little wings, Sprinkled you with cheap perfume, set you fainting in the fire And given you, in your thirst, hot tears to drink. (AP XII.132)

3.

Thats the message, Dorkas, and when youve told it to her Then tell it to her again, and then again, now hurry. But wait a minute; hold on there; slowly, my Dorkas, slowly. Why are you rushing off before youve heard all your instructions? Say also that Ibut no. Its more manly to be silent. Dont tell her a goddamn thing. Say only that I--. Tell it all! All of it Dorkas, all of it! But, Dorkas, why did I send you, When, look, I have followed after you, all the way to her door? (AP V.182)

4.

Do you leave the flowers of spring, The lilies and the rest, And plant your little sting In Heliodoras breast

To show that in loves wound, So deep and terrible, A sweetness may be found That makes life bearable?

Oh, please, your news is wasted, I knew it long ago. Do you think I have not tasted Where you, drunkard, linger so? (AP V.163)

5.

If anything happens to me, Kleoboulos my friend, (For I am not safe I lie like a curling vine Flung in the fire of girls) before you send My ashes under earth pour in strong wine, Then on the drunken urn write, Hades, know Love sends this gift to death And bury me and go. (AP V.172)

6.

Dawn hateful to lovers, why do you rise so quickly Beside my bed when I lie with delicious Demo? Cant you turn round, run back and be night again, And stop that sweet smiling that pours out poison light? Once before you did that, when Zeus was enjoying Alcmena. Oh, learned at running backward! You cant say you dont know how. . . (AP V.172)

7.

Dawn hateful to lovers, why do you roll so slowly Around the sad world when under another mans blanket Demo lies and sheds her god-like heat? When it was my turn to hold her slender body in my arms You couldnt wait to hurl your disgusting light in my eyes. (AP V.173)

8.

Oh Night, and you, kind lamp beside his bed, No one else was near so you Were witness to our vows, He that hed love me, I, that Id never leave him, Oh, you remember.

But now he says that vows flow away on the river, Stay no longer than stay the breaking waves. And you, oh lamp, Now you see him lying In someone elses embrace. (AP V.8)

9.

I pray you, Eros, in the name of my muse I pray you, Oh let me sleep and forget for a while this lust for Heliodora. My god, I pray by your bow which doesnt know how to shoot At anyone else but day and night sinks shafts of screams in me! Alright, no more prayers, you sonofabitch, you wont get away with it. With my last strength I write this poem for the police It was love Love killed me. (AP V.215)

10.

What I cannot see is how, From the green wave rising, Out of water, Oh Aphrodite, You bred a flame. (AP V.176.5-6)

PHILODEMUS

I want no more garlands of white violets, no more lyre playing, No more wine with cocaine in it, no more Syrian incense burning on the night-table, No more all night parties that end with a thirsty whore in my bed No more! I hate these things, they are all driving me mad! Butgive me garlands of narcissus flowers, and let me play the flute, Perfume me with saffron, give me wine with amphetamines and hashish, And mate me, yes, mate me with a virgin. (AP XI.34)

Already more than half the pages have been torn out of the little book of my life; Look, girl, already white hairs are sprinkled on my head, announcing that the age of wisdom is drawing near. But still all I care about is laughing and drinking and the pleasures of the night; Still, in my unsatisfied heart, a fire is burning. Oh, Muses, my guides, write an end to it: Say, This girl, this one here, She is the end of your madness. (AP XI.41)

ANACREONTEA

Bring me Homers lyre, yes, bring it, But leave that string of blood out Bring a cup of versing rules Oh and mix some metres in it I will sing, then Ill be dancing Not a drop of sense left in me I will dance to horn and zither Crying out the cries that wine makes Bring me Homers lyre, yes, bring it Oh but take that string of blood out

In a dream Anacreon, the singer of Teos, Looked at me and laughingly addressed me. And I ran up to him And embraced him and kissed him. He was an old man, but beautiful, Beautiful and fond of wine. His lips smelled of grapes.

Though he was already old and quaking Eros led him by the hand. As he passed by he took the wreath from his head And gave it to me. And I stupidly took it And bound it around my forehead And ever since

I have been mad with the sting of love.

Anacreon, The ladies say, You really shouldnt Act that way; Look in the mirror, Your head is bald, Your cheek is pale, Youre getting old.

Well, ladies, I say, I dont know if my hair Is thick or thin And I dont care But the closer to death I drift each day The louder must I Sing and play.

Here lies Anacreon, An old man, a wine bibber, And a lover of boys. His Harp still sounds in silent Acheron as he sings Of the boys he left behind, Megasthenes, who was so Graceful, and that passionate Thracian, Smerdies, and Bathyllos and Euripile. The vine tendrils mingle with His carven beard, and the white Marble smells of wine and myrrh.

HORACE

Leuconoe, why try to know The future, which cannot be known? Or what the Assyrian numbers say Of your fate and my own?

Put it away, dont waste your time, Winter will come on And break the lower sea on the rocks While we drink summers wine.

See, in the white of the winter air The day hangs like a rose. It droops down to the reaching hand Take it before it goes. (Odes I.11)