DIOSCORIDES of Alexandria


They drive me mad

They drive me mad,

those rosy prattling lips,

soul-melting portals of the ambrosial mouth,

and the eyes that flash under thick eyebrows,

nets and traps of my heart,

and those milky paps well-mated,

full of charm, fairly formed,

more delightful than any flower.

But why am I pointing out bones to dogs ?

Midas' reeds * testify to what befalls tale-tellers.

* The story of the reeds whispering "King Midas has ass's ears" (Ovid)


Doris

I stretched rose-buttocked Doris out over the bed

and became immortal in her blooming flowers.

For, encircling me about the waist with her wonderful legs,

she completed the long course of Cypris without intermission,

her eyes heavy with lust: dark, like leaves in the wind,

they trembled as she plunged up and down –

until the white strength poured from both of us

and Doris lay outspread with exhausted limbs.


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Tender Cleo took me captive, Adonis,

as she beat her breasts white as milk

at your night funeral feast.

Will she but do me the same honour,

if I die, I hesitate not ;

take me with you on your voyage

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O Anacreon, delight of the Muses,

lord of all revels of the night,

you who were melted to the marrow

f your bones for Thracian Smerdies,

O you who often bending over the cup

did shed warm tears for Bathyllus,

may founts of wine bubble up for you unbidden,

and streams of ambrosial nectar from the gods ;

unbidden may the gardens bring you violets,

the flowers that love the evening,

and myrtles grow for you nourished by tender dew,

so that even in the house of Demeter

you may dance delicately in your cups,

holding golden Eurypyle in your arms.

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Sappho, sweet pillow for the loves of young men,

verily Pieria or ivied Helicon honour you together with the Muses ;

for your breath is like to theirs, Muse of Aeolian Eresus.

Either Hymen Hymenaeus bearing his bright torch

stands with you over the bridal couch ;

or you look on the holy grove of the Blessed,

mourning in company with Aphrodite

the fair young son of Cinyras { Adonis} .

Wherever you are, I salute you, my queen, as divine,

for we still deem your songs to be daughters of the gods..

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Who hung the newly-stripped arms on this oak ?

By whom is the Dorian shield inscribed ?

For this land of Thyrea is soaked with the blood of champions

and we are the only two left of the Argives.

Seek out every fallen corpse,

lest any left alive illuminate Sparta in spurious glory.

Nay ! stay your steps, for here on the shield

the victory of the Spartans is announced

by the clots of Othryadas' blood,

and he who wrought this still gasps hard by.

O Zeus our ancestor, look with loathing

on those tokens of a victory that was not won. *

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Gone is the honour of the Alexandrians and Moschus,

Ptolemaeus' son, has won glory among the young men in the torch-race:

Moschus, Ptolemaeus' son ! Woe for my city !

And where are his mother's deeds of shame and her public prostitution ? *

Where are the . . . ? Where are the pigsties ?

ive birth, you whores, give birth, persuaded by Moschus' crown.