Composition

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Composition

Anacreonta

  1. Anacreon, the singer from Teos, saw me and spoke to me in a dream; and I ran to him and kissed him and embraced him. He was an old man but handsome, handsome and amorous; his lips smelled of wine, and since he was now shaky, Love was leading him by the hand. He took the garland from his head and gave it to me, and it smelled of Anacreon. Fool that I was, I held it up and fastened it on my brow - and to this very day I have not ceased to be in love.
  2. Bring me the winebowl, come my boy, To drink in one long swallow back, Ten cups of water, five of wine, And do me proud before its god. And have done with all this drinking In loud and drunken Scythian ways. Drink well and sing fine songs. Drink well, Sing fine songs to the god of wine.
  3. Once again, golden-haired Eros Strikes me with his purple ball And summons me to play with the girl In the fancy sandals; but she - she Is from Lesbos With its fine cities And she tells me that my hair is white And says oh! she loves another.
  4. I am perhaps in love Again, perhaps not, And crazy to boot. No, not crazy.
  5. You've snipped the perfect blossoms off, Your curls in lovely bunches All shadowy around your slender neck. You are now as close-cropped as a calf, And your hair in ravaged handfuls Lies scattered in heaps in the black dust Poor hair! Laid waste by the snippers. What grief I suffer to see it there. And what can anybody do about it now?
  6. I wish to tell of the sons of Atreus, I wish to sing of Cadmus; but my lyre-strings sing only of Love. The other day I changed the strings, indeed the whole lyre, and began singing of the labours of Heracles: but in answer the lyre sang of the Loves. So farewell, heroes: my lyre sings only of the Loves.
  7. The Mysians first mated horsemounting asses with mares, inventing the halfass mule.
  8. Watch me out of the corners of your eyes, Do you, Thracian colt? Prance away, do you, As if I didn't know how to catch you? You'd better know that I can bridle you, Rein you in, ride you to the finish line. You play in the meadow, nibbling, romping. That's for now. Soon enough I'll break you in.
  9. Time was, he wore a tunic from a rummage sale, A barbarian kind of hat, knucklebones in his ears, And a cloak that used to be a rawhide shieldcase, Artemon the pimp who got rich selling the use Of bakers' apprentices and teenaged nancy boys, Often seen in the stocks by his neck, or on the wheel, Or having the lash applied to his bleeding back, Or his beard and the hair on his head pulled out, And now he rides in a mule cart, wears golden earrings, Says he's the son of Kylê, and carries an ivory parasol Like the ladies.
  10. When Gold, the runaway, flees from me on nimble wind-swift feet - and he is always fleeing, always - do not pursue him: who wants to chase what he hates? As soon as I am parted from Gold, the runaway, I give my mind's cares to the winds to carry off, and I take my lyre and sing love-songs. But just when my heart teaches me to despise him, suddenly the runaway speaks to me again, bringing me drunken ideas to make me take him and neglect my sweet lyre. Faithless, faithless Gold! In vain do you cast a spell on me with your tricks: the lyre-stri ngs, more than gold, hold sweet desires. You give men a love of trickeries and jealousies, but the lyre mixes cups of desires that bring no harm to bridal chambers and chaste kisses. When you want to, you run away; but I would not leave my lyre's song for a moment. You give pleasure to tricky, faithless strangers instead of the Muses; but I, the lyre-player, have the Muse making her home in my heart. You may raise your lament, you may polish up your glitter!
  11. I want to make a couch of soft myrtles and lotus plants and drink to my friends; let Love tie his tunic at his neck with papyrus cord and serve me with wine: for life rolls swiftly on like a chariot-wheel, and we shall lie, a handful of dust, when our bones have been loosened. Why perfume a stone? Why pour wine uselessly for soil? No, perfume me while I am still alive, garland my head with roses, summon my girl: before I depart, Love, to join the dances of the dead, I want to scatter my cares.

Nos. 1, 3, 5, 11 and 12 attributed to Anacreon, translated by David A. Campbell from Greek Lyric: Anacreon, Anacreontea, Early Choral Lyrics from Olympis to Alcman (Loeb Classical Library, No. 143), published by Harvard University Press. Copyright © 1988 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. The Loeb Classical Library ® is a registered trademark of the President and Fellows of Harvard College.

Nos. 2, 4, 6, 7, 8, 9 and 10 from "Anakreon", translated by Guy Davenport, in 7 Greeks, ©1995 by Guy Davenport. Used by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.