II (2)
Someone told me, Heracleitus, that you were dead and brought me close
to tears, for I remembered how often in our talk we put the sun to
bed. You, I suppose, my Halicarnassian friend, are ashes four times
long ago, but your nightingales still live. On them Hades who
snatches all away shall not cast his hand.
XXI (23, 11. I-6)
Whoever passes by my tomb, know that I am son and sire of Callimachus
of Cyrene. You would know them both, for once the one led his
fatherland in arms. The other composed songs surpassing the strength
of envy. No wonder, for whom the Muses look upon as children, not
askance, they do not put aside as friends, once their locks are
white.
XVII (I9)
Would that there had never been swift ships! We would not be mourning
Sopolis, Diocleides' son. But now his corpse floats in the sea
somewhere, and we pass by, instead of him, a name and an empty
tomb.
XXXI (33)
On the mountain, Epicydes the hunter seeks every hare and the track
of the roe deer, though chilled by frost and snow. But if someone
says, "Here, this wild beast is shot," he refuses it. Such is my
love. It can follow all that flees, but passes by what lies at its
very side.
XXVIII (30)
I hate the cyclic poem, nor do I rejoice in the path that takes the
many to and fro. I loathe the roaming lover, nor do I drink from
every spring. I detest all common things. Lysanius, you are comely,
yes, comely. Before Echo repeats, someone says, "Another's."
XIII (7.I96)
Shrilling cicada, drunk on drops of dew, you sing the country song
that makes the wildwood talk, and, perched on petals, your legs like
little saws, you rub your sunburnt skin, ringing music like the
lyre's But sing some new delight for woodland nymphs, striking up a
song antiphonal to Pan, that I may have relief from Love and catch a
noonday nap beneath the plane tree's shade.
XXXV (5-~7~)
The cup takes its sweet joy and tells how it touches the prattling
lips of Zenophila, in love with love. Blessed cup! Would that she'd
put her lips to mine and drink down my soul at a single draft.
XXXIII (5.ISI)
Mosquitoes, shameless and shrill of voice, sucking the blood of men,
winged monsters of the night,
let Zenophila sleep a little in peace, I beg, and feed on the flesh
of my limbs instead.
But why do I cry out in vain? Even beasts, savage and wild, enjoy the
warmth of her flesh.
I give you warning now, you evil creatures. Don't be so bold, or
you'll know the jealous might of my hands.
XXXIV (5.I52)
Mosquito, may you fly, a swift courier for me and whisper, touching
the tip of Zenophila's ear, "Sleepless, he waits for you, but you
forget your loves
and sleep." Then, dear singer, fly away.
Speak softly to her. Don't wake her lover to hurt her because he's
struck jealous of me. But if
you bring me the girl, I'll cover you with a lion's skin, mosquito,
and give you a club to hold in your hand.
Erinna
I (7.7IO)
Stele and my Sirens and mournful pitcher that hold the little ash of
Hades, tell those who pass by my tomb to greet me, whether citizens
or from another town, and say that I was buried here, still a bride,
and that my father called me Baucis, that I was born in Tenos, that
they may know. And tell them too that my companion Erinna engraved
this word upon my tomb.
II (7-7T2)
I am the grave of Baucis the bride. Passing by my stele, say to Hades
beneath the earth,
"You are grudging, Hades. The lovely letters you see will tell the
very cruel fate of Baucis:
how her bridegroom's father lighted the girl's funeral pyre with the
same torches that blazed for the wedding song,
and you, Hymenaeus, exchanged the melodious marriage hymn for the
mournful sound of threnodies sung for the dead."