Contents

Foreword

Introduction to Plato’s Symposium

The Symposium

Introduction to Lucretius’ On The Nature of Things

On the Nature of Things

Introduction to Homer’s The Odyssey, Book XXIII

The Odyssey

Introduction to Ovid’s Pyramus and Thisbe

The Metamorphoses

Introduction to Catullus

Poems to Lesbia

Introduction to Sappho

Fragments

Foreword

By Ben Potter

I don’t care too much for money, because money can’t buy it… all you need is it… it lifts us up where we belong… it’s a many splendid thing. With these words of our beloved twentieth century bards I could well be talking about an interest in, and understanding of, the classics, but, call me a wide-eyed sentimentalist (and you’d be the first to do so if you did), I am in fact talking about the thing for which St Valentine is fifthly most famous (after gift cards, balloons, teddy-bears and meaningless emojis).

Though Messers Lennon, McCartney et al may have had noble and apposite things to say about mankind’s greatest mystery, passion, motivator and weakness, here we are casting a wider (well, technically, a longer) net and searching for wisdom form farther flung eras, from those whose philosophy and poetry has stood the test of time after time and still gives us food for thought, faith, reason and wonder.

To make a comprehensive compendium of the Ancients’ attitudes towards love would literally run to thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of pages and would involve a lengthy discussions about the nature of love, its different forms, or whether or not it actually exists at all. Here, we focus less on the ‘what’ aspect and instead present a palette-whetting amuse-bouche of various artists’ responses to, or tales of, love.

Countless examples spring to mind of writers and thinkers whose tributes to Aphrodite and Venus are worthy of praise and examination, however, here we have chosen only six; two philosophers: Plato and Lucretius, and four poets: Homer, Sappho, Catullus and Ovid.

Even amongst this elite group it has not been easy to whittle down their respective passages and decide which are worthy of our undying adulation and which are merely the plaything of an idle hour. Therefore, rather than thinking about the ‘best’ extracts concerning love (an impossibly subjective choice in any case), we have instead looked to provide some form of variety of theme, style and scope.

As easy as it would have been to fill this book solely with tormented, romantic or erotic lyrics and odes, in terms of shorter poetry, we have restrained ourselves to perhaps its greatest exponents from the Greek and Roman worlds; Sappho and Catullus respectively.

The fame of Sappho (620-570BC), a well-educated and wealthy woman from the beautiful island of Lesbos, precedes her. This, unfortunately, is not because of her exquisite verses, but because said verses gave rise to the words ‘sapphic’ and ‘lesbian’ in their sense of female homosexual, rather than ‘of Sappho’ and ‘of/from Lesbos’. Though these double-meanings perfectly cater to the puerile sense of humour of adolescent boys (this is an admission of guilt rather than an admonishment of others), it is perhaps a shame that this great woman is less remembered for how she expressed her love than to whom it was expressed.

Though this foreword to our compendium will mostly highlight relevant aspects of the quality and context of the works themselves, it would be remiss, or seem like an embarrassed or intolerant obfuscation, not to touch upon the sexuality of Sappho. However, the preoccupation with her homosexuality over her poetical skill isn’t so much ‘a shame’ as ‘downright inaccurate’.

Though there are huge gaps in our knowledge of both her life and opus, we can say with confidence that she was married, bore a child and wrote love poetry about both men and women. Thus, whilst she would certainly be welcome at an LGBT event, she would be there under the guise of a ‘B’, rather than an ‘L’. Interestingly, during Classical times, though many (including Plato, Aristotle and Solon) revered her for her poetry, others were still preoccupied with her sexuality – with her proclivity as a sexual predator of men! Though it’s not clear if this was something to do with her specifically, or because of the reputation that women from Lesbos liked to engage in, what we shall affectionately refer to as, ‘the French way’ (for the pure-minded among you, this act requires a man).

There is a certain self-fulfilling failure in trying to defend Sappho as primarily a poet rather than a sexual entity (as doing so merely highlights the machinations of her libido), so, to put things into context it should be pointed out that the poetry of Catullus (c.84-54BC) was not only inspired by Sappho and of equal craft and beauty, but did indeed lay bare a proclivity for bisexuality. Though at times coarse, carnal and capricious, Catullus’ odes can also be deeply heartfelt and romantic; featuring as they do his two loves: Lesbia (female) and Juventis (male).

The gobbet chosen from Ovid (43BC-17/18AD) is, perhaps surprisingly, not from his Ars Amatoria (Art of Love) – in reality a guidebook for seduction – but from his Metamorphoses; an epic poem replete with self-contained tales of star-crossed lovers. The one chosen for deliberation, Pyramus and Thisbe, is perhaps a vindication of T.S. Eliot’s literary adage ‘good writers borrow, great writers steal’; it is more than likely that this tale will seem very, very familiar to you!

The extract chosen for Lucretius (99-55BC) is an angst-ridden and ambivalent account of the beautiful, bestial and bizarre ways in which love can rent the soul and make an ordinarily normal person think and act in quite peculiar ways. Whether this is pure poetry or part-philosophy is open to debate, but he gives much food for thought about the nature of love as an addiction, affliction, a cursed inconvenience, a prison sentence and a complete waste of money. He also provides us with easily the most erotic, though by no means gratuitous, passage in this compendium.

Generally, for Sappho, Catullus, Ovid and Lucretius, not much in the way of context is absolutely necessary; their winged words are as self-explanatory as they are sublime. However, the extracts from Plato and Homer require something more in the way of explanation. Like Lucretius and Ovid, their work comes from a much greater opus, but unlike their epically poetical brethren, the extracts from Homer and Plato cannot be fully understood or appreciated in isolation.

This is less true for Plato (424-348BC) than for Homer (c.9th-8th centuries BC). Though the chapter selected from the Symposium can be thoroughly enjoyed in and of itself, Plato’s style may leave some readers scratching their heads and fighting back a mumbled ‘but I thought…’ Never one to pander to convention, Plato’s works were a strange pastiche of genres combining philosophy, theatre, mathematics, biography, history and poetry.

The Symposium presented a dramatised, perhaps twisted, version of famous Athenians (think Curb Your Enthusiasm with a deep, philosophical message) all giving their two cents-worth on the subject of love. The chosen extract is the take on love’s origins posited by the most famous exponent of Athenian Old Comedy, Aristophanes (446-386BC). Much debate has surrounded the seriousness of this tale with many stating it is merely light-relief in the middle of an otherwise serious treatise. Others consider the entirety of the Symposium to be a comedic aside; something not worthy of being held up alongside Plato’s other, more grown-up works. Taking a step towards the meta-theatrical, some say that Plato is simply presenting a theorem actually put forward by the real Aristophanes, though the idea that Plato is using the comedian’s character as a mouthpiece for his own thoughts is equally plausible.

Whatever interpretation is placed upon the origins of the eccentric and exhilarating tale the character of Aristophanes tells in the Symposium, once heard, this charming and witty piece is not a story easily forgotten.

The Homeric passage is just one part of an epic adventure in every sense of the word. The twenty-four books of the Odyssey cover 500-odd pages of sex, violence, tears, travel, monsters, witchcraft, gods, goddesses, hospitality, hatred, suffering, redemption, lying and love. The story of the eponymous hero, Odysseus, taking ten years to return to his homeland after masterminding victory in the Trojan War can be explained in terms of any one of the above list. However, there is a strong, a very strong, case to say that the tale of the Odyssey is primarily one of love; that it is, perhaps, the greatest love story the world has ever known.

Book XXIII, from which our passage is taken, puts us slap bang at the business-end of the resolution and reconciliation of this romantic marathon.

The books immediately preceding this showed Odysseus finally returning to his homeland of Ithaca, insinuating himself (in disguise) into his own household and slaying the 108 Suitors who were threatening his home, his estate, his son’s life and his wife’s virtue.

Book XXIII provides the long-awaited moment of reunification when Odysseus and Penelope, free from the torment of the perfidious Suitors and no longer cast asunder by miles of wine-red sea, can finally come together in the loving clinch the audience has been waiting for over the last 450 pages.

However, the course of true love never did run smooth. Penelope does not simply swoon into her lover’s arms, or give a sassy raised eyebrow and say ‘well you sure took your sweet time’. No, she abjectly refuses to acknowledge the man in front of her is her erstwhile husband until he can provide intimate knowledge of what only Odysseus would be privy to.

Brilliantly, Penelope outwits the Master of Stratagems, the man who came up with the Trojan Horse wheeze, by telling him he can sleep in the corridor on the olive-wood bed, a bed that Odysseus knows full-well he personally carved out of a tree still rooted in the ground. His explosive wrath at the thought someone has hacked his bed away from its moorings convinces Penelope that he is the one true master of the household, thus the couple go to her chamber to make love. The goddess Athena, rather touchingly, elongates the night for them so that they can enjoy their romantic evening together and still get in their eight hours.

This point in the book is considered by many scholars to be the true ending of the epic and all that comes after mere interpolation designed to tie up the loose plot threads (specifically the wrath of the families of the 108 dead Suitors). And it is undeniable that this romantic conjugation feels like the climactic moment of the story, one aptly represented by the analogy of the immovable bed that seemed in one moment to have been endangered beyond repair, only to be salvaged at the eleventh hour.

It is for this charming analogy, for the epic’s ‘real’ ending, and for the feeling that two of the greatest lovers in the history of world literature have finally been reunited with a tenderness and passion that must be read to be appreciated, that we have included this passage as a fitting complement to our amorous and eminent anthology of adoration and worship.

Introduction to Plato’s Symposium

By Van Bryan

Plato wrote the Symposium sometime in the 4th century BC. As is common with platonic dialogues, we have Plato’s teacher, Socrates, acting as a literary character that investigates some central topic with a number of other prominent Athenian figures from the classical age.

This time round the characters are engaging in a symposium, which was something of a cocktail party in the classical age. Except instead of casually drinking beer and exchanging small talk, the participants of the symposium have their fill of wine and then commence a discussion on some topic of philosophical interest. The topic this time is love.

The participants of the symposium are Socrates, Phaedrus (an aristocrat), Pausanias (a legal expert), Eryximachus (a physician), Aristophanes (a comedic playwright), Agathon (a poet and host), as well as the controversial general Alcibiades, who makes a surprise appearance late in the dialogue.

Each man, in turn, stands up and gives a speech detailing their beliefs of the purpose and nature of love. While each speech is unique and interesting for different reasons, today we are looking at the speech of one man in particular: he is the playwright Aristophanes.

There are a few questions that come to mind when reading the speech of Aristophanes. How much of the speech is truly the thought of Aristophanes? Is it possible that Aristophanes is just a mouthpiece of Plato? More importantly, how seriously should we consider the speech? Is it a sober contribution to the dialogue? Or is it a humorous aside?

Some have suggested that the entirety of Symposium is itself a humorous aside within the catalogue of Plato’s works. That would make the speech of Aristophanes a humorous aside in a dialogue that is already a humorous aside. A joke within a joke!

It’s not hard to see why people might think this. After all, Aristophanes’ story deals with the fantastical idea that human beings were originally creatures with four arms and legs (eight in total) with one head and two faces. These double-sided people were considered by Zeus to be a threat, and so he split them in two, creating people as we see them today. This splitting up, however, created a longing in mankind to be joined together again with their counterparts. And so we spend our days looking to be rejoined with our loved ones, literally, our other half.

The philosophical merits of the speech are ultimately unimportant to us today. The speech of Aristophanes remains something of a crowd favorite. It has been told and retold on Valentines days and during best man speeches at weddings.

It is as touching as it is fantastical. Whether you are a philosopher or not, it is bound to raise a smile.

The Symposium

The Speech of Aristophanes

By Plato

Translated by Benjamin Jowett

Aristophanes professed to open another vein of discourse; he had a mind to praise Love in another way, unlike that of either Pausanias or Eryximachus. Mankind, he said, judging by their neglect of him, have never, as I think, at all understood the power of Love. For if they had understood him they would surely have built noble temples and altars, and offered solemn sacrifices in his honour; but this is not done, and most certainly ought to be done: since of all the gods he is the best friend of men, the helper and the healer of the ills which are the great impediment to the happiness of the race. I will try to describe his power to you, and you shall teach the rest of the world what I am teaching you.

In the first place, let me treat of the nature of man and what has happened to it. The original human nature was not like the present, but different. The sexes were not two as they are now, but originally three in number; there was man, woman, and the union of the two, of which the name survives but nothing else. Once it was a distinct kind, with a bodily shape and a name of its own, constituted by the union of the male and the female: but now only the word ‘androgynous’ is preserved, and that as a term of reproach.

In the second place, the primeval man was round, his back and sides forming a circle; and he had four hands and the same number of feet, one head with two faces, looking opposite ways, set on a round neck and precisely alike; also four ears, two privy members, and the remainder to correspond. He could walk upright as men now do, backwards or forwards as he pleased, and he could also roll over and over at a great pace, turning on his four hands and four feet, eight in all, like tumblers going over and over with their legs in the air; this was when he wanted to run fast.

Now the sexes were three, and such as I have described them; because the sun, moon, and earth are three; and the man was originally the child of the sun, the woman of the earth, and the man-woman of the moon, which is made up of sun and earth, and they were all round and moved round and round because they resembled their parents. Terrible was their might and strength, and the thoughts of their hearts were great, and they made an attack upon the gods; of them is told the tale of Otys and Ephialtes who, as Homer says, attempted to scale heaven, and would have laid hands upon the gods.

Doubt reigned in the celestial councils. Should they kill them and annihilate the race with thunderbolts, as they had done the giants, then there would be an end of the sacrifices and worship which men offered to them; but, on the other hand, the gods could not suffer their insolence to be unrestrained. At last, after a good deal of reflection, Zeus discovered a way.

He said: ‘Methinks I have a plan which will enfeeble their strength and so extinguish their turbulence; men shall continue to exist, but I will cut them in two and then they will be diminished in strength and increased in numbers; this will have the advantage of making them more profitable to us. They shall walk upright on two legs, and if they continue insolent and will not be quiet, I will split them again and they shall hop about on a single leg.’

He spoke and cut men in two, like a sorb-apple which is halved for pickling, or as you might divide an egg with a hair; and as he cut them one after another, he bade Apollo give the face and the half of the neck a turn in order that man might contemplate the section of himself: he would thus learn a lesson of humility. Apollo was also bidden to heal their wounds and compose their forms. So he gave a turn to the face and pulled the skin from the sides all over that which in our language is called the belly, like the purses which draw tight, and he made one mouth at the centre, which he fastened in a knot (the same which is called the navel); he also moulded the breast and took out most of the wrinkles, much as a shoemaker might smooth leather upon a last; he left a few, however, in the region of the belly and navel, as a memorial of the primeval state.

After the division the two parts of man, each desiring his other half, came together, and throwing their arms about one another, entwined in mutual embraces, longing to grow into one, they began to die from hunger and self-neglect, because they did not like to do anything apart; and when one of the halves died and the other survived, the survivor sought another mate, man or woman as we call them,—being the sections of entire men or women,—and clung to that.

Thus they were being destroyed, when Zeus in pity invented a new plan: he turned the parts of generation round to the front, for this had not been always their position, and they sowed the seed no longer as hitherto like grasshoppers in the ground, but in one another; and after the transposition the male generated in the female in order that by the mutual embraces of man and woman they might breed, and the race might continue; or if man came to man they might be satisfied, and rest, and go their ways to the business of life. So ancient is the desire of one another which is implanted in us, reuniting our original nature, seeking to make one of two, and to heal the state of man.

Each of us when separated, having one side only, like a flat fish, is but the tally-half of a man, and he is always looking for his other half. Men who are a section of that double nature which was once called androgynous are lovers of women; adulterers are generally of this breed, and also adulterous women who lust after men. The women who are a section of the woman do not care for men, but have female attachments; the female companions are of this sort. But they who are a section of the male follow the male, and while they are young, being slices of the original man, they have affection for men and embrace them, and these are the best of boys and youths, because they have the most manly nature.

Some indeed assert that they are shameless, but this is not true; for they do not act thus from any want of shame, but because they are valiant and manly, and have a manly countenance, and they embrace that which is like them. And these when they grow up become our statesmen, and these only, which is a great proof of the truth of what I am saying. When they reach manhood they are lovers of youth, and are not naturally inclined to marry or beget children,—if at all, they do so only in obedience to custom; but they are satisfied if they may be allowed to live with one another unwedded;

And such a nature is prone to love and ready to return love, always embracing that which is akin to him. And when one of them meets with his other half, the actual half of himself, whether he be a lover of youth or a lover of another sort, the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and one will not be out of the other’s sight, as I may say, even for a moment: these are the people who pass their whole lives together, and yet they could not explain what they desire of one another. For the intense yearning which each of them has towards the other does not appear to be the desire of lover’s intercourse, but of something else which the soul of either evidently desires and cannot tell, and of which she has only a dark and doubtful presentiment.

Suppose Hephaestus, with his instruments, to come to the pair who are lying side by side and to say to them, ‘What do you mortals want of one another?’

They would be unable to explain. And suppose further, that when he saw their perplexity he said: ‘Do you desire to be wholly one; always day and night in one another’s company? for if this is what you desire, I am ready to melt and fuse you together, so that being two you shall become one, and while you live live a common life as if you were a single man, and after your death in the world below still be one departed soul, instead of two—I ask whether this is what you lovingly desire and whether you are satisfied to attain this?’—

There is not a man of them who when he heard the proposal would deny or would not acknowledge that this meeting and melting into one another, this becoming one instead of two, was the very expression of his ancient need.

And the reason is that human nature was originally one and we were a whole, and the desire and pursuit of the whole is called love. There was a time, I say, when we were one, but now because of the wickedness of mankind God has dispersed us, as the Arcadians were dispersed into villages by the Lacedaemonians. And if we are not obedient to the gods, there is a danger that we shall be split up again and go about in basso-relievo, like the profile figures showing only one half the nose which are sculptured on monuments, and that we shall be like tallies. Wherefore let us exhort all men to piety in all things, that we may avoid evil and obtain the good, taking Love for our leader and commander.

Let no one oppose him—he is the enemy of the gods who opposes him. For if we are friends of God and at peace with him we shall find our own true loves, which rarely happens in this world at present. I am serious, and therefore I must beg Eryximachus not to make fun or to find any allusion in what I am saying to Pausanias and Agathon, who, as I suspect, are both of the manly nature, and belong to the class which I have been describing. But my words have a wider application—they include men and women everywhere; and I believe that if our loves were perfectly accomplished, and each one returning to his primeval nature had his original true love, then our race would be happy. And if this would be best of all, the best in the next degree must in present circumstances be the nearest approach to such a union; and that will be the attainment of a congenial love.

Wherefore, if we would praise him who has given to us the benefit, we must praise the god Love, who is our greatest benefactor, both leading us in this life back to our own nature, and giving us high hopes for the future, for he promises that if we are pious, he will restore us to our original state, and heal us and make us happy and blessed.

This, Eryximachus, is my discourse of love, which, although different to yours, I must beg you to leave unassailed by the shafts of your ridicule, in order that each may have his turn; each, or rather either, for Agathon and Socrates are the only ones left.

Introduction to Lucretius’ On The Nature of Things

By Nicole Saldarriaga

It’s no secret that, historically, human beings have had a particular fascination with romantic love. The topic is explored again and again in everything from art to literature to dinner table conversations—and as long as there have been human societies, this fascination has existed. It’s especially interesting, then, to examine some more ancient conceptions of romantic love and to realize that in many ways they are not so different from the opinions we have today. An ancient Roman Epicurean philosopher by the name of Titus Lucretius Carus (popularly known as Lucretius), for example, in his On the Nature of Things, advocated for the avoidance of romantic love in favor of casual sex—an idea that would not seem out of place on many college campuses today.

On the Nature of Things is a treatise on Epicurean philosophy written in verse. Considered a masterpiece by many, it lovingly and rather eloquently espouses and explains the doctrines of Epicurus—all with the ultimate goal of leading the reader to tranquility of mind and spirit. According to Epicurean philosophy, humans experience anxiety and discontent when they nurture desires that can’t be satisfied and fears that arise out of blind superstition. The only way to be freed from these fears (particularly the fear of death) is to study natural science, which can not only dispel many of the common superstitions of Lucretius’ day, but also result in mental tranquility by disproving the existence of the afterlife (and thus freeing humans from the fear of divine punishment after death).

So, in On the Nature of Things, Lucretius spends a great deal of time attempting to show his readers that all things are made of atoms, that atoms can’t be destroyed, that matter can’t be created out of nothing, and many more scientific principles that, if accepted as truth, could help Lucretius’ readers attain that goal of simple tranquility and peace. This kind of argument obviously relies heavily on our ability to observe the surrounding world and come to conclusions based on those observations. Therefore, in Epicurean philosophy, the senses are infallible and must be trusted above all things. Or, to put it differently, we must be able to trust the senses above all things.

So, what place do sex and romantic love have in this kind of philosophy?

In Book Four, Lucretius seems to digress from his discussion of natural science to give a brief but very vehement warning against the dangers of romantic love. To Lucretius, love is a wound and a madness—he often compares love (and specifically the act of sex between people who feel love and passion toward each other) to gory scenes of battle and fits of illness or insanity; and, according to Lucretius, the madness of love only gets stronger if humans continue to “feed” it. So, Lucretius has two possible cures for the sickness of love—either distract yourself and forget about sex altogether or, interestingly enough, practice casual sex.

To Lucretius, romantic love is dangerous because it muddles the senses—it can overwhelm us, change the way we see the world, change the way we see other people and events (“love is blind,” anyone?); and, to an Epicurean philosopher, a lack of absolute trust in the senses is not only a mark of insanity, but also, in some ways, of doom. To put it more simply, love is the total opposite of mental tranquility (an opinion that, I’m sure, goes hand in hand with the common “Valentine’s Day is a Hallmark holiday!”).

So, Lucretius advocates for the next best thing—casual sex with any “roaming Venus”—as a way to satisfy a perfectly natural desire without putting one’s senses (or one’s mental tranquility) into any danger.

Whether this argument is worth its salt or not, we’ll let you decide.

On the Nature of Things

The passions of love

By Lucretius

Translated By William Ellery Leonard

This craving ‘tis that’s Venus unto us:

From this, engender all the lures of love,

From this, O first hath into human hearts

Trickled that drop of joyance which ere long

Is by chill care succeeded. Since, indeed,

Though she thou lovest now be far away,

Yet idol-images of her are near

And the sweet name is floating in thy ear.

But it behooves to flee those images;

And scare afar whatever feeds thy love;

And turn elsewhere thy mind; and vent the sperm,

Within thee gathered, into sundry bodies,

Nor, with thy thoughts still busied with one love,

Keep it for one delight, and so store up

Care for thyself and pain inevitable.

For, lo, the ulcer just by nourishing

Grows to more life with deep inveteracy,

And day by day the fury swells aflame,

And the woe waxes heavier day by day—

Unless thou dost destroy even by new blows

The former wounds of love, and curest them

While yet they’re fresh, by wandering freely round

After the freely-wandering Venus, or

Canst lead elsewhere the tumults of thy mind.

Nor doth that man who keeps away from love

Yet lack the fruits of Venus; rather takes

Those pleasures which are free of penalties.

For the delights of Venus, verily,

Are more unmixed for mortals sane-of-soul

Than for those sick-at-heart with love-pining.

Yea, in the very moment of possessing,

Surges the heat of lovers to and fro,

Restive, uncertain; and they cannot fix

On what to first enjoy with eyes and hands.

The parts they sought for, those they squeeze so tight,

And pain the creature’s body, close their teeth

Often against her lips, and smite with kiss

Mouth into mouth,—because this same delight

Is not unmixed; and underneath are stings

Which goad a man to hurt the very thing,

Whate’er it be, from whence arise for him

Those germs of madness. But with gentle touch

Venus subdues the pangs in midst of love,

And the admixture of a fondling joy

Doth curb the bites of passion. For they hope

That by the very body whence they caught

The heats of love their flames can be put out.

But nature protests ‘tis all quite otherwise;

For this same love it is the one sole thing

Of which, the more we have, the fiercer burns

The breast with fell desire. For food and drink

Are taken within our members; and, since they

Can stop up certain parts, thus, easily

Desire of water is glutted and of bread.

But, lo, from human face and lovely bloom

Naught penetrates our frame to be enjoyed

Save flimsy idol-images and vain—

A sorry hope which oft the winds disperse.

As when the thirsty man in slumber seeks

To drink, and water ne’er is granted him

Wherewith to quench the heat within his members,

But after idols of the liquids strives

And toils in vain, and thirsts even whilst he gulps

In middle of the torrent, thus in love

Venus deludes with idol-images

The lovers. Nor they cannot sate their lust

By merely gazing on the bodies, nor

They cannot with their palms and fingers rub

Aught from each tender limb, the while they stray

Uncertain over all the body. Then,

At last, with members intertwined, when they

Enjoy the flower of their age, when now

Their bodies have sweet presage of keen joys,

And Venus is about to sow the fields

Of woman, greedily their frames they lock,

And mingle the slaver of their mouths, and breathe

Into each other, pressing teeth on mouths—

Yet to no purpose, since they’re powerless

To rub off aught, or penetrate and pass

With body entire into body—for oft

They seem to strive and struggle thus to do;

So eagerly they cling in Venus’ bonds,

Whilst melt away their members, overcome

By violence of delight. But when at last

Lust, gathered in the thews, hath spent itself,

There come a brief pause in the raging heat—

But then a madness just the same returns

And that old fury visits them again,

When once again they seek and crave to reach

They know not what, all powerless to find

The artifice to subjugate the bane.

In such uncertain state they waste away

With unseen wound.

To which be added too,

They squander powers and with the travail wane;

Be added too, they spend their futile years

Under another’s beck and call; their duties

Neglected languish and their honest name

Reeleth sick, sick; and meantime their estates

Are lost in Babylonian tapestries;

And unguents and dainty Sicyonian shoes

Laugh on her feet; and (as ye may be sure)

Big emeralds of green light are set in gold;

And rich sea-purple dress by constant wear

Grows shabby and all soaked with Venus’ sweat;

And the well-earned ancestral property

Becometh head-bands, coifs, and many a time

The cloaks, or garments Alidensian

Or of the Cean isle. And banquets, set

With rarest cloth and viands, are prepared—

And games of chance, and many a drinking cup,

And unguents, crowns and garlands. All in vain,

Since from amid the well-spring of delights

Bubbles some drop of bitter to torment

Among the very flowers—when haply mind

Gnaws into self, now stricken with remorse

For slothful years and ruin in baudels,

Or else because she’s left him all in doubt

By launching some sly word, which still like fire

Lives wildly, cleaving to his eager heart;

Or else because he thinks she darts her eyes

Too much about and gazes at another,—

And in her face sees traces of a laugh.

These ills are found in prospering love and true;

But in crossed love and helpless there be such

As through shut eyelids thou canst still take in—

Uncounted ills; so that ‘tis better far

To watch beforehand, in the way I’ve shown,

And guard against enticements. For to shun

A fall into the hunting-snares of love

Is not so hard, as to get out again,

When tangled in the very nets, and burst

The stoutly-knotted cords of Aphrodite.

Yet even when there enmeshed with tangled feet,

Still canst thou scape the danger-lest indeed

Thou standest in the way of thine own good,

And overlookest first all blemishes

Of mind and body of thy much preferred,

Desirable dame. For so men do,

Eyeless with passion, and assign to them

Graces not theirs in fact. And thus we see

Creatures in many a wise crooked and ugly

The prosperous sweethearts in a high esteem;

And lovers gird each other and advise

To placate Venus, since their friends are smit

With a base passion—miserable dupes

Who seldom mark their own worst bane of all.

The black-skinned girl is “tawny like the honey”;

The filthy and the fetid’s “negligee”;

The cat-eyed she’s “a little Pallas,” she;

The sinewy and wizened’s “a gazelle”;

The pudgy and the pigmy is “piquant,

One of the Graces sure”; the big and bulky

O she’s “an Admiration, imposante”;

The stuttering and tongue-tied “sweetly lisps”;

The mute girl’s “modest”; and the garrulous,

The spiteful spit-fire, is “a sparkling wit”;

And she who scarcely lives for scrawniness

Becomes “a slender darling”; “delicate”

Is she who’s nearly dead of coughing-fit;

The pursy female with protuberant breasts

She is “like Ceres when the goddess gave

Young Bacchus suck”; the pug-nosed lady-love

“A Satyress, a feminine Silenus”;

The blubber-lipped is “all one luscious kiss”—

A weary while it were to tell the whole.

But let her face possess what charm ye will,

Let Venus’ glory rise from all her limbs,—

Forsooth there still are others; and forsooth

We lived before without her; and forsooth

She does the same things—and we know she does—

All, as the ugly creature, and she scents,

Yes she, her wretched self with vile perfumes;

Whom even her handmaids flee and giggle at

Behind her back. But he, the lover, in tears

Because shut out, covers her threshold o’er

Often with flowers and garlands, and anoints

Her haughty door-posts with the marjoram,

And prints, poor fellow, kisses on the doors—

Admitted at last, if haply but one whiff

Got to him on approaching, he would seek

Decent excuses to go out forthwith;

And his lament, long pondered, then would fall

Down at his heels; and there he’d damn himself

For his fatuity, observing how

He had assigned to that same lady more—

Than it is proper to concede to mortals.

And these our Venuses are ‘ware of this.

Wherefore the more are they at pains to hide

All the-behind-the-scenes of life from those

Whom they desire to keep in bonds of love—

In vain, since ne’ertheless thou canst by thought

Drag all the matter forth into the light

And well search out the cause of all these smiles;

And if of graceful mind she be and kind,

Do thou, in thy turn, overlook the same,

And thus allow for poor mortality.

Nor sighs the woman always with feigned love,

Who links her body round man’s body locked

And holds him fast, making his kisses wet

With lips sucked into lips; for oft she acts

Even from desire, and, seeking mutual joys,

Incites him there to run love’s race-course through.

Nor otherwise can cattle, birds, wild beasts,

And sheep and mares submit unto the males,

Except that their own nature is in heat,

And burns abounding and with gladness takes

Once more the Venus of the mounting males.

And seest thou not how those whom mutual pleasure

Hath bound are tortured in their common bonds?

How often in the cross-roads dogs that pant

To get apart strain eagerly asunder

With utmost might?—When all the while they’re fast

In the stout links of Venus. But they’d ne’er

So pull, except they knew those mutual joys—

So powerful to cast them unto snares

And hold them bound. Wherefore again, again,

Even as I say, there is a joint delight.

Introduction to Homer’s The Odyssey, Book XXIII

By Van Bryan

It has been waggishly suggested that while Homer’s first epic, The Iliad, is the first masterpiece of the western world, it is The Odyssey, the sequel, which is the first masterpiece of the western world that is actually worth reading!

It’s not hard to see why. While The Iliad is characterized by long periods of inaction that is occasionally broken up by dramatic scenes of warfare, it is The Odyssey that is chock full of action at every turn. The titular hero, Odysseus, is on a ten-year journey back to his home on Ithaca. As you probably already know, his journey is a perilous one as he is thwarted at almost every turn.

There are monsters, witches, wrathful gods, and even a literal trip to hell. It has all the makings of a great story. However, as suggested by Ben Potter, this great story might actually be a love story.

After all, Odysseus is only undertaking this journey so that he might be reunited with his family and his devoted wife, Penelope who has been awaiting Odysseus’ return for almost two decades.

It is in book XXIII where this love story reaches it’s dramatic climax. Odysseus, disguised as a beggar, had previously slaughtered the ignoble suitors who were seeking to marry Penelope. Book XXIII shows the aftermath of the violence and the tearful reunion of husband and wife.

I guess the moral of the story is that nothing says, “I love you” like murdering dozens of men in your living room.

The Odyssey

Book XXIII

By Homer

Translated By Samuel Butler

Euryclea now went upstairs laughing to tell her mistress that her dear husband had come home. Her aged knees became young again and her feet were nimble for joy as she went up to her mistress and bent over her head to speak to her. “Wake up Penelope, my dear child,” she exclaimed, “and see with your own eyes something that you have been wanting this long time past. Ulysses has at last indeed come home again, and has killed the suitors who were giving so much trouble in his house, eating up his estate and ill-treating his son.”

“My good nurse,” answered Penelope, “you must be mad. The gods sometimes send some very sensible people out of their minds, and make foolish people become sensible. This is what they must have been doing to you; for you always used to be a reasonable person. Why should you thus mock me when I have trouble enough already- talking such nonsense, and waking me up out of a sweet sleep that had taken possession of my eyes and closed them? I have never slept so soundly from the day my poor husband went to that city with the ill-omened name. Go back again into the women’s room; if it had been any one else, who had woke me up to bring me such absurd news I should have sent her away with a severe scolding. As it is, your age shall protect you.”

“My dear child,” answered Euryclea, “I am not mocking you. It is quite true as I tell you that Ulysses is come home again. He was the stranger whom they all kept on treating so badly in the cloister. Telemachus knew all the time that he was come back, but kept his father’s secret that he might have his revenge on all these wicked people.

Then Penelope sprang up from her couch, threw her arms round Euryclea, and wept for joy. “But my dear nurse,” said she, “explain this to me; if he has really come home as you say, how did he manage to overcome the wicked suitors single handed, seeing what a number of them there always were?”

“I was not there,” answered Euryclea, “and do not know; I only heard them groaning while they were being killed. We sat crouching and huddled up in a corner of the women’s room with the doors closed, till your son came to fetch me because his father sent him. Then I found Ulysses standing over the corpses that were lying on the ground all round him, one on top of the other. You would have enjoyed it if you could have seen him standing there all bespattered with blood and filth, and looking just like a lion. But the corpses are now all piled up in the gatehouse that is in the outer court, and Ulysses has lit a great fire to purify the house with sulphur. He has sent me to call you, so come with me that you may both be happy together after all; for now at last the desire of your heart has been fulfilled; your husband is come home to find both wife and son alive and well, and to take his revenge in his own house on the suitors who behaved so badly to him.”

“’My dear nurse,” said Penelope, “do not exult too confidently over all this. You know how delighted every one would be to see Ulysses come home- more particularly myself, and the son who has been born to both of us; but what you tell me cannot be really true. It is some god who is angry with the suitors for their great wickedness, and has made an end of them; for they respected no man in the whole world, neither rich nor poor, who came near them, who came near them, and they have come to a bad end in consequence of their iniquity. Ulysses is dead far away from the Achaean land; he will never return home again.”

Then nurse Euryclea said, “My child, what are you talking about? but you were all hard of belief and have made up your mind that your husband is never coming, although he is in the house and by his own fire side at this very moment. Besides I can give you another proof; when I was washing him I perceived the scar which the wild boar gave him, and I wanted to tell you about it, but in his wisdom he would not let me, and clapped his hands over my mouth; so come with me and I will make this bargain with you- if I am deceiving you, you may have me killed by the most cruel death you can think of.”

“My dear nurse,” said Penelope, “however wise you may be you can hardly fathom the counsels of the gods. Nevertheless, we will go in search of my son, that I may see the corpses of the suitors, and the man who has killed them.”

On this she came down from her upper room, and while doing so she considered whether she should keep at a distance from her husband and question him, or whether she should at once go up to him and embrace him. When, however, she had crossed the stone floor of the cloister, she sat down opposite Ulysses by the fire, against the wall at right angles [to that by which she had entered], while Ulysses sat near one of the bearing-posts, looking upon the ground, and waiting to see what his wife would say to him when she saw him. For a long time she sat silent and as one lost in amazement. At one moment she looked him full in the face, but then again directly, she was misled by his shabby clothes and failed to recognize him, till Telemachus began to reproach her and said:

“Mother- but you are so hard that I cannot call you by such a name- why do you keep away from my father in this way? Why do you not sit by his side and begin talking to him and asking him questions? No other woman could bear to keep away from her husband when he had come back to her after twenty years of absence, and after having gone through so much; but your heart always was as hard as a stone.”

Penelope answered, “My son, I am so lost in astonishment that I can find no words in which either to ask questions or to answer them. I cannot even look him straight in the face. Still, if he really is Ulysses come back to his own home again, we shall get to understand one another better by and by, for there are tokens with which we two are alone acquainted, and which are hidden from all others.”

Ulysses smiled at this, and said to Telemachus, “Let your mother put me to any proof she likes; she will make up her mind about it presently. She rejects me for the moment and believes me to be somebody else, because I am covered with dirt and have such bad clothes on; let us, however, consider what we had better do next. When one man has killed another, even though he was not one who would leave many friends to take up his quarrel, the man who has killed him must still say good bye to his friends and fly the country; whereas we have been killing the stay of a whole town, and all the picked youth of Ithaca. I would have you consider this matter.”

“Look to it yourself, father,” answered Telemachus, “for they say you are the wisest counsellor in the world, and that there is no other mortal man who can compare with you. We will follow you with right good will, nor shall you find us fail you in so far as our strength holds out.”

“I will say what I think will be best,” answered Ulysses. “First wash and put your shirts on; tell the maids also to go to their own room and dress; Phemius shall then strike up a dance tune on his lyre, so that if people outside hear, or any of the neighbours, or some one going along the street happens to notice it, they may think there is a wedding in the house, and no rumours about the death of the suitors will get about in the town, before we can escape to the woods upon my own land. Once there, we will settle which of the courses heaven vouchsafes us shall seem wisest.”

Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said. First they washed and put their shirts on, while the women got ready. Then Phemius took his lyre and set them all longing for sweet song and stately dance. The house re-echoed with the sound of men and women dancing, and the people outside said, “I suppose the queen has been getting married at last. She ought to be ashamed of herself for not continuing to protect her husband’s property until he comes home.”

This was what they said, but they did not know what it was that had been happening. The upper servant Eurynome washed and anointed Ulysses in his own house and gave him a shirt and cloak, while Minerva made him look taller and stronger than before; she also made the hair grow thick on the top of his head, and flow down in curls like hyacinth blossoms; she glorified him about the head and shoulders just as a skilful workman who has studied art of all kinds under Vulcan or Minerva- and his work is full of beauty- enriches a piece of silver plate by gilding it. He came from the bath looking like one of the immortals, and sat down opposite his wife on the seat he had left. “My dear,” said he, “heaven has endowed you with a heart more unyielding than woman ever yet had. No other woman could bear to keep away from her husband when he had come back to her after twenty years of absence, and after having gone through so much. But come, nurse, get a bed ready for me; I will sleep alone, for this woman has a heart as hard as iron.”

“My dear,” answered Penelope, “I have no wish to set myself up, nor to depreciate you; but I am not struck by your appearance, for I very well remember what kind of a man you were when you set sail from Ithaca. Nevertheless, Euryclea, take his bed outside the bed chamber that he himself built. Bring the bed outside this room, and put bedding upon it with fleeces, good coverlets, and blankets.”

She said this to try him, but Ulysses was very angry and said, “Wife, I am much displeased at what you have just been saying. Who has been taking my bed from the place in which I left it? He must have found it a hard task, no matter how skilled a workman he was, unless some god came and helped him to shift it. There is no man living, however strong and in his prime, who could move it from its place, for it is a marvellous curiosity which I made with my very own hands. There was a young olive growing within the precincts of the house, in full vigour, and about as thick as a bearing-post. I built my room round this with strong walls of stone and a roof to cover them, and I made the doors strong and well-fitting. Then I cut off the top boughs of the olive tree and left the stump standing. This I dressed roughly from the root upwards and then worked with carpenter’s tools well and skilfully, straightening my work by drawing a line on the wood, and making it into a bed-prop. I then bored a hole down the middle, and made it the centre-post of my bed, at which I worked till I had finished it, inlaying it with gold and silver; after this I stretched a hide of crimson leather from one side of it to the other. So you see I know all about it, and I desire to learn whether it is still there, or whether any one has been removing it by cutting down the olive tree at its roots.”

When she heard the sure proofs Ulysses now gave her, she fairly broke down. She flew weeping to his side, flung her arms about his neck, and kissed him. “Do not be angry with me Ulysses,” she cried, “you, who are the wisest of mankind. We have suffered, both of us. Heaven has denied us the happiness of spending our youth, and of growing old, together; do not then be aggrieved or take it amiss that I did not embrace you thus as soon as I saw you. I have been shuddering all the time through fear that someone might come here and deceive me with a lying story; for there are many very wicked people going about. Jove’s daughter Helen would never have yielded herself to a man from a foreign country, if she had known that the sons of Achaeans would come after her and bring her back. Heaven put it in her heart to do wrong, and she gave no thought to that sin, which has been the source of all our sorrows. Now, however, that you have convinced me by showing that you know all about our bed (which no human being has ever seen but you and I and a single maid servant, the daughter of Actor, who was given me by my father on my marriage, and who keeps the doors of our room) hard of belief though I have been I can mistrust no longer.”

Then Ulysses in his turn melted, and wept as he clasped his dear and faithful wife to his bosom. As the sight of land is welcome to men who are swimming towards the shore, when Neptune has wrecked their ship with the fury of his winds and waves- a few alone reach the land, and these, covered with brine, are thankful when they find themselves on firm ground and out of danger- even so was her husband welcome to her as she looked upon him, and she could not tear her two fair arms from about his neck. Indeed they would have gone on indulging their sorrow till rosy-fingered morn appeared, had not Minerva determined otherwise, and held night back in the far west, while she would not suffer Dawn to leave Oceanus, nor to yoke the two steeds Lampus and Phaethon that bear her onward to break the day upon mankind.

At last, however, Ulysses said, “Wife, we have not yet reached the end of our troubles. I have an unknown amount of toil still to undergo. It is long and difficult, but I must go through with it, for thus the shade of Teiresias prophesied concerning me, on the day when I went down into Hades to ask about my return and that of my companions. But now let us go to bed, that we may lie down and enjoy the blessed boon of sleep.”

“You shall go to bed as soon as you please,” replied Penelope, “now that the gods have sent you home to your own good house and to your country. But as heaven has put it in your mind to speak of it, tell me about the task that lies before you. I shall have to hear about it later, so it is better that I should be told at once.”

“My dear,” answered Ulysses, “why should you press me to tell you? Still, I will not conceal it from you, though you will not like it. I do not like it myself, for Teiresias bade me travel far and wide, carrying an oar, till I came to a country where the people have never heard of the sea, and do not even mix salt with their food. They know nothing about ships, nor oars that are as the wings of a ship. He gave me this certain token which I will not hide from you. He said that a wayfarer should meet me and ask me whether it was a winnowing shovel that I had on my shoulder. On this, I was to fix my oar in the ground and sacrifice a ram, a bull, and a boar to Neptune; after which I was to go home and offer hecatombs to all the gods in heaven, one after the other. As for myself, he said that death should come to me from the sea, and that my life should ebb away very gently when I was full of years and peace of mind, and my people should bless me. All this, he said, should surely come to pass.”

And Penelope said, “If the gods are going to vouchsafe you a happier time in your old age, you may hope then to have some respite from misfortune.”

Thus did they converse. Meanwhile Eurynome and the nurse took torches and made the bed ready with soft coverlets; as soon as they had laid them, the nurse went back into the house to go to her rest, leaving the bed chamber woman Eurynome to show Ulysses and Penelope to bed by torch light. When she had conducted them to their room she went back, and they then came joyfully to the rites of their own old bed. Telemachus, Philoetius, and the swineherd now left off dancing, and made the women leave off also. They then laid themselves down to sleep in the cloisters.

When Ulysses and Penelope had had their fill of love they fell talking with one another. She told him how much she had had to bear in seeing the house filled with a crowd of wicked suitors who had killed so many sheep and oxen on her account, and had drunk so many casks of wine. Ulysses in his turn told her what he had suffered, and how much trouble he had himself given to other people. He told her everything, and she was so delighted to listen that she never went to sleep till he had ended his whole story.

He began with his victory over the Cicons, and how he thence reached the fertile land of the Lotus-eaters. He told her all about the Cyclops and how he had punished him for having so ruthlessly eaten his brave comrades; how he then went on to Aeolus, who received him hospitably and furthered him on his way, but even so he was not to reach home, for to his great grief a hurricane carried him out to sea again; how he went on to the Laestrygonian city Telepylos, where the people destroyed all his ships with their crews, save himself and his own ship only. Then he told of cunning Circe and her craft, and how he sailed to the chill house of Hades, to consult the ghost of the Theban prophet Teiresias, and how he saw his old comrades in arms, and his mother who bore him and brought him up when he was a child; how he then heard the wondrous singing of the Sirens, and went on to the wandering rocks and terrible Charybdis and to Scylla, whom no man had ever yet passed in safety; how his men then ate the cattle of the sun-god, and how Jove therefore struck the ship with his thunderbolts, so that all his men perished together, himself alone being left alive; how at last he reached the Ogygian island and the nymph Calypso, who kept him there in a cave, and fed him, and wanted him to marry her, in which case she intended making him immortal so that he should never grow old, but she could not persuade him to let her do so; and how after much suffering he had found his way to the Phaeacians, who had treated him as though he had been a god, and sent him back in a ship to his own country after having given him gold, bronze, and raiment in great abundance. This was the last thing about which he told her, for here a deep sleep took hold upon him and eased the burden of his sorrows.

Then Minerva bethought her of another matter. When she deemed that Ulysses had had both of his wife and of repose, she bade gold-enthroned Dawn rise out of Oceanus that she might shed light upon mankind. On this, Ulysses rose from his comfortable bed and said to Penelope, “Wife, we have both of us had our full share of troubles, you, here, in lamenting my absence, and I in being prevented from getting home though I was longing all the time to do so. Now, however, that we have at last come together, take care of the property that is in the house. As for the sheep and goats which the wicked suitors have eaten, I will take many myself by force from other people, and will compel the Achaeans to make good the rest till they shall have filled all my yards. I am now going to the wooded lands out in the country to see my father who has so long been grieved on my account, and to yourself I will give these instructions, though you have little need of them. At sunrise it will at once get abroad that I have been killing the suitors; go upstairs, therefore, and stay there with your women. See nobody and ask no questions.”

As he spoke he girded on his armour. Then he roused Telemachus, Philoetius, and Eumaeus, and told them all to put on their armour also. This they did, and armed themselves. When they had done so, they opened the gates and sallied forth, Ulysses leading the way. It was now daylight, but Minerva nevertheless concealed them in darkness and led them quickly out of the town.

Introduction to Ovid’s Pyramus and Thisbe

By Nicole Saldarriaga

When it comes to tragic love stories, the tale of Pyramus and Thisbe knows no equal.

Well, that’s not entirely true. Any reader who stumbles upon the tale of Pyramus and Thisbe will instantly be reminded of a wildly popular story that came to fame several years after Ovid included the tragic legend in his Metamorphoses: western culture’s favorite tale of star-crossed lovers, William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.

The votes are still out on whether the Bard’s play was inspired by this much older legend, but there is no doubt that the stories bear a certain resemblance to one another.

Pyramus and Thisbe, like their Shakespearean counterparts, are just young kids in love—in fact, they’re neighbors, and grew up with only a stone wall between them; but, also like Romeo and Juliet, Pyramus and Thisbe are separated by their families, who refuse to allow a relationship between them.

The young lovers, however (like most young lovers, of course), are determined to be together. Every night, when their families are sleeping, they meet on either side of the wall that separates their households, and when they find a small crack in the stone, they are able to whisper to each other for hours on end.

The wall, in this way, comes to represent not just the thing that separates them, but also the small mercy that brings them together. Thanks to the crack, and their ability to speak to each other, they fall even more deeply in love (at the risk of superimposing an overly modern perspective on this ancient story, one has to wonder whether the wall mirrors the concept that parents, by forbidding anything, simply make it more appealing and more likely to happen). Eventually, spurred on by love and lacking any other options, Pyramus and Thisbe agree to run away together—and it’s this that leads to tragedy.

Like most tragic endings, that of Pyramus and Thisbe could have been avoided in countless ways—and maybe it’s this that makes the story so enduring and captivating. As readers, we can’t help but share the despair of these young lovers and especially the frustration of witnessing utterly avoidable pain.

In terms of the larger Metamorphoses, the tale of Pyramus and Thisbe turns out to be just one in a long string of stories about frustrated love—whether it’s unrequited, cursed, or just not meant to be. At the end of the day, Ovid seems to be telling us, love isn’t always capable of surmounting every obstacle. Sometimes, it just can’t overcome the forces that try to quench it. But if there is one thing his stories do show us, it is that love—no matter what happens to it in the end—is always beautiful when it is felt.

The Metamorphoses

Book iv: Pyramus and Thisbe

By Ovid

Translated By Henry T. Riley

But Alcithoë, the daughter of Minyas, does not think that the rites2of the God ought to be received; but still, in her rashness, denies that Bacchus is the progeny of Jupiter; and she has her sisters as partners in her impiety.

The priest had ordered both mistresses and maids, laying aside their employments, to have their breasts covered with skins, and to loosen the fillets of their hair, and to put garlands on their locks, and to take the verdant thyrsi in their hands; and had prophesied that severe would be the resentment of the Deity, if affronted. Both matrons and new-married women obey, and lay aside their webs and work-baskets, and their tasks unfinished; and offer frankincense, and invoke both Bacchus and Bromius, and Lyæus, and the son of the Flames, and the Twice-Born, and the only one that had two mothers. To these is added the name of Nyseus, and the unshorn Thyoneus, and with Lenæus, the planter of the genial grape, and Nyctelius, and father Eleleus, and Iacchus,1 and Evan, and a great many other names, which thou, Liber, hast besides, throughout the nations of Greece. For thine is youth everlasting; thou art a boy to all time, thou art beheld as the most beauteous of all in high heaven;  thou hast the features of a virgin, when thou standest without thy horns. By thee the East was conquered, as far as where swarthy India is bounded by the remote Ganges. Thou God, worthy of our veneration, didst smite Pentheus, and the axe-bearing Lycurgus, sacrilegious mortals; thou didst hurl the bodies of the Etrurians into the sea. Thou controllest the neck of the lynxes yoked to thy chariot, graced with the painted reins. The Bacchanals and the Satyrs follow thee; the drunken old man, too, Silenus, who supports his reeling limbs with a staff, and sticks by no means very fast to his bending ass. And wherever thou goest, the shouts of youths, and together the voices of women, and tambourines beaten with the hands, and hollow cymbals resound, and the box-wood pipe, with its long bore. The Ismenian matrons ask thee to show thyself mild and propitious, and celebrate thy sacred rites as prescribed.

The daughters of Minyas alone, within doors, interrupting the festival with unseasonable labor, are either carding wool, or twirling the threads with their fingers, or are plying at the web, and keeping the handmaids to their work. One of them, as she is drawing the thread with her smooth thumb, says, “While others are idling, and thronging to these fanciful rites, let us, whom Pallas, a better Deity, occupies, alleviate the useful toil of our hands with varying discourse; and let us relate by turns to our disengaged ears, for the general amusement, something each in our turn, that will not permit the time to seem long.” They approve of what she says, and her sisters bid her to be the first to tell her story.

She considers which of many she shall tell (for she knows many a one), and she is in doubt whether she shall tell of thee, Babylonian Dercetis, whom the people of Palestine believe to inhabit the pools, with thy changed form, scales covering thy limbs; or rather how her daughter, taking wings, passed her latter years in whitened turrets; or how a Naiad, by charms and too potent herbs, changed the bodies of the young men into silent fishes, until she suffered the same herself. Or how the tree which bore white fruit formerly, now bears it of purple hue, from the contact of blood. This story pleases her; this, because it was no common tale, she began in manner such as this, while the wool followed the thread:—

“Pyramus and Thisbe, the one the most beauteous of youths, the other preferred before all the damsels that the East contained, lived in adjoining houses; where Semiramis is said to have surrounded her lofty city with walls of brick. The nearness caused their first acquaintance, and their first advances in love; with time their affection increased. They would have united themselves, too, by the tie of marriage, but their fathers forbade it. A thing which they could not forbid, they were both inflamed, with minds equally captivated. There is no one acquainted with it; by nods and signs, they hold converse. And the more the fire is smothered, the more, whenso smothered, does it burn. The party-wall, common to the two houses, was cleft by a small chink, which it had got formerly, when it was built. This defect, remarked by no one for so many ages, you lovers (what does not love perceive?) first found one, and you made it a passage for your voices, and the accents of love used to pass through it in safety, with the gentlest murmur. Oftentimes, after they had taken their stations, Thisbe on one side, and Pyramus on the other, and the breath of their mouths had been mutually caught by turns, they used to say, ‘Envious wall, why dost thou stand in the way of lovers? what great matter were it, for thee to suffer us to be joined with our entire bodies? Or if that is too much, that, at least, thou shouldst open, for the exchange of kisses. Nor are we ungrateful; we confess that we are indebted to thee, that a passage has been given for our words to our loving ears.’ Having said this much, in vain, on their respective sides, about night they said, ‘Farewell’; and gave those kisses each on their own side, which did not reach the other side.

”The following morning had removed the fires of the night, and the Sun, with its rays, had dried the grass wet with rime, when they met together at the wonted spot. Then, first complaining much in low murmurs, they determine, in the silent night, to try to deceive their keepers, and to steal out of doors; and when they have left the house, to quit the buildings of the city as well: but that they may not have to wander, roaming in the open fields, to meet at the tomb of Ninus, and to conceal themselves beneath the shade of a tree. There was there a lofty mulberry tree, very full of snow-white fruit, quite close to a cold spring. The arrangment suits them; and the light, seeming to depart but slowly, is buried in the waters, and from the same waters the night arises. The clever Thisbe, turning the hinge, gets out in the dark, and deceives her attendants, and, having covered her face, arrives at the tomb, and sits down under the tree agreed upon; love made her bold. Lo! a lioness approaches, having her foaming jaws besmeared with the recent slaughter of oxen, about to quench her thirst with the water of the neighboring spring. The Babylonian Thisbe sees her at a distance, by the rays of the moon, and with a trembling foot she flies to a dark cave; and, while she flies, her veil falling from her back, she leaves it behind. When the savage lioness has quenched her thirst with plenteous water, as she is returning into the woods, she tears the thin covering, found by chance without Thisbe herself, with her blood-stained mouth.

“Pyramus, going out later than Thisbe, saw the evident footmarks of a wild beast, in the deep dust, and grew pale all over his face. But, as soon as he found her veil, as well, dyed with blood, he said: ‘One night will be the ruin of two lovers, of whom she was the most deserving of a long life. My soul is guilty; ’tis I that have destroyed thee, much to be lamented; who bade thee to come by night to places full of terror, and came not hither first. O, whatever lions are lurking beneath this rock, tear my body in pieces, and devour my accursed entrails with ruthless jaws. But it is the part of a coward to wish for death.’ He takes up the veil of Thisbe, and he takes it with himself to the shade of the tree agreed on, and, after he has bestowed tears on the well-known garment, he gives kisses to the same, and he says, ‘Receive, now, a draught of my blood as well!’ and then plunges the sword, with which he is girt, into his bowels; and without delay, as he is dying, he draws it out of the warm wound. As he falls on his back upon the ground, the blood spurts forth on high, not otherwise than as when a pipe is burst on the lead decaying, and shoots out afar the liquid water from the hissing flaw, and cleaves the air with its jet. The fruit of the tree, by the sprinkling of the blood, are changed to a dark tint, and the root, soaked with the gore, tints the hanging mulberries with a purple hue. Behold! not yet having banished her fear, Thisbe returns, that she may not disappoint her lover, and seeks for the youth both with her eyes and her affection, and longs to tell him how great dangers she has escaped. And when she observes the spot, and the altered appearance of the tree, she doubts if it is the same, so uncertain does the color of the fruit make her. While she is in doubt, she sees palpitating limbs throbbing upon the bloody ground; she draws back her foot, and having her face paler than box-wood, she shudders like the sea, which trembles when its surface is skimmed by a gentle breeze. But, after pausing a time, she had recognized her own lover, she smote her arms, undeserving of such usage, and tearing her hair, and embracing the much-loved body, she filled the gashes with her tears, and mingled her tokens of sorrow with his blood; and imprinting kisses on his cold features, she exclaimed, ‘Pyramus! what disaster has taken thee away from me? Pyramus! answer me; ’tis thy own Thisbe, dearest, that calls thee; hear me, and raise thy prostrate features.’

“At the name of Thisbe, Pyramus raised his eyes, now heavy with death, and, after he had seen her, he closed them again. After she had perceived her own garment, and beheld, too, the ivory sheath without its sword, she said, ‘’Tis thy own hand, and love, that has destroyed thee, ill-fated youth! I, too, have a hand bold enough for this one purpose; I have love as well; this shall give me strength for the wound. I will follow thee in thy death, and I shall be called the most unhappy cause and companion of thy fate, and thou who, alas! couldst be torn from me by death alone, shalt not be able, even by death, to be torn from me. And you, O most wretched parents of mine and his, be but prevailed upon, in this one thing, by the entreaties of us both, that you will not deny those whom their constant love and whom their last moments have joined, to be buried in the same tomb. But thou, O tree, which now with thy boughs dost overshadow the luckless body of but one, art fated soon to cover those of two. Retain a token of this our fate, and ever bear fruit black and suited for mourning, as a memorial of the blood of us two.’ Thus she said; and having fixed the point under the lower part of her breast, she fell upon the sword, which still was reeking with his blood.

“Her prayers, however, moved the Gods, and moved their parents. For the color of the fruit, when it has fully ripened, is black; and what was left of them, from the funeral pile, reposed in the same urn.”

Introduction to Catullus

By Van Bryan

Gaius Valerius Catullus, often just referred to as “Catullus”, was a Latin poet from the late Roman Republic. He was a skilled poet whose surviving works are still read today and have influenced several forms of art.

There is no official biography of Catullus, so classical readers are forced to piece together the details of his life from what other authors wrote of him. We know that he was born to a wealthy family and would have received a first rate education. He also would have been familiar with the high-profile figures of the late Roman Republic. Indeed, Julius Caesar and Cicero are both mentioned in his poetry.

The surviving body of his work varies in style and themes. Some are thoughtful and deeply moving, such as a poem written in honor of his deceased brother. Other poems are downright bawdy and describe vulgar sexual acts with both men and women.

Of all his works, it is the “poems to Lesbia” which are recited most often and read with the most interest.

It is believed that “Lesbia” was a name used to refer to Clodia Metelli, a wealthy and well-educated aristocratic Roman woman. We know that Clodia was a married woman and that her relationship with Catullus would have likely been only one of several extramarital affairs.

While the history is interesting, it is the literature that is of interest to us today. Catullus writes to Lesbia with such passion and devotion that it is easy to see why his work made its way into this collection.

Poems to Lesbia

by Catullus

Poem 5

Brief lives and many kisses

Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love,

and let us judge all the rumors of the old men

to be worth just one penny!

The suns are able to fall and rise:

When that brief light has fallen for us,

we must sleep a never ending night.

Give me a thousand kisses, then another hundred,

then another thousand, then a second hundred,

then yet another thousand more, then another hundred.

Then, when we have made many thousands,

we will mix them all up so that we don’t know,

and so that no one can be jealous of us when he finds out

how many kisses we have shared.

-Translated by Rudy Negenborn

Poem 7

Never growing tired of kissing

You ask, my Lesbia, how many of your kisses

are enough and more than enough for me.

As big a number as the Libyan grains of sand

that lie at silphium producing Cyrene

between the oracle of Sultry Jupiter

and the sacred tomb of old Battus;

Or as many stars that see the secret love affairs of men,

when the night is silent.

So many kisses are enough

and more than enough for mad Catullus to kiss you,

these kisses which neither the inquisitive are able to count

nor an evil tongue bewitch.

-Translated by Daniel San

Poem 2

Lesbia’s Sparrow

Sparrow, my sweet girl’s delight,

whom she plays with, holds to her breast,

whom, greedy, she gives her little finger to,

often provoking you to a sharp bite,

whenever my shining desire wishes

to play with something she loves,

I suppose, while strong passion abates,

it might be a small relief from her pain:

might I toy with you as she does

and ease the cares of a sad mind!

-Translated by A. S. Kline

Poem 4

The death of Lesbia’s Sparrow

Mourn, O you Loves and Cupids

and such of you as love beauty:

my girl’s sparrow is dead,

sparrow, the girl’s delight,

whom she loved more than her eyes.

For he was sweet as honey, and knew her

as well as the girl her own mother,

he never moved from her lap,

but, hopping about here and there,

chirped to his mistress alone.

Now he goes down the shadowy road

from which they say no one returns.

Now let evil be yours, evil shadows of Orcus,

that devour everything of beauty:

you’ve stolen lovely sparrow from me.

O evil deed! O poor little sparrow!

Now, by your efforts, my girl’s eyes

are swollen and red with weeping.

-Translated by A. S. Kline

Poem 8

Moving on once your love is gone

Poor Catullus, you must stop being silly,

and count as lost what you see is lost.

Once the sun shone bright for you,

when you would go whither your sweetheart led,

she who was loved by me as none will ever be loved.

Then there took place those many jolly scenes

which you desired nor did your sweetheart not desire.

Truly the sun shone bright for you.

Now she desires no more: do you too, weakling, not desire;

and do not chase her who flees, nor live in unhappiness,

but harden your heart, endure and stand fast.

Goodbye, sweetheart. Catullus now stands fast:

he will not look for you or court you against your will.

But you will be sorry when you are not courted at all.

Wretch, pity on you! What life lies in store for you!

Who will come to you now? Who will think you pretty?

Whom will you love now? Who will people say you are?

Whom will you kiss? Whose lips will you bite?

But you, Catullus, be resolute and stand fast.

-Translated by Kelly Syler

Poem 51

The feeling of love

That man seems to me to be equal to a god,

That man, if it is right to say, seems to surpass the gods,

who sitting opposite to you repeatedly looks at you

and hears

your sweet laughter, something which robs miserable me

of all feelings: for as soon as I look

at you, Lesbia, no voice remains

in my mouth.

But the tongue is paralyzed, a fine fire

spreads down through my limbs, the ears ring with their

very own sound, my eyes veiled

in a double darkness.

Idleness, Catullus, is your trouble;

idleness is what delights you and moves you to passion;

idleness has proved ere now the ruin of kings and

prosperous cities.

-Translated by Rudy Negenborn

Poem 72

Familiarity to Lesbia

Once you said you preferred Catullus alone,

Lesbia: would not have Jupiter before me.

I prized you then not like an ordinary lover,

but as a father prizes his children, his family.

Now I know you: so, though I burn more fiercely,

yet you’re worth much less to me, and slighter.

How is that, you ask? The pain of such love

makes a lover love more, but like less.

-Translated by A. S. Kline

Poem 75

Chained to Lesbia

My mind’s reduced to this, by your faults, Lesbia,

and has ruined itself so in your service,

that now it couldn’t wish you well,

were you to become what’s best,

or stop loving you if you do what’s worst.

-Translated by A. S. Kline

Poem 83

To Lesbia’s Husband

Lesbia says bad things about me to her husband’s face:

it’s the greatest delight to that fool.

Mule, don’t you see? If she forgot and was silent about me,

that would be right: now since she moans and abuses,

she not only remembers, but something more serious,

she’s angry. That is, she’s inflamed, so she speaks.

-Translated by A. S. Kline

Poem 85

Love and Hate

I hate and I love. Wherefore would I do this, perhaps you ask?

I do not know. But I feel that it happens and I am tortured.

-Translated by Justin Neill

Poem 87

Incomparable to Lesbia

No woman can say she’s been loved so much,

as my Lesbia in truth’s been loved by me.

No faith in any tie was ever so great,

as has been found, on my part, in love of you

-Translated by A. S. Kline

Poem 107

Back again, Lesbia

If anything happens to one who desires it, and wishes

and never expects it, it’s a special delight to the mind.

Likewise, this is delight, dearer than gold, to me,

that you come back to me, Lesbia, in my longing.

come back, desired and un-hoped for, give yourself

back to me. O day marked out with greater brightness!

Who exists more happily than me, or can say

that he wishes for any life greater than this?

-Translated by A. S. Kline

Poem 109

A prayer to Lesbia

You declare that this love of ours will be happy,

mea vita, and eternal between us.

Great gods, let it be that she promises truthfully,

and says it sincerely, and from her heart,

so we may extend, through the whole of our life,

this endless bond of sacred friendship.

-Translated by A. S. Kline

Introduction to Sappho

By Nicole Saldarriaga

“Prosperity that

the golden Muses

gave me was no

delusion: dead, I

won’t be forgotten”

The author of these words could not have issued a better prediction. This figure of classical antiquity was regarded by contemporaries with nothing but esteem, admiration, and sometimes infatuation. With a likeness that appeared on coins, a firm place in the Library of Alexandria’s canon of nine lyric geniuses, and the intense respect of people like Plato and Aristotle, there’s no question that this poet was one of the most famous and beloved of the classical era—and, believe it or not, she was a woman. She was a daughter, sister, mother, lover, poet and musician—and, true to her expectations, the world has still not forgotten her name: Sappho of Lesbos.

Sadly, despite Sappho’s continued relevance and fame, very few of her poems and none of her songs have survived the harshness of time. What we do have is a collection of fragments—some of them numbering only one word—but these fragments have been studied, translated, and published again and again throughout the years, proving that society’s fascination with Sappho’s work didn’t die with her or her contemporaries.

Generally, Sappho is considered one of the most famous “lesbian” poets in history: so much so that the very word “lesbian” is derived from “Lesbos,” the island of her birth. Despite a long line of Victorian scholars and translators who tried their best to “tone down” Sappho’s poems so that readers wouldn’t “get the wrong impression,” there is no denying that her poetry (so much of which is about love and desire) gives equal erotic attention to men and women.

Questions of her sexuality notwithstanding, Sappho is one of very few women poets that we know about from classical antiquity, and she is certainly the most well respected. Critics, both in her own time and ours, firmly dub her one of the greatest lyrics poets to have ever lived, and a lyric genius.

By the time Sappho’s poems were first transcribed together into one collection around the 3rd Century BCE, they filled nine volumes which, all told, would have amounted to something like 10,000 lines of poetry. But it wasn’t her prolificacy that made her so popular. Unlike many of the poets of her day, Sappho didn’t choose to write about the gods or the epic heroes. Instead her poems deal with the feelings of one individual speaker, tracing her feelings about time, family, and especially love. The verses are achingly simple and direct, with no “flowery” language to cover up the raw descriptions of love, desire, and the bittersweet pain that sometimes comes hand-in-hand with those feelings (incidentally, the term “bittersweet” and the notion that love can feel this way appeared for the first time in Western Literature in one of Sappho’s poems).

Something about the honesty of Sappho’s work deeply moved those who encountered it. Plato himself called Sappho the “tenth Muse,” and she was the only woman to be included in the canon of nine lyric geniuses—a list decided upon by the famed scholars at the Library of Alexandria. Even Aristotle, in his Rhetoric, wrote that Sappho “was honored although she was a woman.” And (what is perhaps most telling) Greek society seemed to consider Sappho on par with Homer—while he was reverently called “The Poet,” she was called “The Poetess.”

One thing is absolutely clear: Sappho was correct in thinking that she’d never be forgotten. The sheer number of existing translations and studies of her work are testaments to the fact that her words still have the power to delight and move us. We can appreciate her not only as a poet, but also as something of a feminist icon—a woman who, against the odds and the norms of her society, attained incredible fame.

Fragments

By Sappho

Translated By Edwin Marion Cox

I

Peer of the gods, the happiest man I seem

Sitting before thee, rapt at thy sight, hearing

Thy soft laughter and they voice most gentle,

Speaking so sweetly.

II

Then in my bosom my heart wildly flutters,

And, when on thee I gaze never so little,

Bereft am I of all power of utterance,

My tongue is useless.

III

There rushes at once through my flesh tingling fire,

My eyes are deprived of all power of vision,

My ears hear nothing by sounds of winds roaring,

And all is blackness.

III

Down courses in streams the sweat of emotion,

A dread trembling o’erwhelms me, paler than I

Than dried grass in autumn, and in my madness

Dead I seem almost.

2

Thou happy bridegroom! Now has dawned

That day of days supreme,

When in thine arms thou’lt hold at last

The maiden of thy dream.

3 - Hymn to Aphrodite

I

Shimmering-throned immortal Aphrodite,

Daughter of Zeus, Enchantress, I implore thee,

Spare me, O queen, this agony and anguish,

Crush not my spirit

II

Whenever before thou has hearkened to me—

To my voice calling to thee in the distance,

And heeding, thou hast come, leaving thy father’s

Golden dominions,

III

With chariot yoked to thy fleet-winged coursers,

Fluttering swift pinions over earth’s darkness,

And bringing thee through the infinite, gliding

Downwards from heaven,

IV

Then, soon they arrived and thou, blessed goddess,

With divine countenance smiling, didst ask me

What new woe had befallen me now and why,

Thus I had called the.

V

What in my mad heart was my greatest desire,

Who was it now that must feel my allurements,

Who was the fair one that must be persuaded,

Who wronged thee Sappho?

VI

For if now she flees, quickly she shall follow

And if she spurns gifts, soon shall she offer them

Yea, if she knows not love, soon shall she feel it

Even reluctant.

VII

Come then, I pray, grant me surcease from sorrow,

Drive away care, I beseech thee, O goddess

Fulfil for me what I yearn to accomplish,

Be thou my ally.

3

I

A troop of horse, the serried ranks of marchers,

A noble fleet, some think these of all on earth

Most beautiful. For me naught else regarding

Is my beloved.

II

To understand this is for all most simple,

For thus gazing much on mortal perfection

And knowing already what life could give her,

Him chose fair Helen,

III

Him the betrayer of Ilium’s honour.

The wrecked, she not of adored child or parent,

But yielded to love, and forced by her passion,

Dared Fate in exile.

IV

Thus quickly is bent the will of that woman

To whom things near and dear seem to be nothing.

So mightest thou fail, My Anactoria,

If she were with you.

V

She whose gentle footfall and radiant face

Hold the power to charm more than a vision

Of chariots and the mail-clad battalions

Of Lydia’s army.

V

So must we learn in world made as this one

Man can never attain his greatest desire,

[But must pray for what good fortune Fate holdeth,

Never unmindful.]

5

Thou forgettest me.

6

Or lovest another more than you do me.

7

I yearn and I seek.

8

Turn to me, dear one, turn thy face,

And unveil for me in thine eyes, their grace.

9

I think men will remember us even hereafter.

10

I loved thee Atthis, once long ago.

11

With my two arms, I do not aspire to touch the sky.

12

Now Love, the ineluctable, with bitter sweetness

Fills me, overwhelms me, and shakes my being.

13

But to thee, Athis, the thought of me is hateful; thou fliest to Andromeda.

14

Now Eros shakes my soul, a wind on the mountain overwhelming the oaks.

15

The sinking moon has left the sky,

The Pleiades have also gone.

Midnight comes—and goes, the hours fly

And solitary still, I lie.

16

For if thou lovest us, choose another and a younger spouse, for I will not endure to live with thee, old woman with young man.

17

Sleep thou, in the bosom of thy sweetheart.

18

At the end of the bough—its uttermost end,

Missed by the harvesters, ripens the apple,

Nay, not overlooked, but far out of reach,

So with all best things.

19

He should be good who is fair of face,

And he will be fair whose soul has grace.

20

To what may I liken thee, dear bridegroom?

Best to a tender shoot may I liken thee.

21

Here rests the dust of Timas who, unwed,

Passed the dark portals of Persephone.

With sharpened metal, when her spirit fled,

Her mourning friends each shore her fair-tressed head.

22

A fair daughter have I, Cleis by name,

Like a golden flower she seems to me.

Far more than all Lydia, her do I love,

Or Lesbos shimmering in the sea.