Fragmenta

III.

CLEODAMUS Of spring, Myrson, or of winter, or of autumn, or of summer—what is sweet to you? Which do you most pray to come? Is it summer, when all that we labor for is brought to its end? Or sweet autumn, when hunger is light for men? Or even idle winter? Since in winter too many, warming themselves, are charmed by idleness and ease. Or has fair spring rather pleased you more? Say, what does your heart choose? For our leisure has given us leave to talk.

MYRSON It is not fitting for mortals to judge the works of the gods; for all these things are holy and sweet. But for your sake, Cleodamus, I will declare what is sweeter to me than the rest. I do not wish it to be summer, for then the sun scorches me. I do not wish it to be autumn, for that season breeds disease. And ruinous winter I cannot bear: I dread the snow and frost. May spring, thrice-longed-for, be with me through the whole year round, when neither cold nor sun weighs heavy upon us. In spring all things conceive, in spring all sweet things bloom, and night for men is equal and alike to day . . .

IV.

A fowler-boy, still in the leafy grove, hunting birds, saw the wayward Love seated upon the branch of a box-tree; and when he saw him, rejoicing because the bird seemed a great one to him, joining together all his rods one upon another, this way and that he lay in wait for Love as he hopped about. And the boy, vexed, when no end of it came, threw down his rods and went to an old plowman who had taught him this craft, and told him, and showed him Love sitting there. But the old man, smiling, shook his head and answered the boy: "Spare yourself the hunt, and do not go after that bird. Flee far away. An evil thing is that creature. You will be blessed so long as you do not catch him; but if you come to a man's full measure, this very one who now flees and hops away, of his own accord coming suddenly, will settle upon your head."

V.

Great Cypris stood beside me as I yet slept, leading the infant Love by his fair hand, with eyes cast down to the ground, and spoke to me this word: "Take Love, dear herdsman, and teach him to sing." So she spoke; and she departed, and I, fool that I was, taught Love whatever herdsmen's lore I knew, as one willing to learn: how Pan invented the cross-flute, how Athena the pipe, how Hermes the lyre, how sweet Apollo the cithara. These things I kept teaching him; but he heeded not my words, and instead himself sang me songs of love, and taught me the longings of mortals and immortals, and the deeds of his mother. And I forgot all that I had been teaching Love, but all the love-songs that Love taught me I learned.

VI.

The Muses do not fear savage Love, but love him from their hearts and follow at his very heel. And if anyone whose soul is loveless should sing, him they shun and refuse to teach; but if anyone, his mind shaken by Love, makes sweet music, toward him they all stream, eager and hurrying. I am witness that this saying has proved true for all. For if I sing of some other mortal or of one of the immortals, my tongue stammers and no longer sings as before; but if again I make any music to Love and to Lycidas, then with joy the song flows through my mouth.

VII.

. . . I know not, nor is it fitting to labor at what we have not learned. If my little songs are fair, then these alone shall bring me glory, which Fate of old bestowed on me; but if these are not pleasing, why should I toil at more? For if either the son of Cronus or many-turning Fate had given us a double span of life, so that one part might be spent in gladness and delights, and the other in toil, then perhaps, having toiled, one might afterward receive good things. But if the gods have decreed that men come to one span of life, and that one brief and less than all, how long, wretched as we are, shall we labor at toils and works, and how long shall we cast our soul after gain and after crafts, ever longing for far greater wealth? Have we then all forgotten that we were born mortal, and that we have obtained but a brief time from Fate? . . .

VIII.

Blessed are they who love, when they are loved in equal return. Blessed was Theseus while Pirithous was at his side, even though he went down to pitiless Hades. Blessed was Orestes among the harsh Inhospitable peoples, because Pylades chose to share his roads with him. Blessed was Achilles, the grandson of Aeacus, while his comrade lived; and blessed was he in dying, because he warded off a dread fate from him.

IX.

Hesperus, golden light of lovely Aphrodite, Hesperus, dear holy ornament of the dark-blue night, as much fainter than the moon as you are foremost among the stars, hail, friend, and as I lead a revel to the shepherd, give me your light in place of the moon, since she today, but newly risen, too quickly set. I do not go to steal, nor to trouble those who travel by night; but I am in love, and it is fair to aid one in love.

X.

Gentle Cyprus-born, child of Zeus or of the sea, why are you so grievous to mortals and immortals? A little thing, I would say; why now were you so hateful even to yourself, as to bear for all an evil so great as this Love, savage, heartless, in form no way like his mind? And why did you grant that he be winged and far-shooting, so that, bitter as he is, we cannot escape him?

XI.—ON THE HYACINTH

. . . Speechlessness seized Phoebus as he looked upon your wound. He sought all remedies, and tried his skillful art, and anointed with ambrosia and with nectar, anointed all the wound; but against the Fates all remedies are without cure . . .

XII.

. . . But I shall go my way down to the slope yonder, toward the sand and the shore, murmuring my song, beseeching cruel Galatea; and the sweet hopes I shall not abandon, even unto my last old age . . .

XIII.

. . . It is not well, my friend, to bring every matter to the craftsman, nor to hold yourself in need of another for all things; but yourself too fashion a pipe; the task is easy for you . . .

XIV.

May Love call the Muses, may the Muses bring Love. May the Muses ever grant me, in my longing, the song, the sweet song, than which no remedy is sweeter.

XV.

. . . By the frequent dripping, as the saying goes, when it falls ever, even the stone is hollowed into a cleft . . .

XVI.

. . . And do not leave me unrewarded, since even Phoebus when he sings receives his wage. And honor makes things better . . .

XVII.

. . . Beauty is the fair thing for women, but for a man, strength . . .

XVIII.

All things, when a god wills it, are achievable; all things for mortals from the blessed gods come most easily, and are not left unaccomplished.