Epigrams
Epigrams Hellenistic Callimachus GreekA stranger from Atarneus once put this question to Pittacus of Mytilene, the son of Hyrrhadius: "Old father, two marriages are courting me. The one bride matches my own rank in both wealth and birth; the other is above me. Which is the better? Come, advise me, which of the two shall I lead to the wedding?" So he spoke; and the old man, lifting his staff, an elder's weapon, said, "Look there—those children will tell you the whole tale." Now those children, whipping their swift tops along, were spinning them in the broad crossroads. "Follow in their tracks," he said. And the man drew near to where they stood; and they were saying, "Drive the one that matches you." Hearing this, the stranger held back from grasping at the greater house, taking to heart the children's omen. And as that man led the lesser bride home to his dwelling, so you too, Dion, drive the one that matches you.
Someone told me of your death, Heraclitus, and it brought a tear to my eye; and I remembered how often the two of us sank the sun in talk together. But you, I suppose, my Halicarnassian friend, are long since ash; yet your nightingales live on, and on them Hades, who carries off all things, shall never lay his hand.
Timon—for you are no longer—which is hateful to you, the dark or the light? "The dark; for more of you are in Hades."
A shell am I, Lady of Zephyrium, a wonder of old; but now you, Cypris, hold me, the first offering of Selenaea, a nautilus that sailed upon the seas: if there were winds, spreading my sail from my own forestays; but if Calm, that gleaming goddess, then rowing hard with my feet— so my name accords with my work— until I fell beside the shores of Iulis, that I might become your far-seen plaything, Arsinoe; nor any longer in my chambers, as before—for I am breathless— let the egg of the dewy halcyon be hatched within me. But grant your grace to the daughter of Cleinias; for she knows how to do noble things, and she is from Aeolian Smyrna.
I am the labour of the Samian, who once received in his house the divine singer; I sing of Eurytus, all that he suffered, and of golden-haired Iole; and I am called a Homeric writing. For Creophylus, dear Zeus, this is a great thing.
Theaetetus walked a pure road. And if that path of his does not lead to your ivy, Bacchus, heralds shall sound the names of others for a brief season, but of him Hellas shall proclaim the wisdom forever.
Small, Dionysus, is the speech allotted to the poet whose work goes well; he says only, in his longest, "I win," but the one on whom you do not breathe with favour—if anyone asks "How did you fare?"—says, "Things go hard." May this be the word for him who broods on unjust things; but for me, my Lord, the brief and few-syllabled.
Here Saon, son of Dicon, of Acanthus, sleeps a sacred sleep. Do not say that the good are dead.
If you seek Timarchus in Hades, to learn something about the soul, or how you yourself will be again, seek the son, of the tribe of Ptolemais, whose father was Pausanias; you will find him among the pious.
The stranger was brief; therefore this verse too, which will say no long thing: "Theris, son of Aristaeus, a Cretan"—and to me even that is long.
If you come to Cyzicus, it is little trouble to find Hippacus and Didyme; for their family is in no way obscure. And you will tell them a grievous word, yet say this all the same: that here I hold Critias, their son.
"Is it under you that Charidas rests?" "If you mean the son of Arimmas of Cyrene, he is under me." "O Charidas, what is below?" "Deep darkness." "And the ways up?" "A lie." "And Pluto?" "A tale." "We are undone." "This is my true word to you; but if you want the pleasant kind: a great ox in Hades costs a Pellaean penny."
Who knows well the daemon of tomorrow? When even you, Charmis—you who were before our eyes but yesterday— we buried, weeping, on the next day. Nothing more grievous than this did your father Diophon ever see.
"Timonoe." "Who are you? By the gods, I should not have known you, had not the name of your father Timotheus stood upon the stone, and Methymna, your city." "Truly, I declare, your widowed husband Euthymenes grieves greatly."
Crethis, full of tales, who knew how to play sweetly, the daughters of Samos often seek— their sweetest fellow-worker, ever full of chatter; but she sleeps here the sleep that is owed to all.
Would that swift ships had never been! For then we should not be mourning Sopolis, son of Diocleides. But now his corpse drifts somewhere on the sea, and in his place we pass by a name and an empty tomb.
Lycus the Naxian died not on land but on the sea, and saw his ship and his life perish together, when he was sailing, a merchant, from Aegina. He, a corpse, is in the waters; and I, a tomb that holds only his name, proclaim this wholly true word: "Avoid, O sailor, putting to sea with the Kids when they are setting."
Twelve years old, his father Philippus laid the boy here—his great hope—Nicoteles.
At dawn we were burying Melanippus; and as the sun was setting, the maiden Basilo died by her own hand; for to live, having set her brother on the pyre, she could not bear. And the house looked upon a twofold evil, the house of their father Aristippus; and all Cyrene bowed its head, seeing the home of fair children left desolate.
Whoever you are that carry your foot past my tomb, know that I am the son and the father of Callimachus of Cyrene. You would know them both: the one once led his country's arms; the other sang songs stronger than envy. No cause for resentment: those children whom the Muses have looked upon with no sidelong eye, they do not, when grey, cast off as friends.
. . .
Astacides the Cretan, the goatherd, a Nymph carried off from the mountain, and now Astacides is holy. No more beneath the Dictaean oaks, no more of Daphnis shall we shepherds sing, but ever of Astacides.
Saying "Farewell, O Sun," Cleombrotus of Ambracia leapt from a high wall down into Hades, having seen no evil worthy of death, but having read one writing of Plato's, the one on the soul.
A hero, the warder of Aëtion of Amphipolis, I am set up, small upon a small porch, holding a coiled serpent and a single sword; angered at a man of Epeus, he settled me here on foot as well.
Callignotus swore to Ionis that never would he hold any friend, man or woman, dearer than her. He swore; but they say truly that the oaths of lovers do not enter the ears of the immortals. And now he burns with love for a man; and of the poor girl, as of the Megarians, there is no word nor reckoning.
I had from little means a scanty living, doing nothing terrible, wronging no one. Dear Earth, if I, Micylus, ever praised anything base, may you not lie light upon me, nor you, kindly powers that hold me.
Hesiod's is the song and the manner; not the last of singers, no—but I fear the man of Soli has milked off the sweetest of his verses. Hail, you slender discourses, the token of Aratus's vigil.
I hate the cyclic poem, nor do I take pleasure in the road that carries many this way and that; I loathe too the much-courted darling, nor do I drink from the public fountain; I am sick of all common things. Lysanias, you are indeed fair, fair—but before Echo can say it clearly, someone else says, "He belongs to another."
Pour, and again say "To Diocles!" Not even Achelous perceives those sacred ladlefuls. The boy is fair, Achelous, exceedingly fair; and if anyone says he is not—may I alone know what is fair.
Thessalian Cleonicus, wretched, wretched, no, by the keen sun, I did not know you. Poor man, what has become of you? Bones you are, and only hair still left. Has my own daemon seized you? Have you met a harsh dispensation of the god? I know it: Euxitheos has carried you off, and you too, coming, gazed upon the fair one, poor wretch, with both your eyes.
The hunter, Epicydes, on the mountains tracks every hare and the prints of every doe, trudging, glad of the frost and snow; but if someone says, "Here, this beast is struck down," he will not take it. Such too is my love: it knows how to chase what flees, but flies past what lies ready in its path.
I know that my hands are empty of wealth; but, Menippus, do not, by the Graces, tell me my own dream. I grieve, hearing this bitter word continually; yes, dear friend, of all that comes from you, this is the least loving.
Artemis, to you Phileratis set up this image here; do you accept it, lady, and keep her safe.
Me, lion-strangling, boar-slaying lord, a branch of oak— who set me here? "Archinus." Which one? "The Cretan." "I accept it."
Past the tomb of the son of Battus you carry your feet—of one who knew both song well, and well how to laugh in season over wine.
Lyctian Menoetas, having spoken these words, dedicated this bow: "Here, I give you my horn and quiver, Sarapis; but the arrows the Hesperitae have."
Her gifts to Aphrodite, Simon, who wanders the streets, set up—an image of herself, and the girdle that kissed her breasts, and the torch, and the very thyrsus that the poor woman used to bear.
To Pylaean Demeter, to whom that man of the Pelasgians, Acrisius, built this temple—these gifts the man of Naucratis, and to her daughter below, Timodemus dedicated, a tithe of his gains; for so indeed he had vowed.
Priestess of Demeter once was I, and again of the Cabiri, sir, and thereafter of the Dindymene Mother; I, the old woman, now dust, who . . . was the patroness of many young wives. And two sons were born to me, and I closed my eyes in their arms in a fair old age. Go your way rejoicing.
Half of my soul still breathes; the other half I know not whether Love or Hades has seized—only it is vanished. Has it gone off again to one of the boys? And yet I forbade them often: "Young men, do not receive the runaway." Go, search there; for there, I know, that stone-worthy and ill-loving thing of mine is somewhere turning about.
If of my own will, Archinus, I came reveling, blame me ten thousand times; but if I come unwilling, let the rashness be. Strong wine and Love compelled me; of these the one dragged me, the other would not let me leave off my rashness. And coming, I did not shout out who I was or whose, but kissed the doorpost. If that is a wrong, I do wrong.
The stranger had a wound, and it went unnoticed. How painfully— did you see?—his breath came through his chest. He drew it up the third time as he drank, and the roses, shedding their leaves from the man's garlands, all fell to the ground. He is well roasted by something great; by the gods, it is no random guess I make—a thief, I have learned the tracks of a thief.
There is something, yes by Pan, that is hidden; there is, yes by Dionysus, here a fire beneath the ash. I am not confident; do not embrace me. Often a quiet river, unnoticed, gnaws away a wall; so now too I fear, Menexenus, lest this silent creeper slip in upon me and cast me into love.
"You will be caught; flee round about, Menecrates," I said on the twentieth of Panemos; and "On what day of Loios?"—"the tenth"— the ox came under the yoke of its own will. Well done, my Hermes, well done, mine! I make no complaint over the twenty days.
What a good charm Polyphemus discovered for the lovesick! Yes, by Earth, the Cyclops was no fool. The Muses, Philippus, make love grow lean. Truly, wisdom is an all-healing medicine for everything. This, I think, is the one good that hunger too holds among hardships: it cuts away the disease of love for boys. And to me it is granted to say without stint to Love: "Here, boy, your wings are clipped, little child, and not a crumb do we fear you; for the charms, both of them, are at home for the cruel wound."
The salt-cellar, on which, eating frugal salt, Eudemus escaped great storms of debts, he dedicated to the Samothracian gods, saying that this, according to his vow, O great ones, having been saved from the sea, he set up thus.
Asking for good learning when he gave me, Simon, the son of Miccus, to the Muses; and they, like Glaucus, gave a great gift in return for a small one. And I lie here gaping wide, the double Samian, the tragic Dionysus, listening to the boys; and they say, "The lock is sacred"—that is my dream to me.
Say, stranger, that I, Pamphilus, am dedicated here as the witness of the truly comic victory of Agoranax the Rhodian; not bitten by love, but half resembling a roasted fig and the lamps of Isis.
The Phrygian Aeschra, good milk, in every good thing Miccus, while she lived, tended in her old age; and when she died he dedicated her to be seen by those to come— how the old woman keeps the grace owed for her breasts.
Four are the Graces; for besides those three, one more was lately fashioned, and still is moist with perfumes. Blessed and conspicuous among all is Berenice, without whom not even the Graces themselves are Graces.
Theocritus, who darkens what is fair—if he hates me, hate him fourfold; but if he loves me, love him. Yes, by fair-haired Ganymede, heavenly Zeus, you too once loved—I say no more.
Again, Eileithyia, come at the call of Lycaenis, bringing safe delivery from her pangs, with a good birth; so that now, mistress, this offering for a girl, but next time for a son, your fragrant temple may hold some other gift.
That you have your due, Asclepius, the debt that Aceson owed by his vow for his wife Demodice, know it; and if perchance you forget, and demand it again, the tablet says it will furnish testimony.
To the Canopian god, Callistion, daughter of Critias, dedicated me, a lamp rich with twenty nozzles, having vowed it for her child Apellis; and looking into my light you will say, "Hesperus, how have you fallen?"
Euaenetus, who set me up, says—for I myself do not know it—that for his own victory I am dedicated, a bronze cock, to the sons of Tyndareus. I trust the son of Phaedrus, son of Philoxenides.
In the temple of Inachian Isis stands the child of Thales, Aeschylis, by the vow of her mother Eirene.
"Who are you, shipwrecked stranger?" Leontichus found you here a corpse upon the shore, and heaped this tomb over you, weeping for his own perilous life; for he himself has no rest, but like a gull he travels the sea.
Happy that, mad in all else, the ancient Orestes was not mad, Leucaretes, with my madness, nor put the Phocian to the test that proves a friend; but had he taught even one play, he would soon have lost his comrade by doing this— and I no longer have many Pyladeses such as those of old.
You who pass by the tomb of Cimon of Elis, know, as you pass, that you pass the son of Hippaeus.
Aenian Menecrates, you too were here not for long; what, best of strangers, brought you down? Was it the same that took the Centaur? The sleep appointed for me came on; and the poor wine bears the blame.
Cynthian goats, take heart; for the bow of Echemmas the Cretan lies in Ortygia beside Artemis, the bow with which he emptied your great mountain. But now he has ceased, you goats, since the goddess has made a truce.
So may you sleep, Conopion, as you make me lie down by these cold porches. So may you sleep, most unjust one, as you lull your lover to sleep, and have met not even pity in a dream. The neighbours pity me; but you—not even in a dream. And soon the grey hair will remind you of all this.