Short Poems

When it is the will of Bacchus my troubles vanish; I seem to have the wealth of Craesus and I long to sing.
I lie crowned with ivy and in imagination I am lord of all things. Prepare, and I will drink!
Slave, bring me a wine-cup. It is better to lie here drunk than dead.

I am old and I drink more than the young men; if I want to dance I will imitate Silenus in public and dance with a wine-jar for a staff — a reed is useless.
And if I want to fight I will fight and win too! Slave, bring me a cup filled with sweet honey-coloured wine.
I am old and I drink more than the young men.

We will scatter the rose of the Loves on the wine, we will bind the lovely-petalled rose on our brows and laugh and drink gaily.
Rose, O loveliest flower, rose, glory of the Spring, rose, beloved of the gods, rose, with whom Love garlands the clear hair of those who dance with the Graces — crown me! I will sing the shrines of Dionysus and dance beside a deep-breasted girl, garlanded with little roses.

Death passing by, and hearing parsons play
Stood much Amazed at his depth of skill
And said this Artist must wth me a way
for Death bereaues us of the better still
Yet Let the Quire whil'st hee keeps tyme sing on
For Parsons Rests his seruice being donn.

Lying through the night on sea-purple rugs, glad with Lyaeus, I fancied I saw a swift race stretched on the tips of their toes, with laughing girls and lads more exquisite than Lyaeus saying to me heart-piercing things through their beauty.
I tried to kiss them and all fled from my sleep; and yearning in pain I longed for sleep once more.

Love did not know there was a bee sleeping in the roses and was stung; he shook his finger and cried out.
He ran and fluttered to the beautiful Cytherean and exclaimed: " I am killed, mother, I am killed, I shall die! A little winged serpent which peasants call a honey-bee, stabbed me. "
And she answered: " If the sting of a honey-bee hurt so much, how do you think they suffer, Love, who are stung by you? "

We think you happy, O cicada, since drinking a little dew in the tree-tops you sing like a master. For all that you see in the fields, all that the woods bear are yours.
You are dear to the toiler; you harm no one; you are honoured by mortals, a sweet prophet of summer; the Muses love you and so does Phaebus who teaches you your shrill song.
Old age wears not upon you, O wise, earth-born song-lover! Unpained, innocent of blood, you are almost like the gods.

I would drink, stretched upon delicate myrtle boughs and lotus grass. And Love, with his robe fastened about his throat with papyrus, should serve me wine.
For like the wheel of a chariot rolling life hurries past and soon we lie, a little dust of loosened bones.
Why should one perfume a stone? Why shed foolishness upon earth?
While I live I will perfume my head and bind it with roses and speak the name of my mistress.
O Love, before I leave the dance to go under the earth I will scatter sorrow afar!

Love flays me with a hyacinth rod and bids me to fight.
I dash through the sharp torrents, the forests and the valleys; and my sweat exhausts me.
My heart leaps to my mouth and I desire death.
But Love brushes my brow with soft wings and whispers: " Can you not kiss? "

The husband of Cytherea by the furnace of Lemnos took iron and fashioned the shafts of the loves.
And Aphrodite took sweet honey to anoint the tips, but Love mingled gall with it.
Ares shaking his thick spear, sneered at Love's shaft, but Love said: " It is heavy; those who have felt it know that. "
Ares received the dart; Aphrodite smiled a little. But Ares groaned and cried: " It is heavy indeed — take it from me. " But Love said: " Keep it. "