Love, unbeatable in war,
Love, who ravishes wealth,
Who in the soft cheeks
Of girls keeps vigil,
And who roams the seas
And rustic hideaways:
Gods can’t elude you,
Nor can mortal men.
Who admits you goes mad.
You wrench just men’s minds
Into shameful wrongs.
(This family strife between men,
It’s you who stirred it.)
Desire, clear in the eyes
Of a fetching bride, prevails.
Desire reigns
Beside the great laws.
Irresistible god
Aphrodite frolics.
“There are many kinds of useful notions in this book,
Against a friend or an enemy, when speaking in court or assembly
Addressing a scoundrel or someone good and noble, for a stranger
Or someone in a rage, for someone drunk, or violent
Or anything bad that happens–this book has a sharp point for them.
It also has wise sayings– whoever heeds them becomes
Better and readier for every situation.
You don’t need to say a lot, just one of these words.
Steer any subject to whichever one of them fits.
Even though I was ready for many things, I used to be blamed
Because I was long winded, and could not give my opinion concisely.
So I listened to this complaint and I composed this craft
So that anyone may say “Epicharmus was a smart dude.
He spoke many clever ideas in short verses and now
He is letting us try to speak briefly as he does too!”
Everyone who learns these things will appear to be wise,
He won’t talk nonsense ever, if he remembers every word.
If someone is annoyed by something in these words,
Not because he has acted wrongly or is in disagreement with them,
Let him know that it is a good misfortune to nurture a broadly-informed mind.”
“Sing of Artemis, Muse, the far-shooter’s sister,
The archer maiden, Apollo’s playmate.
She has her horses drink from the reed-growing Meles,
Then drives her chariot quickly through Smyrna
To vine-growing Klaros, where Silverbow Apollo
Is seated, waiting for the far-shooting Archer.
Greetings to you and all goddesses with my song.
I begin to sing you and with your strength.
Now that I have begun, I turn to a different hymn.”
“I am singing of glorious Artemis with her golden missile,
That reverent maiden, the deer-shooting archer,
The twin sister of Apollo, the god of the golden sword.
She delights in hunting through the shaded mountains
And the peaks shaped by winds, aiming her golden bow
And releasing deadly, sorrowful shots. The mountains
Tremble at her passing; the forests echo terribly
From the cries of the beasts. The earth itself bristles
Along with the fish-filled sea. But with her courageous heart
She takes every turn, bringing murder to the wild creatures.
But when the animal watcher, the archer, is pleased
And has lightened her mind, she packs up her bent bow
And returns to her dear brother’s great home,
Joining Phoebus Apollo in the rich realm of the Delphians,
To help guide the Muses and Graces in their beautiful dance.
That’s where she hangs up her back-curved bow and leaves
Her arrows, putting a gorgeous gown over her skin
And leading the chorus out to sing in immortal voices
A hymn for fine-ankled Leto, how she bore two children
By far the best of the immortals in wisdom and deeds.
Greetings, children of Zeus and fine-haired Leto.
I will keep you in my memory with another song too.”
“(Phoebus with his golden locks, whom Coeus’ daughter
Bore after having sex with the great-named, high-cloud son of Kronos.
But Artemis swore the great oath of the gods:
“By your head, father, I will remain a maiden
unbroken, hunting over deserted mountain peaks.
Come, agree to this favor for me.”
So she spoke. And the father of the blessed gods assented.
Now gods and men call her the maiden huntress,
The shooter of deer, a magnificent name.
And that limb-loosener love never nears her.”
“My hair is gray already–
And at my temples it is white.
That charm of youth is no longer present
And my teeth are just old.
The great span of sweet life
isn’t left for me any more.
Now I often weep aloud,
Because I am afraid of Tartaros.
The inner hall of Hades is terrible
And the path to get there is hard.
One thing is certain:
The one who goes down, may not return.”
“I will let my lyre sing.
There’s no contest now,
But practice is important for
Everyone who has seen
a flowering of their art.
I will play with my ivory pick,
Shouting along in a Phrygian measure,
Crooning a clear melody
Like some swan from the Kaustros,
Sounding a complex beat
along with the rushing wind.
Muse, dance with me:
For the kithara is Apollo’s sacred thing,
Like the bay and the tripod too.
My gossip is Apollo’s love,
That unrequited compulsion:
The girl remains safe.
She fled his weapons
And changed the nature of her form,
Rooting herself in the ground to grow.
Phoebus? Well, Phoebus arrived,
Imagining that he ruled the girl,
But he merely picked young leaves,
acting out the mysteries of Aphrodite.”
“As I slept through the night
Under sea-purple blankets,
Stretched out, drunk,
I was dreaming I stretched out
Mid-run on a fast course,
On the very tips of my toes.
I was enjoying myself with the girls
But some boys younger
Than Luaios were mocking me,
Teasing me harshly,
Because of those pretty girls.
Then, they all ran away from my dream
When I reached out to kiss them.
They left me alone and poor me,
I only wanted to sleep again.”
“Along with garland bearing spring
I plan to sing clearly
Of her gentle companion, the rose.
This is the immortals’ breath,
This is delight for mortals,
And the Graces’ pride in all seasons,
The lovely plaything
Of blossoming Loves.
This is a theme for myths,
This charming shoot of the Muses,
Sweet to find when one is making
Their way along prickly paths;
Sweet to take in turn, to warm
In gentle hands, pressing
This light flower of Love.
Could we ever be without
The rose at the tables
And feasts of Dionysus?
Dawn is called rosy-toed,
The Nymphs are rosy-armed,
Aphrodite is tinted-rose
When named by people who know.
This pleasure is the same for the ignorant;
This is helpful to the sick too;
This helps protect the dead and
This even fights against time:
For the old age of roses
Retains the charming scent of something new
Come, let’s talk of its creation:
When from the murky sea
The water was giving birth to
Aphrodite dampened with foam,
And Zeus was displaying on his brow
War-loving Athena
A terror for Olympus to see,
The earth let flower
A new surprising growth of roses,
An intricate creation.
She made the rose to be
Like the blessed gods themselves–
Then Luaios watered it with nektar,
Joining it to the haughty thorn,
a life to last forever.
“Let’s mix the Loves’ rose
In with Dionysus.
Once we fit that fine-leaved
Rose to our temples,
Let’s drink and giggle.
Rose, the best blossom,
Rose, the spring’s crush,
Rose, a pleasure even to gods,
Rose, the flower Aphrodite’s child
Uses to tie up his pretty curls,
When he dances along with the Graces.
Crown me! And while I play
The lyre in your sacred places, Dionysus,
I will dance, my head covered
With garlands of rose
Alongside a deep-chested girl.”
