“Begin with Zeus,” Aratus said; but, Muse,
I do not think I’ll trouble you today.
If hanging out with boys is what I choose
To do, does that concern you anyway?
Don’t look for pious Priam in these pages,
Niobe’s tears, Medea’s jealous rages,
Nor Itys and his nightingales—enough
My predecessors scribbled of such stuff!
But Love, surrounded by the simpering Graces,
And Bacchus are ill-suited to straight faces.
Diodorus, boys’ things come in three
Shapes and sizes; learn them handily:
When unstripped it’s a dick,
But when stiff it’s a prick:
Wanked, you know what its nickname must be.
A twelve-year-old looks fetching in his prime,
Thirteen’s an even more beguiling time.
That lusty bloom blows sweeter at fourteen;
Sexier yet a boy just turned fifteen.
The sixteenth year seems perfectly divine,
And seventeen is Jove’s tidbit, not mine.
But if you fall for older fellows, that
Suggests child’s play no more but tit-for-tat.
Pale skins I like, but honey-coloured more,
And blond and brunette boys I both adore.
I never blackball brown eyes, but above
All, eyes of scintillating black I love.
That ass is the metrical equivalent
Of cash I discovered once by accident.
Loose girls lose their grip. They wear cheap scent.
Their kisses aren’t sincere or innocent.
Sweet smut is one thing they’re no good at talking.
Their looks are sly. The worst is a bluestocking.
Moreover, fundamentally they’re cold;
They’ve nothing for a groping hand to hold.
Remarking as I passed a flower-stall
A lad entwining buds and blooms together,
Smitten, I paused to ask him in a small
Voice how much his garland cost and whether
He’d sell it me? He hung his head and blushed
Like a rose: “Go on! or Dad will take a dim
View . . .” I bought a token wreath and rushed
Off home to bedeck and beseech the gods for him.
Delicious Diodorus, ripe for bed,
We’ll not forsake you even when you wed.
Notwithstanding that hairs, as I feared,
On your temples have lately appeared,
And your chin and your cheek,
My beloved’s physique
Is still mine, though he’s growing a beard.
When I had Philostratus last night
He was tight and did everything right,
But I couldn’t get hard;
Now my friends will discard
Me for not doing all Sodom might.
So fair, (but to his suitors so unfair),
Lado has barely grown some pubic hair
Yet loves a lad: what swift comeuppance there!
I surprised once some hardy young chaps
Playing doctor, near to a relapse.
When they begged me keep mum,
I replied, “I’ll play dumb,
If you’re willing to treat me, perhaps.”
If Deophilus, who was no more
Than a child when he kissed me before,
As an adult should kiss
His admirers like this,
They’ll be beating a path to his door.
A board at the baths pinched Graphicus’ ass, revealing
That even wood is capable of feeling.
Don’t be coy, Philostratus: divine
Love can trample on your heart and mine.
Only kiss me today;
You’ll discover one day
Yours are favours that some may decline.
The love of women leaves me cold; desire
For men, though, scorches me with coals of fire.
As women are the weaker sex, my yen
Is stronger, warmer, more intense for men.
A loveless life is hell, no doubt about
It; one can’t say or do a thing without
Longing. If Xenophilus came in sight,
Slow though I am, I’d reach the speed of light.
Far from avoiding what you can’t control,
Pursue it. Love’s the whetstone of the soul.
I can’t befriend you, eager though I am:
You ask for nothing, neither will you grant
Me anything I ask for; adamant,
For all my gifts you do not give a damn.
Is Zeus carousing with the blacks, I wonder,
Or visiting Danaë disguised as gold,
That he has not picked up fair Periander—
Or is he not the paederast of old?
How long need we sneak kisses, with oblique
Glances at one another wink and peek?
How long chat in this inconclusive way,
Adding delay to meaningless delay?
Phido, let’s waste no chance to work things out,
Before the killjoy hairs begin to sprout.
Calamity and conflagration! Strife!
Elissus has attained the time of life,
Sixteen, that’s made for love, and he has all
The adolescent graces great and small:
A honeyed voice, a mouth that’s sweet to kiss,
And an accommodating orifice.
But, “Look, don’t touch!” he tells me. What a fate!
I’ll lie awake all night and—meditate.
I used to laugh at young men who were not
Successful in their wooing. Now I’m caught;
Myiscus, on your gate winged Love has placed
Me, labelled as, “A Trophy of the Chaste.”
Should my Polemo come home safe to me
Just as he was when first he went to sea,
Phoebus, I’ll not forget the cockerell
I promised you if everything went well.
If he returns with either more or less
Than he had then, my vows are meaningless.
He’s come back with a beard! If that’s the thing
He prayed for, let him make the offering!
I promised you a cock, Apollo, when
Polemo came home safe to me again.
He came, but not to stay. His cheeks defaced
By fuzz, he fled from me with cruel haste.
No cock for you, Apollo! Would you cheat
Me with stubble in place of cream of wheat?
If my Polemo came back good as new,
Phoebus, I swore to sacrifice to you.
He’s safe but not himself. Whiskers detract
A lot from his homecoming, that’s a fact—
Whiskers he prayed for! Let him pay the price
Of my vain hopes, and make the sacrifice!
Seeing Polemo off smooth-cheeked as you,
Phoebus, I pledged to get him back again
One cock. Poor me! he’s not the boy I knew:
His disobliging bristles I disdain.
Why pluck that inoffensive bird in vain?
While you are at it, pluck Polemo too!
Cyrus is serious, no open book—
But what do I care as long as I can look?
Protarchus won’t say Yes, but later on
He will—once all the fires of youth are gone.
Your legs, Nicander, are becoming hairy;
Take care this doesn’t happen to your ass,
Or you will find your lovers getting very
Scarce. Irrevocably, your youth will pass.
By Themis, and this wine which makes me drunk,
Pamphilus, I think your lease on love has shrunk.
Hair on your thighs and on your cheeks suggests
Burgeoning heterosexual interests.
But if there’s one spark left, don’t be a tease!
Love overlooks no opportunities.
“Loveliest,”—remember when I made
That hackneyed observation?—“is the spring,
But swifter than a bird upon the wing.”
Now see how fast your bloom begins to fade.
A peach was Heraclitus when—don’t scoff!—
Still Heraclitus; now he’s past his prime
His hairy hide puts all assailants off.
On your cheeks too the curse will come in time.
I dined with coach Demetrius yesterday,
The luckiest of men! While one lad lay
Upon his lap, one by his shoulder stood;
One poured the drinks, another served the food.
I joked, “This foursome is a pretty sight!
And do you also coach the boys at night?”
Somebody said when snubbed, “Is Damon so
Beautiful he doesn’t say hello?
Time will exact revenge when, bye and bye,
Grown hairy, he greets men who won’t reply.”
Now you put out, when prickly down appears
Between your legs and underneath your ears.
“That feels so good!” you cry, “Do that again!”
But who prefers dry stubble to whole grain?
Cupid, who loves mankind to tantalize,
Sculpted Sotarchus’ bum for fun in butter,
Provoking Zeus: those buns looked better
Than even Ganymede’s ambrosial thighs.
Oh, what an ass! so gracefully lubricious
You never even leave old men in peace.
Tell me, what boy do you adorn, delicious
Bottom? The ass replied, “Menecrates.”
Nicander’s finished, there is not a trace
Of bloom or loveliness left in a face
I called divine. So, mortal youths, beware
Immortal thoughts; remember pubic hair.
Don’t take my clothes off! View me as a kind
Of statue, draped so almost nothing shows.
If you look for my naked charms, you’ll find
Amid a scratchy bush my rosebud grows.
No, Theron’s beauty does no longer please
Me, nor Apollodotus’ burnt-out charms.
I like cunt. Let bestial goatherds squeeze
Their hairy little bumboys in their arms!
Do not go empty-handed if you look
To win your heart’s desire, Hermogenes,
And smile again. Be sure to bait your hook
Well, or you will catch nothing. Qualities
Like shame and pity are, poor chickenhawk,
Not natural to such a greedy tease.
Little I care for your popular cyclical poem:
Such thoroughfares I thoroughly despise.
So I detest a boy who makes himself common,
Nor do I drink from public water supplies.
Yes, you are handsome, Lysanias, terribly handsome.
“And someone else’s!” instantly Echo replies.
Where once you could win over grasping boys
With birds and balls and jacks, all that beguiles
Them now is sweets or cash; old-fashioned toys
Don’t work. Find something new, you pedophiles!
Let fly, young Loves! I stand, the single butt
Of all you brats. Don’t spare me! Your success
Will win you fame, not just as marksmen, but
For the impressive weapons you possess.
Not twenty-two, yet I find life a stiff
Proposition. Why such hard attacks,
You dizzy darlings? What would you do if
I got hurt? Continue playing jacks?
An infant on his mother’s lap Love lay
And in one morning diced my life away.
Yes, kick me when I’m down, you spiteful sprite!
I feel your weight, I feel your fiery dart.
But if you try to set fire to my heart,
You can’t: it is incinerated quite.
Drink deep, boy-lover. Bacchus, bringer of
Oblivion, will soothe your hopeless love.
Drink deep, and as you drain the wine-filled bowl
Purge all the bitter anguish from your soul.
What’s wrong, Asclepiades? Drink, don’t weep!
Not you alone does cruel Venus keep
In thrall; not you alone is pungent lust
Transfixing. Why lie panting in the dust?
Drink unmixed wine. The east’s just touched with red;
Let’s wait for its lamp to light our way to bed
Once more. Poor, lovelorn wretch, drink deep:
Short is the time before our long, long sleep.
Drinking to Diocles, don’t dilute
The toast that I propose to honour his
Beauty: and if you call that in dispute,
I’ll be the one to say what beauty is!
Borne on a fair south wind, Andragathon
Has sailed away, and half my soul is gone.
Blessed the ships, the waves themselves are glad,
And fortunate the wind that blows the lad.
I wish I were a dolphin, so astride
My back to Rhodes, sweet boys’ home, he could ride.
Sea-faring freighters, the next time you sail
The Hellespont with a mild Northern gale,
If on the beach of Cos you chance to see
Phanion gazing at the grey-blue sea,
Say that desire is bringing me there, and
Not by sea, fair ships, but overland,
And straightaway a god-sent wind will blow
And fill your sails, if you will tell her so.
Venus, denying Cupid is her son,
Finds in Antiochus a better one.
This is the boy to be enamoured of,
Boys, a new love superior to Love.
Hail, son of Zeus and Leto! Where the seas
Wash Delos you dispense your prophecies.
Your counterpart is Echedemus, whom
Love has illumined with bewitching bloom,
So Athens, mistress of the land and sea
By beauty holds all Greece in slavery.
Praxiteles once carved a statue of
Venus’ son, the pretty god of love,
Who in his lovely image modelled this
Praxiteles, a living masterpiece,
So one on earth and one in heaven might reign,
Two Loves to deal love-charms to gods and men.
Blest isle of Cos for rearing this new-sprung
God-given Love, ring-leader of the young!
Praxiteles once from marble sculpted some
Image of beauty, lifeless, stony, dumb.
His modern namesake, by his magic art,
Modelled Love’s lively likeness in my heart.
The name’s the same; his works are more refined:
Instead of marble he transforms the mind.
I wish that he would kindly mould my whole
Nature and build Love’s temple in my soul.
Troezen grows sweet boys; you would not err
In praising the most unprepossessing there.
Empedocles with as much more splendour glows,
As does amid spring flowers the gorgeous rose.
Love, Tyre breeds pretty boys, but as the sun
The stars, Myiscus outshines every one.
When I see Thero I see everything;
But when he’s absent I can’t see a thing.
Watch out, Aribazus! Don’t seduce
All Cnidus! The very stones are coming loose.
You Persian mothers, what fair boys you bear!
But mine to me seems something more than fair.
Dumb Heraclitus signals with his eyes,
“I can ignite the lightning from the skies!”
And Diodorus secretly repeats,
“I melt the stone my body overheats.”
Poor sod, who from the eyes of one takes fire
And scents the other’s smouldering desire!
Zeus, lord of Pisa, crown another son
Of Cypris, Peithenor, born to succeed.
Like an eagle pray don’t grab this one
To pour your drinks instead of Ganymede.
Join me and the godlike boy in unison
If I brought you poetic gifts indeed.
Is Zeus the same who kidnapped Ganymede
To have his nectar beautifully served?
Pretty Myiscus privately I need
To keep, lest Zeus swoop on him unobserved.
Who does this boy deserve? Let Love decide!
If fit for the gods, I do not strive with heaven;
Should anything for mortal men abide,
Whose was he then? to whom is he now given?
I won, but Dorotheus took his leave.
Don’t be the next one whom good looks deceive!
I don’t see pretty Dionysius—
Zeus, for a new pot-boy did you snatch him?
When with swift wings you bore the beauteous
Lad off, I hope your talons did not scratch him!
I don’t want Charidamus. He looks up
To Zeus as if indeed he were his cup-
Bearer. Why take the king of heaven for
Successful sexual competitor?
Sufficient if, Olympus-bound, my sweet
With my terrestrial tears will wash his feet
In memory of my love—and add to this
One melting glance, one superficial kiss.
Let Zeus have all the rest. Should he allow,
I too shall taste ambrosia, somehow.
Take pleasure, Zeus, in your first catamite
And gaze from afar at mine. I am forgiving.
But if you carry off the boy by might
Your tyranny will make life not worth living.
I shall stand up to Zeus, should he design
To snap Myiscus up to serve his wine.
Zeus often said to me himself, “Afraid
I’ll make you jealous? Sympathy has made
Me merciful.” The antics of this fly*
Alarm me: can an eagle tell a lie?
Cleonicus, poor sod, where have you been?
I’d hardly recognize you, sight unseen,
You’re merely skin and bones. Are you obsessed
Like me, a victim of some god’s grim jest?
So Euxitheus took you by surprise,
The rogue who gazed at beauty with both eyes!
Sweet dawn already! Sleepless on the porch
Damis expires for Heraclitus, who
Has melted him like wax with eyes that scorch
Like coals. Unlucky Damis, wake! I too
Have been hurt by carrying the torch
For Love, and so I weep because you do.
Half of my soul still breathes, but I don’t know
If Love has rapt the other half away,
Or Death. Gone to some little gigolo?
(I told the lads, “Rebuff the runaway.”)
Look no further: that’s where it would go,
I’m sure, the ne’er-do-well, the débauché.
*Myiscus = “fly boy”
If, Cleobulus, I should expire
Being cast on the juvenile pyre,
As to ashes I burn
Sprinkle wine on my urn
And inscribe it, “To Death from Desire.”
If you had wings, a bow, and arrows too,
I’d not think Cupid Venus’ son, but you.
If Cupid had no bow, no wings, and no
Quiver filled with fiery arrows of
Desire, by looks alone you’d never know
Zoilus from the wingèd god of love.
If you had golden wings, and from your shoulder
Dangled, dear, a silver arrow-holder,
And you stood next to Love in naked splendour,
Venus would wonder which did she engender.
If, instead of wings and a bow, Love had
A mantle and a hat with a broad brim,
Antiochus—I swear by the proud lad
Himself!—would look like Love, and Love like him.
Antipater, when love began to pall,
Kissed me, and from ashes stirred desire.
Twice burnt by the same flame, I warn off all
Poor lovers, lest they touch me and catch fire.
Poor tearful spirit, does the dormant pain
Of love within your heart flare up again?
For God’s sake, most irrational of souls,
Do not stir up those smouldering, banked coals!
Oblivious of your woes you got away,
But when Love catches you he’ll make you pay.
Unhappy, self-deceiving lovers who
Have known the bittersweet of boy-love too,
Pour round my heart cold water, quick, which flows,
My fellow slaves, from freshly melted snows.
At Dionysius I dared to gaze:
Before I am consumed put out the blaze.
I tried to fly from Love, who snatched a brand
Out of the coals and found my hiding place.
Bending, not his bow but his small hand,
He flicked a pinch of fire in my face,
Enveloping me in flames. Sweet firebrand,
Now you have made my heart your fireplace.
Love did not wound me with his normal dart;
He lit no blazing torch beneath my heart,
But in my eyes infused a fragrant fire,
Companion to disorderly Desire,
Melting me down: a tiny spark to start
This soulful conflagration in my heart!
Help! I have only to set foot on land,
Having survived my maiden voyage, and
Love drags me here by force and shines his light
On this boy’s beauty: what a lovely sight!
I dog his steps, and grasping for his fair
Imaginary form, I kiss thin air.
Have I escaped the briny deep and found
Bitterer depths of longing on dry ground?
Drunkards, make room for one who, safe ashore,
Escaped the sea, and pirates furthermore,
No sooner disembarked upon dry land
Than Love lays hold of me by brute force and
Drags me to see a certain boy pass by.
And here, averse, like a sleepwalker I
Stagger, not drunk with wine but with desire.
Give me a little help as I expire,
Dear strangers, take me in, a ruined guest,
For Love’s sake honour friendship’s last request.
Lady Venus generates our lust
For females; Cupid pricks desire for males.
Which shall I turn to? Even Venus must
Admit her cheeky little brat prevails.
Brash Love, you make me dizzy! Do I yearn
For women? No, for my own sex I burn.
Enflamed by Damon, every time I see
Ismenus I am plunged in misery.
I stare at others too; my roving eye
Is caught by every boy who passes by.
Two tempestuous passions having ground
Me down, in double madness I am bound.
As soon as to Asander’s person I
Incline, Telephus’ catches my keen eye.
How nice it would be if they could divide
Me equally, and then let chance decide!
Why, Venus, must you take a triple shot
At me, and lodge three arrows in my soul?
I’m pulled this way and that, and don’t know what
I want; this rabid fire consumes me whole.
I’m through with love! Three bad upsets I’ve had:
A courtesan, a maiden, and a lad,
All painful. Long did I besiege the whore’s
Door, which was posted, NO SOLICITORS,
And lying sleepless in a colonnade,
I showered longing kisses on the maid;
Ah, how describe the third? From him, as yet,
Glances and promises are all I get.
Two loves consume my soul. I, having gone
Everywhere looking for a paragon,
Spotted Antiochus, whose charm enjoys
Preeminence among our golden boys.
That should suffice! Why seek a younger one,
Delicious Stasicrates, Venus’ son?
The pair of you are helpless to control
What you may well destroy, this single soul.
My eyes give me away, those boy-hounds who
Stick ever to their quarry’s tracks like glue!
As sheep catch wolves, and fuel catches fire,
As birds catch snakes, you’ve caught your new desire.
Do as you please. But why shed tears like rain,
Then run right after Hiketas again?
Go on and baste yourself in his good looks:
Love is the chef of sentimental cooks.
Boys are an inextricable maze;
Like glue they hold the transitory gaze.
Here Theodorus’ carnal charms attract
You, limbs so round and firm and fully packed;
Here golden-skinned Philocles, who is all
Heavenly grace, although not very tall.
If on Leptinus’ form your eyes you cast,
You cannot budge, your feet will be stuck fast
As adamant; that youngster’s looks are so
Ardent they’ll kindle you from top to toe.
Hail, lovely boys! May you attain your prime,
And live until your hair turns white with time.
Diodorus is a living treasure,
Heraclitus always seems on view,
Dion’s conversation gives much pleasure,
So does Uliades’ backside, too!
Stroke the delicate-complexioned boy,
Ogle him you find the prettiest;
Chat up the chatterbox, and then enjoy
The favours of the favoured . . . and all the rest.
You know I do not have a jealous nature,
Philocles, but if you presume to cast
Lecherous glances on Myiscus’ ass, your
Glimpse of beauty might well be your last.
Philocles, if Desire, sweet Blandishment,
And the Graces, beauty’s botanists, consent,
Embracing Diodorus may you see
Sweet Dorotheus singing vis-à-vis,
While holding Callicrates on your knee;
May Dion’s little fingers hotly grip
Your horny prick, which Uliades’ strip;
May you share Philo’s kiss and Thero’s talk,
And feel Eudemus up beneath his smock.
If, blessèd man, god granted you such joys,
You’d have arranged a smorgasbord of boys.
There’s truth in the old adage, that the gods
Do not give everybody the same odds.
Your form is flawless, modesty shines in
Your eyes, a charming bloom is on your skin,
Surpassing other youths. But for your feet,
All this god-given grace would be complete.
But, Pyrrhus, slip your foot into this shoe—
It will embellish and astonish you.
Eupalamas—or Lilyfoot—above
His waistline blushes roseate as Love;
However, dawn does not extend from his
Waist down. How stingy Mother Nature is!
Were his bottom and his top the same,
He’d put Achilles’ bronze physique to shame.
Binding the poet’s soul with briars, Desire
Tries to relax it over a slow fire,
But the hard-working bookworm still makes light
Of everything but this malicious sprite.
I’m caught by Love. I never dreamt I’d learn
With ardour for another male to burn.
I’m caught, yet sinful passion played no part:
A pure and modest glance enflamed my heart.
My labour for the Muses—all in vain!
My mind, on fire, is fraught with dulcet pain.
To what strange port of longings, pitiless
Venus, towards love’s pain, well though you know it,
You’ve brought me, in unbearable distress
To protest, “None but Venus hurt this poet”!
Transfixing with a look my unscathed heart,
Myiscus cried, “I’ve caught the brash upstart!
Behold how underfoot I trample now
The pride of regal wisdom on his brow!”
I gasped, “Dear boy, why should you feel surprise?
Love dragged great Zeus himself down from the skies.”
After each mountain hare the hunstman goes,
Tracking each doe’s footprints through frosts and snows,
But any stricken creature he descries
He does not bag. My love, perverse likewise,
Understands how to chase the fleet and shy
Game, but what’s obvious it passes by.
I give back love for love and hate for hate,
Completely ignorant of neither state.
I want my love exclusive. If it strays,
Venus, I hate a love with common ways.
A little Love, I left my mother’s home;
Easily caught, from Damis’ I don’t roam,
Loving, beloved, (rivals I have none),
Commingling not with many but with one.
Myiscus’ looks are all my avid eyes
Know how to dote on, sightless otherwise.
He’s all my fantasy. Must every glance
Flatter the soul? Must eyes be psychophants?
If comely Dionysius picks me,
May The Graces keep him ever fair!
But should he pass me over heartlessly,
Good riddance to bad rubbish, I declare.
Acrastus, if you care for me, you are
Like unmixed Chian wine, but sweeter still.
If you choose someone else, I hope you will
Turn musty as a jar of vinegar.
Is tender Diodorus, who turned on
Our youth, transfixed by bittersweet desire,
Enflamed by lickerish Timarion?
A novel marvel: fighting fire with fire.
His eyes flash beauty sweet enough to scorch:
Does Love equip young boys with thunderbolts?
Bringing a sexy gleam to mortal dolts,
Myiscus, shine on earth, my darling torch.
While Love has wings, you’re swift of foot. You’re cute
As well. A pity that you cannot shoot!
Be quiet, lads! Archesilaus to bring
Love here, bound him with Venus’ crimson string.
Timarion you snared, by fluttering
Your eyelids, Love, and caught him on the wing.
Hail, morning star, fair messenger of dawn!
As evening star, bring back the sweet cheat gone.
Having imbibed pure madness, I am made
Tipsy by words, by drunken folly armed.
So what if it thunders on my serenade?
Love’s body armour will keep me unharmed.
I’ll serenade him absolutely stewed:
“Accept, dear boy, this wreath with tears bedewed.”
Go all that way for nothing? Though the night
Is dark, Themison is my guiding light.
That’s settled. Light the lights, I’m on my way.—
Drink makes you bold.—Why worry? I’ll go pay
Him court.—Your wit’s astray.—Does love allow
Reason? Lights, quick!—Where is your logic now?
Forget the quest for wisdom! All I know,
Is, Love brought Zeus’ lofty spirit low.
Scold me, Archinus, for my headstrong wooing,
Or call your magnetism my undoing.
Strong drink moved me, and love, which drew my soul,
While drinking robbed me of all self-control.
I kissed your door but did not shout my name
Or yours. If that’s a crime, I am to blame.
I’ll tolerate your rudeness, Bacchus. Start
The party, god that rules the human heart.
Born from the fire, you love love’s flame; enchain
Me as your faithful follower again.
Perfidiously you tell me to conceal
Your mysteries, yet mine you would reveal.
I’ll take up arms and never will say die,
Mere mortal though I am. Love, stay your hand!
While you may capture me when drunk, when I
Am sober, I have reason at command.
Traipsing some narow pathway did the Graces,
Cleonicus, meet you with shining faces,
And take you in their rosy-armed embrace
Making of you an honorary Grace?
I’ll keep my distance, thank you: tinder near
A fire would be in jeopardy, my dear.
Staring Aristagoras in the face,
The Graces clasped him in a fond embrace,
His beauty blazes now, his talk is sweet,
When mute his smiling eyes are indiscreet.
I wish he’d go away! But what’s the use?
He throws his thunderbolts as far as Zeus.
I crowned young Menecharmus, when he gained
The title, with the wreath of victory,
And kissed him, too, though he was all blood-stained:
That blood seemed sweeter than perfume to me!
Seeing young Echedemus sneak a peek
Outdoors, I slyly kissed the little sneak.
Then, dressed like Cupid, in a dream he shocks
Me with the present of two fighting cocks.
Now smiling, now unfriendly. Did I seize
Fire or a thistle or a swarm of bees?
Love brought between my sheets a laughing lad
One night. Eighteen years old, he was half-clad,
Like a young boy: what a sweet dream! I pressed
Smooth flesh in desperation to my breast.
Warmed by that lustful memory, I keep
Before my eyes phantasmagoric sleep.
When will my lovesick soul in dreams refrain
From chafing beauty’s images in vain?
Now I have just begun to feel the pain:
Hot, errant Love has scratched my heart again.
Smirking he said, “Poor lover, you will bear
The sentimental brand of sweet despair.”
Nor can I, when amongst the boyish band
I spot young Diophantes, stir or stand.
I saw Alexis strolling down the road
One noon, when Summer’s locks were cropped. He glowed
So twin beams dazzled me, the sexy ones
His boyish eyes emitted, and the sun’s;
But while the solar rays were quenched by night,
In dreams the form of beauty still burnt bright.
Sleep, kind to others, proved to me unkind,
Etching this incandescence in my mind.
No longer shall the hillsides shrill with an
Air to Daphnis flattering randy Pan;
Nor can the lyre, Apollo’s mouthpiece, praise
Hyacinth garlanded with virgin bays.
Daphnis, the mountain nymphs’ delight, is gone,
And Hyacinth, Apollo’s paragon;
So now let Dion wield desire’s baton.
The stones of Argos praise their native son,
Fair Philocles, whose far-famed name is one
Scrawled in the baths of Amphiaraus, too.
His namesake won’t be worsted by a few
Inscriptions! No graffitti spread his fame,
But those who’ve seen him in the flesh proclaim
He outstrips anyone of the same name.
Again and again I’ve said and still repeat,
“Pretty Dositheus’ eyes are sweet.”
These words, inscribed upon no oak or pine
Or wall, Love branded on this heart of mine.
Believe no one who tells you otherwise;
Only I know the truth, and I’ll swear he lies.
Lady who frequents Miletus, Cyprus and Cythera
And the beautiful ground of horsey Syria,
Kindly visit Callistion, the sort of whore
Who never turned a frequent visitor from her door.
Did I not warn my soul, “You will get caught,
Flitting too often to that risky spot?”
Too late; the trap is sprung. In vain you gasp
Now Love has your pin-feathers in his grasp
And spits you on the fire, and as you sink,
Bastes you with scent, and gives you tears to drink.
Belaboured soul, now almost burnt to death,
And now reviving as you catch your breath,
Why weep? You took hard-hearted Love to nurse,
Never guessing he would prove a curse?
The wage of your good nursing now you know,
Receiving for it fire and frigid snow.
You asked for it, and got your just deserts,
Once burnt, apprised how Love’s hot honey hurts.
I thirsted in the summertime to kiss
A silken lad, and, satisfied, said this:
“Such is the kiss that Zeus like nectar sips
From Ganymede’s intoxicating lips.
Kissing Antiochus, fair for his age,
My soul imbibed a honeyed beverage.”
Our quest conceals a wound we never guessed:
Look how he heaves a sigh, as if distressed,
With his third drink. The roses he was crowned
With all have shed their petals on the ground.
There’s something troubling him, and my belief
Is sound: it takes a thief to catch a thief.
One test of love is wine. When he denied
His love, a glass proved Nicagoras lied:
He looked downcast, and bowed his head, and cried,
And round his brow the garland came untied.
Twittering birds, why vex me with your gabble
While I am basking in a fleshy boy’s
Charms. Go to sleep, please, nightingales, don’t babble
Among the leaves like women. Stop that noise!
To lovers, chanticleer, you bring bad news
At dawn. Now when the lovelong night’s so brief
Why are you making this ear-splitting noise,
Crowing above my bed to mock my grief
Tonight? What gratitude for your upbringing!
This dawn will hear the last of your harsh singing.
In fear of Fall, why, grapevine, do you keep
Your leaves till the Pleiades sink in the West,
With Antileon dreamily asleep
Beneath you? Gratify the prettiest.
By Pan and Dionysus! there is flame
Concealed beneath these ashes all the same.
I’ve lost my nerve; don’t hug me! Often small
Still streams unnoticed undermine a wall;
I fear the dumb insinuations of
Menexenus are prodding me to love.
One look at Archestratus and I said,
“His looks are not exceptional.” To teach me,
Nemesis took and threw me on a bed
Of coals, where Zeus’s thunderbolts could reach me.
Which, boy or goddess, should I satisfy?
The boy is better. Nemesis, goodbye!
You uttered what no deity would dare,
Audacious critic: “Thero isn’t fair.”
Not fair to you, perhaps! You’ve no excuse,
Uncowed by all the thunderbolts of Zeus.
Grave Nemesis now ridicules your chatter
To reprimand bad manners and no matter.
Beneath a plane tree Dexionicus,
Catching a blackbird, held it by the wing;
The sacred bird complained and made a fuss.
Dear Love, you blooming Graces, let me sing
As thrush or blackbird, in that youngster’s grasp
And pour forth mawkish tears at my last gasp.
“Hermes, one struck by boy-love tried to pluck
The sharp barb out.”
“I had no better luck.”
“Apollophanes wastes me with desire.”
“You first, we’ve both been thrown on the same fire.”
Thief of hearts, why jettison your cruel
Arrows and bow and, weeping, fold your wings?
Invincible Myiscus’ looks must fuel
Repentance for your previous philanderings.
Unhappy paederasts, cease your inane
Exertions! All our hopes are mad. As vain
As dredging up sea-water on dry land
Or numbering the grains of desert sand
Is a yen for boys, whose indiscreet
Charms are to mortals and immortals sweet.
Just look at me! My efforts heretofore
Have all been emptied on the arid shore.
As soon as I had trapped I lost the kid;
I’d staked out snares and laboured to deploy them,
But came off empty-handed. Those who did
No work take what is mine—may Love destroy them!
Kidnapped! Who would have the nerve to try it?
Against Love who is so bold to campaign?
Hurry, light the lamps! A footstep? Quiet!
My heart, get back inside my breast again!
I know I am not wealthy, Menippus;
Don’t tell me what I perfectly recall.
I’m pained by your constant acrimonious
Words, the most unloving thrusts of all.
Last month Menecrates, you know I joked
You would be caught although you ran away?
This month the bull calf’s eager to be yoked,
But I shall not complain of the delay.
How excellent the love-charm Polyphemus
Invented! That cyclops was no ignoramus.
The Muses starve desire into submission,
And wisdom is a general physician.
There’s this to recommend the pangs of hunger,
Philip: they cure sick hankerings for younger
Boys. To the love god I pronounce this spell, “Oh
Ho, your wings are clipped, my little fellow!
I don’t fear you one bit. At home I have,
For Love’s infected wound, two kinds of salve.”
When you beheld the sexiest of blooming
Boys, Apollodotus you were shown;
If you weren’t overwhelmed by all-consuming
Lust, a god you must be, or a stone.
Attractive Heraclitus is my own
Magnet, not drawing iron like a stone,
But my soul by his loveliness alone.
Once Archeades used to rub against
Me, now when playing games he doesn’t nod.
Love’s not all honeydew. When he torments
Us Love becomes an even sweeter god.
Myiscus’ name is charming, too, which leaves me
No reason for not falling at his feet.
He’s beautiful all over. When he grieves me,
Love interweaves the bitter with the sweet.
[Boy] Don’t speak to me like that again!
[Go-between] No, no,
Only someone sent me . . . Don’t be vexed.
[Boy] That’s the second time!
[Go-between] He told me, ‘Go!’
Come on, they’re waiting for you. Why so slow?
[Boy] We’ll see who’s waiting. I know what comes next.
My love, Diodorus, is like a spring
Storm, of the fluid sea’s engendering.
You imitate a thundercloud, then after
The weather clears, your eyes brim with soft laughter.
Like a castaway who counts the steep
Waves, I am tempest-tossed upon the deep;
Give me, that I may know in which direction
To swim, marks of aversion or affection.
My skipper’s Venus, Cupid mans the helm,
Holding my spirit’s rudder in his hand;
Desire blows hard enough to overwhelm
Me, breasting a sea of boys from every land.
To you, Theocles, Mistress Venus gave
Me. Stretched out at your feet, a naked slave,
An outcast, I was tamed by Love’s tight grip.
I’d like a less abject relationship,
But you rebuff my overtures, unmoved
By how far our relations have improved.
Have pity, lord! For god made you divine:
The means of life and death are yours, not mine.
To you, Myiscus, my whole soul is tied,
And all the life and breath in me beside,
For by your eyes that speak, I don’t know how,
To deaf and dumb, and by your shining brow,
Your gloomy glance or laughing look can bring
The chill of winter or the flowers of spring.
Bravely shall I endure my inner pain,
The bondage of this irritating chain;
It’s not the first time I have learned Love’s ire,
Nicander: often have I felt desire.
May Nemesis exact harsh recompense,
Implacably, for his malevolence.
Youth-loving Dorcion knows how to shoot
Swift darts of vulgar Venus from her eyes,
Dazzling with desire, just like some cute
Boy with his cap and smock and naked thighs.
While not yet armed and dangerous, my love,
An infant, comes to Venus holding these
Tablets of gold, and lisps the love-charms of
Philocrates that psyched Antigenes.
Love has devised a winning combination—
Not emerald with gold, which glitters less,
Nor ebony with ivory. Solicitation
Shows Eubolus Cleander’s friendliness.
Honey-flavoured wine’s as savorous
As boy-love when oneself is under-age.
Alexis’ love for sleek Cleobulus
Is Venus’ sweet, immortal beverage.
Cleobulus’ candid blossoms opposite
Sopolis’ honey-coloured bloom excite
Lust for these flower-boys. They say Love knit
Me, Meleager, out of black and white.
If of my soul there’s still some tiny piece
Left, Loves, please do let it rest in peace,
Or, not with arrows but with lightning-flashes,
Reduce me totally to smoking ashes.
Yes, strike me down, exhausted and distressed:
Grant me, if nothing more, this last request.
Myiscus, despite this wintry wind I’m swept
Away by Love’s sweet tears to pay you court.
Desire is like a hurricane. Accept
This loving mariner into your port.
To Nanno and to Lydé, that makes two
Cups; to Mimnermus, sympathetic to
Lovers, and prudish Antimachus too.
The fifth’s for me, the sixth in honour of
Anyone who ever fell in love.
Hesiod, seven, Homer, eight, and then
The Muses, nine, and Memory makes ten.
I drain the brimming bowl to Love, a lad
Who, drunk or sober, doesn’t look too bad.
I thought I had escaped my worst oppressor,
Theodore, when I threw off your weight.
Aristocrates proved a worse successor,
And now my third slavemaster I await.
By frankincense and by libations I
Swear, and the potations that decide
The limits of our friendship, dread gods by
Whom dusky Athenaeus testified.
Zephyr, bring beautiful Euphragoras
Back, whom you took away not long ago
On pilgrimage. For lovers short months pass
Like a milenium, but twice as slow.
Since hating’s a bore and loving is a bore,
I like the nicer of two boredoms more.
Demo and Thermion slay me: one’s a whore
Whereas the other doesn’t know the score.
I fondle one, the other I may not;
I don’t know which one I desire more!
The virgin, I’ll say; for I don’t long for what
Is handy, but what is arduously got.
How much longer, Cyrus, will you fight us
Off? You should be nice to older men.
Soon you’ll get Harry, so do not play Titus
Now, for you will not be stuck-up then.
If you don’t want your cronies leering at
Your slaveboys, pick them less effeminate.
What man of adamant resists the joys
Of love and wine and quizzing pretty boys?
They’re part of living. But to some place with no
Drinking or sex, if that’s your crotchet, go:
Tiresias and Tantalus meet there,
One cannot see, and one can only stare.
Menippus, why go shrouded to your feet?
You used to hike your robe up to your thighs.
Why hang your head in silence when we meet?
Your prickly privates come as no surprise.
Last night Moiris, when we said goodnight—
Really, or was I dreaming?—squeezed me tight.
Everything else I perfectly recall,
What he asked me, what he said, and all.
I guess he kissed me; but, if that is so,
Why, raised to heaven, linger here below?
Theudnis turned me on, all other bright
Stellar boys his rising sun outshone;
He’s still a sun, though in decline: each night
More hirsute, nonetheless he turns me on.
I swore I’d never tell a soul a thing
(Not even myself) of Theudnis’ offering.
But my rebellious soul could not refuse
In exultation spreading the good news.
In a word—forgive me—he put out.
What use is luck you cannot brag about?
I feel a trifle warm. You with the fine
Napkin, boy, stop waving it about.
The fire in me was kindled by the wine
You served; your fanning will not put it out.
It is a pious fable that the Graces
Number three, Theocles, and are kind;
How many graceful marksmen guard your face’s
Graces, the soul-destroyers of mankind?
Don’t waste your kisses, Daphnis! Love’s last ember
Is quenched, and I shall call you my sweetheart
No longer. Your resistance I remember:
Is it too late now for a change of heart?
Heliodorus, what’s a kiss unless
With avid lips you thrust yourself on me?
Instead you peck my cheek, emotionless,
As if you were a waxen effigy.
With Menedemus all you need to do
Is wink; he’ll tell you plainly, “Go ahead!”
Without demur. He’s way ahead of you,
Wide open as a ditch—or riverbed?
Such airy-fairy boys, with purple edges
On their robes, are hard to get as those
Ripe figs that grow high up on rocky ledges,
Which vultures gobble, Diphilus, and crows.
Mentor, how long will you continue so
Conceited you won’t even say hello,
Proposing in the Pyrrhic dance to spend
An endless youth? Look rather to your end.
Face hair will cause you terminal distress;
You’ll learn the meaning, then, of friendlessness.
How teach a boy that fundamental skill,
Sight-reading, when your voice is changing still?
From shrill soprano to gruff bass you swoop
So quickly, from a whisper to a whoop.
But study harder, show the envious
Active and passive, Dionysius.
If when I kiss you you consider this
Outrageous, make my penalty a kiss.
Who crowned you with this rosy wreath? Some kind
Admirer? Your father? Well, he isn’t blind.
Happy the artist and the medium
Which by your loveliness were overcome!
I wish I were a woodworm, feeding on
The board on which your likeness has been drawn.
Just yesterday a boy, till this damned beard,
Undreamt of, suddenly appeared somehow,
Hiding with hair your former beauty. Weird
How one who was Troilus then is Priam now!
Long hair, abundant artificial curls
Give me no pleasure: they belong on girls.
No, give me boys all sweaty from the gym,
Glistening with oil on every limb.
I like sex unembellished, scenting in
Glamour a whiff of something feminine.
Ignoring Nemesis, whose strictures stress,
Artemidorus, “Nothing in excess”,
You act more arrogant and boorish than
The most uncouth, loud-mouthed comedian.
Remember this, proud lad, when you are crossed
In love, and must perform Love’s Labour’s Lost.
If Zeus still snatched up mortal boys on high
To serve delicious nectar in the sky,
By now a pinioned eagle would have pressed
My darling into service with the blest.
But let the ruler of the world take heed:
Agrippa will eclipse his Ganymede.
There are no breezy meadows blossoming
So densely with the splendours of the spring
As, Dionysius, you’ll see acclaimed
Boys here by Venus and the Graces framed.
Milesius, outstanding among those,
Flourishes like a fragrant, lustrous rose,
Oblivious, perhaps, that as a fair
Flower wilts in the heat, his prime hangs by a hair.
Your sparkling eyes, Lycinus, what divine
Beauties! Call them rather fiery rays.
I cannot, facing you, sustain with mine
Momentarily your blazing gaze.
Which of the sages said, “Know the right time,”
Philip? All things are choicest at their prime.
A green cucumber is praiseworthy till
Overripe, when it becomes pig swill.
A friend of youth, I have no youth in mind,
For each has beauties, of a different kind.
I’ve had enough to drink; my heart and soul
As well as tongue are losing self-control.
The lamp flame bifurcates; I multiply
The dinner guests by two each time I try.
Not only shaken up by the wine-waiter,
I ogle too the boy who pours the water.
I loathe a boy who won’t be hugged and kissed,
Raises his voice and hits me with his fist,
Nor do I wish the wanton willingness
Of one who in my arms at once says, Yes.
I like one in between who seems to know
The secret of saying at once Yes and No.
If pretty soon the rogue does not appear,
I swear Cleonicus may stay away.
Why swear? He had a dream, but he’ll be here
Tomorrow. We’ll survive another day.
As soon as I saw your letter, Damis, saying
That you were coming, Love blew me so fast
From Smyrna to Sardis, that the winds, relaying
Each other, surely would have come in last.
You kiss me against my will, as I do you,
Pleasant when spurned, unpleasant when I woo.
Were downy Diocles to trade his ass
For Sosiades’, he’d get gold for brass,
Roses for brambles, figs for toadstools, or
A lamb for an ox. And what did you get for
Your favours, foolish boy? The pleasures had
By hairy heroes in the Iliad !
The kid next door exites me, with his bold,
Enticing glances and precocious snigger—
Although he is no more than twelve years old!
Green fruit grows free. He’ll be locked up when bigger!
A. To start with, grapple your opponent round
The waist, bestride and pin him to the ground.
B. You’re mad! For that I’m hardly competent,
Wrestling with boys is something different.
Withstand my onslaught, Cyris, hold your own!
Let’s practice together what you do alone.
Yesterday in the bath Diocles’ penis
Rose from the water like The Birth of Venus.
On Ida, if he’d sprung this same surprise,
Paris would have given it the prize.
I do not, little book, begrudge your luck,
Should any adolescent reader tuck
You under his chin, or nibble you, or press
You with his hairless thighs—what happiness!
How often you would sidle next his heart,
Or, dropped on a seat, dare touch a certain part!
You speak to him in private frequently,
Slim volume; now and then please speak of me.
Don’t lie there at my side inert and glum,
Diphilus, like a kid who’s gone astray.
What about some kisses, cuddles, some
Pillow talk and amorous foreplay?
Three in one bed: while two are being done
Two are doing them. Resolve this riddle.
Strange but true: the fellow in the middle
In front and in behind is having fun.
Were you a novice I’d tried to persuade
To vice, you might be right to be afraid;
But since your master’s bed taught you a lot,
Why not treat someone else to what you’ve got?
Called to your post, your duty done, without
A word, your sleepy master throws you out.
But here are other pleasures, free speech and
Fun by solicitation not command.
What now, my pet, depressed, in tears again?
What do you want? Don’t torture me! Speak plain.
You hold your palm out! I’m disgusted at
Your asking payment. Where did you learn that?
Seed cakes and conkers will not make you merry
Now, that your mind has grown so mercenary.
I curse the customer with his perverse
Lessons who made my little rascal worse!
Against a wall you lean your fundament,
Cyris. Why tempt the stone? It’s impotent.
You’d say, “I’m rich!”, if you sold me the thing
I crave. Now grant it freely, like a king.
Now Spring, you will be Summer soon. Recall,
Cyris, how you’ll be stubble in the Fall.
In solitude, you prick, you lift your head,
Who yesterday in company played dead.
You’re off to join the army? Such a nice
Mama’s boy should think about it twice.
Who prompted you to wear a helmet, wield
A spear and hide your head behind a shield?
Lucky that new Achilles who will spend
Time in his tent with such a bossom friend!
Tell me, Pasiphilus, how long must I
Endure your laughter and your vapid chatter?
I ask, you laugh; again, and no reply.
You laugh at my tears, which are no laughing matter.
Ungrateful teachers, you want money, too?
Isn’t the sight of boys enough for you?
Is chatting up and greeting your young scholars
With a kiss not worth a hundred dollars?
If you have winning kids, send them to me;
And if they’ll kiss me they can name their fee.
Prometheus, for spiriting away
Fire are you bound, or marring mortal clay?
You gave boys body hairs, the horrid basis
Of fuzzy shanks and, what’s worse, fuzzy faces.
Therefore you feed the eagle that once bore
Off Ganymede. Zeus too finds beards a bore.
O eagle, flap your widespread wings and fly
Conveying Ganymede to Zeus’s sky.
Grip tight the tender youth and don’t let fall
The server of his sweetest drinks of all.
Be careful you don’t scratch him with your claws,
Or Zeus will be annoyed, and with just cause.
A wrestling coach who’d bent a hairless lad
Over his knee, to stroke his midriff, had
Him by the nuts, when, seeking the little guy,
The head of the establishment chanced by.
The trainer flipped his pupil on his back,
Bestrode him, and put his hands around his neck,
Quickly. His boss, who knew a trick or two,
Said, “Squeezing the kid a little hard, aren’t you?”
A boy looks so charming as he faces you,
You don’t gaze at his backside as you pass;
As in a temple when we face a statue
We seldom bother to inspect its ass.
Together down the primrose path we go,
And, Diphilus, take care to keep it so.
We both boast high-flown qualities: you glory
In beauty, I in love—each transitory:
A little while in tandem lingering,
Once they forget each other they take wing.
At cock crow there is never any need
To do it doggy style or milk the bull,
Or to besprinkle with your liquid seed
Your Ganymede’s pubescent patch of wool.
All night long I wipe my weeping eyes
And soothe my sleepless soul that wakes and cries
For Theodore, my friend who went away
And left me all alone here yesterday.
He swore he’d soon be back; if he is late,
I can not long continue celibate.
Although I will not meet a cute boy’s eye,
I turn around as soon as I pass by.
If any minor foolishly consents
We blame the corrupter of his innocence.
But once a youth has outgrown child’s play, it
Is twice as shameful for him to submit.
But there’s a time when it’s not yet too late
Moeris, or too soon, to celebrate.
How good, Alexis, is that Nemesis,
To check whose dread advance we spit like this!
You did not see her coming, thinking your
Invidious beauty yours for evermore,
Since ruined by harsh hairs. And that is why
We, once your followers, now pass you by.
If, Zeus in heaven! dark Theocritus
Dislikes me, judge him twice as odious.
But if he cares for me, befriend him. Need
I cite your love for fair-haired Ganymede?
Euclid in love is lucky. His dad died.
In life this kindly corpse indulged whatever
His son desired. Still I am doomed to hide
My pleasures—my old man will live forever.
Erect you stand now, thingamajig, as if
You’d never quit, so vigorous and stiff.
When Nemesenus snuggled up in bed,
Indulging my every whim, you hung your head.
Now swollen fit to burst you weep in vain:
My hand will not take mercy on your pain.
The role of your lifetime was My Secret Garden,
You thought, but it is Gone with the Wind now, boy.
After Stand by Me, you’ll play Flesh Gordon,
And soon you’ll be rehearsing Midnight Cowboy.
You vaunt your beauty; you know roses flower,
Wither, and are thrown out on the midden.
Beauty and bloom which share a given hour
By grasping time are equally hag-ridden.
If beauty spoils, share it before it’s spent;
If not, why fear to give what’s permanent?
A eunuch has cute slaveboys. What’s the use?
Can he subject them to profane abuse?
A dog in the manger, barking to annoy,
He spoils for others what he can’t enjoy.
Fuck off, you hypocrite, you little lout!
You swore that nevermore would you put out.
Don’t swear again; I’m not deceived by you:
I know with whom, where, how—for how much, too.
In their erotic play with one another
Puppies give and take a lot of pleasure:
Reciprocally mounted by each other,
They screw as they are screwed, measure for measure.
The underdog—for no one is left out—
Immediately to the rear will pass.
So in the proverb: turn and turn about,
It’s said, it takes an ass to scratch an ass.
You ask for five, I’ll give you ten, or twenty.
Is gold enough? For Danae it was plenty.
Already on my head the hairs grow white,
Between my thighs my doodle dangles too;
My balls are useless. Old age looms in sight.
Though I know how, I can no longer screw.
You’ve baited your hook and caught me, child. You may
Tug as you like, but don’t run, or I’ll get away.
Your rosy fingered prick that used to charm
Us, Alcimus, is now a rosy arm.
Ass-fucking ruined me and made me limp:
Though gouty, good God forbid I should go limp!
A milk-white boy undoes me at first sight;
A honey-coloured lad sets me alight;
A golden boy, however, melts me quite.
Dumb brutes only fuck; we clever human
Beings, in this superior at least,
Invented buggery. The slaves of women
Have no more sophistication than a beast.
Twins love me, and I do not know which brother
To choose as overlord, for both I love.
They come and go. I judge the absence of
One equal to the presence of the other.
As Idomeneus brought from Crete to Troy
Meriones to be his serving-boy,
I have a helpmeet, Theodore, in you,
Like him a servant and a playmate too.
Perform your household duties every day;
At night at squire and master let us play.
Having your boy beside you all the time
How can you tell if he is past his prime?
Who, pleasing yesterday, will not today?
And if today, why not the following day?
Spying my honey, bully boy bee, why
Straight to his slick face in a bee line fly?
Buzz off! Stop trying to massage his sweet,
Unblemished skin with sticky little feet.
Go home to your honeyed boy-hive, flighty thing,
Or I’ll sting you, with my erotic sting.
As I set out carousing one night late,
A lucky wolf, I found a lambkin at my gate,
My neighbour’s son. I kissed and hugged him tight,
And promised him plenty in my heart’s delight.
What shall I give him? He’s too sweet to cheat,
Or hoodwink with slick, Italianate deceit.
Foreplay and kisses face to face we had
When, Diphilus, you were a little lad;
‘Behind and out of mind’, I now assuage,
Kneeling, my passing passion. Act your age.
I’ll burn the door down with a fiery brand
And roast the boy inside. Then I’ll take flight
Over the wine-dark Adriatic and
Watch at some door that opens up at night.
Give me a hand, but not to stop me, friend,
Cavorting. Were that cheeky boy not tied
Unfortunately to his father’s side,
He wouldn’t find me tipsy to no end.
Out of what shrine, bedazzling my sight,
Issues this band of Loves diffusing light?
Which is a slave and which a gentleman?
Their lord can hardly be a mortal man,
Greater than Zeus, for while Zeus hasn’t any
Catamite but Ganymede, he has so many!
You maverick, what language should explain
The derivation of the word makes plain:
Boy-lovers, Dionysius, love boys—
You can’t deny it—not great hobblehoys.
After I referee the Pythian
Games, you umpire the Olympian:
The failed contestants I once sent away
You welcome as competitors today.
For Venus Love arranged a rich bouquet,
Of boys, hand-picked to steal the heart away,
And next to Diodorus’ lily set
Asclepiades’ sweet, white violet,
Let Heraclitus’ thorny rose entwine
Dion like a blossom on the vine,
Shy Uliades’ sprig of thyme beside
Resplendent Theron’s saffron crocus hide;
And evergreen Myiscus’ olive sprout
Aretus’ lovely greenery tricks out.
O blessèd Tyre that boasts the perfumed grove
Of Venus where the cult of boy-love throve!
Some reader of this child’s play in another
Age may think these heart-throbs all were mine.
For writing different epigrams for other
Lovers of boys my talent was divine.
As colophon that underlines The End,
Designed these written columns to defend,
I say first Meleager undertook
To gather many poets in one book,
Completing a verse garland twined from these
Memorable flowers for Diocles.
Hephaestus, silversmith,
Do not fashion me
Some warlike panoply,
But a hollow cup
Deep as it can be.
And decorate it with
No constellated stars
Or hateful armoured cars,
But a blooming vine
With bunches beaming up
At the bonny god of wine.
