Fly for me, mosquito: be my swift messenger. Alight on the rim of Zenophila’s ear and whisper this: “He is awake, and waits for you; but you forget those who love you, and sleep.” Up, fly! Yes, musical one, fly! But speak quietly, so you don’t wake the man who is sleeping with her and arouse in him pangs of jealousy against me. If you bring the girl, I will hood you with a lion’s pelt, mosquito, and give you a club to carry in your hand*.
* The mosquito would thus be attired like Heracles. While other instances of mosquitoes imitating Heracles are (not surprisingly) unknown, Love was sometimes depicted wearing a lion skin.
(tr. William Roger Paton, revised by Michael A. Tueller, with the latter’s note)
Shrill-voiced mosquitoes, shameless suckers of men’s blood, night’s winged predators, I beg you, let Zenophila sleep a little in peace. Here: gorge yourselves on my limbs! But why am I wasting my words? Pitiless beasts also love to be warmed by her tender flesh. But I now forewarn you, evil creatures: do not defy me, or you will feel the strength of my jealous hands. (tr. William Roger Paton, revised by Michael A. Tueller)
Poor partridge, fugitive from the cliffs! No longer, I suppose, does your woven home hold you in its slender withes, nor do you flutter your wing-tips under the gleam of warm-eyed Dawn the early-riser to keep them warm. A cat cut off your head—but I snatched away all the rest; it did not glut its greedy jaws. Now may the dust not hide you lightly, but heavily, lest she drag off what’s left of you. (tr. Michael A. Tueller)
A silver-footed maiden was bathing, letting the water fall on the golden apples of her breasts, with flesh like curdled milk. Her rounded buttocks, their flesh more fluid than water, gyrated back and forth. Her outspread hand covered the swelling Eurotas – not all of it, but as much as it could. (tr. William Roger Paton, revised by Michael A. Tueller)
Oh feet! Oh calves! Oh (I’m done for – and rightly so!) thighs! Oh buttocks! Oh vulva! Oh flanks! Oh shoulders! Oh breasts! Oh slender neck! Oh arms! Oh (I’m going mad!) eyes! Oh most lascivious movements! Oh outstanding tonguings! Oh (slay me!) her exlamations! If she is Oscan, named Flora, and does not sing Sappho’s songs – well, even Perseus fell in love with Indian Andromeda. (tr. William Roger Paton, revised by Michael A. Tueller)
Hector of the race of Ares, if thou hearest where’er thou art under ground, hail! and stay a little thy sighs for thy country. Ilion is inhabited, and is a famous city containing men inferior to thee, but still lovers of war, while the Myrmidons have perished. Stand by his side and tell Achilles that all Thessaly is subject to the sons of Aeneas. (tr. William Roger Paton)
Strangers, the ash of ages has devoured me, holy Ilion, the famous city once renowned for my towered walls, but in Homer I still exist, defended by brazen gates. The spears of the destroying Achaeans shall not again dig me up, but I shall be on the lips of all Greece. (tr. William Roger Paton)