Tumbos

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Χείματος οἰνωθέντα τὸν Ἀνταγόρεω μέγαν οἶκον
ἐκ νυκτῶν ἔλαθεν πῦρ ὑπονειμάμενον·
ὀγδώκοντα δ’ ἀριθμὸν ἐλεύθεροι ἄμμιγα δούλοις
τῆς ἐχθρῆς ταύτης πυρκαϊῆς ἔτυχον.
οὐκ εἶχον διελεῖν προσκηδέες ὀστέα χωρίς·
ξυνὴ δ’ ἦν κάλπις, ξυνὰ δὲ τὰ κτέρεα:
εἷς καὶ τύμβος ἀνέστη· ἀτὰρ τὸν ἕκαστον ἐκείνων
οἶδε καὶ ἐν τέφρῃ ῥηϊδίως Ἀΐδης.
(Theaetetus, Anth. Pal. 7.444)

The secretly creeping flames, on a winter night, when all were heavy with wine, consumed the great house of Antagoras. Free men and slaves together, eighty in all, perished on this fatal pyre. Their kinsmen could not separate their bones, but one common urn, one common funeral was theirs, and one tomb was erected over them. Yet readily can Hades distinguish each of them in the ashes. (tr. William Roger Paton)

Kruptometha

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David d’Angers, Jeune fille grecque

Ἠϊθέοις οὐκ ἔστι τόσος πόνος ὁππόσος ἡμῖν
ταῖς ἀταλοψύχοις ἔχραε θηλυτέραις.
τοῖς μὲν γὰρ παρέασιν ὁμήλικες, οἷς τὰ μερίμνης
ἄλγεα μυθεῦνται φθέγματι θαρσαλέῳ,
παίγνιὰ τ’ ἀμφιέπουσι παρήγορα, καὶ κατ’ ἀγυιὰς
πλάζονται, γραφίδων χρώμασι ῥεμβόμενοι .
ἡμῖν δ’ οὐδὲ φάος λεύσσειν θέμις, ἀλλὰ μελάθροις
κρυπτόμεθα, ζοφεροῖς φροντίσι τηκόμεναι.
(Agathias Scholasticus, Anth. Pal. 5.297)

Young men do not have as much suffering as is inflicted upon us tender-hearted women. They have friends of their own age to whom they can confidently tell their cares and sorrows, the games they pursue can cheer them, and they stroll the streets and let their eyes wander from one colorful picture to another. We on the contrary are not even allowed to look on the light, but are kept hidden in dark chambers, the prey of our thoughts. (tr. William Roger Paton, revised by Michael A. Tueller)

Huomenos

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Νὺξ μακρὴ καὶ χεῖμα, †μέσην δ’ ἐπὶ Πλειάδα δύνει†·
κἀγὼ πὰρ προθύροις νίσσομαι ὑόμενος,
τρωθεὶς τῆς δολίης κείνης πόθῳ· οὐ γὰρ ἔρωτα
Κύπρις, ἀνιηρὸν δ’ ἐκ πυρὸς ἧκε βέλος.
(Asclepiades, Anth. Pal. 5.189)

It’s a long night, and there’s a storm, and it sets towards the Pleiad (?),
and I’m walking by the outer doors getting drenched with rain,
wounded by desire for that deceptive girl. For Cypris sent
not love but a painful bolt made of fire.
(tr. Alexander Sens)