translated by Dan Beachy-Quick
from NER 41.2
Your skin no longer blooms tender, dry already
Your furrow dead to sweet longing of plows,
Age pulls down your face away from desire—
It’s true: many breaths have planted winter winds In the earth of you, too many many times . . .
If willfully, Archinus, I serenaded you, then multiply
my guilt 10,000 times; but if I came against my will,
lay off your hasty judgment. Wine and Love
tortured me until I complied—of them, from them,
I started out, but I didn’t howl out, your name or your father’s,
just kissed the doorpost. If this is wrong, then I’m wrong.
. . . will overhear
. . . sea-toss perplexity of children also
. . . songs cannot be caught
. . . the good work hard
ALCMAN 3, FR. 3, COL ii
. . . and with limb-loosening desire, more
than sleep does or does death, her look melts me—
and that sweetness is no vain thing.
But Astymeloisa doesn’t answer me—
doesn’t bring me plaited wreaths
or any radiant as heaven
or golden apple or softly stripped bare . . .
. . . long-flowing she passed through—
a Cyprian oil’s charm sets down and dampens
the girl’s loose-flowing hair . . .
Astymeloisa steps among the mob
the city’s darling . . .
. . . grasping
. . . I say
. . . a silver cup
. . . were she somehow to love me,
came nearer, grasped my soft hand,
how sudden I’d be her suppliant.
Now . . . girl mind-deep . . .
girl . . . me holding . . .
. . . the girl
. . . grace