The Greek Anthology, Volume I: Books 1–5

by William Roger Paton (Translator), Michael A. Tueller (Revision), Meleager (Anthologist)

"The Greek Anthology" contains some 4,500 short Greek poems in the sparkling and diverse genre of epigram, written by more than a hundred poets and collected over many centuries.
To the original collection, called The Garland "("Stephanus") by its contributing editor, Meleager of Gadara (first century BCE), was added another Garland "by Philip of Thessalonica (mid-first century CE) and then a "Cycle" by Agathias of Myrina (567/568 CE). In about 900 CE these collections (now lost) and perhaps others (also lost, by Rufinus, Diogenianus, Strato, and Palladas) were partly incorporated and arranged into fifteen books according to subject by Constantine Cephalas; most of his collection is preserved in a manuscript called the Palatine Anthology."
A second manuscript, the Planudean Anthology" made by Maximus Planudes in 1301, contains additional epigrams omitted by Cephalas. Outstanding among the poets are Meleager, Antipater of Sidon, Crinagoras, Palladas, Agathias, and Paulus Silentiarius.

This Loeb edition of The "Greek Anthology "replaces the earlier edition by W. R. Paton, with a Greek text and ample notes reflecting current scholarship. Volume I contains the following books: 1. Christian Epigrams; 2. Descriptions of Statues; 3. Inscriptions in a Temple at Cyzicus; 4. Prefaces to the Garlands "of Meleager and Philip and the Cycle "of Agathias; and 5. Erotic Epigrams.

480 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 1916

About the author

William Roger Paton, usually cited as W. R. Paton, was a Scottish author and translator of ancient Greek texts, mostly known for his translation of the Greek Anthology.

Reviews

[شمس · Rating 5 out of 5]

“To my friends I bring this gift, and my initiates have common possession of this sweetly versed garland of the Muses.” (IV, 1)

The inhabitants of the whole world sing your labours, which will be remembered forever. (I, 10)
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You came to me when I longed for you against all hope; with the shock of wonder you shook loose all the imagining of my heart, and I tremble. My heart quakes in the depths of its passion, and my soul is drowning in Cypris’ wave. (V, 235)

This is life, this is it: life is luxury, away with cares! Brief are the years of men. Now we have the Deliverer, now dances and flowery garlands, now women! Let me experience every good thing today—tomorrow is revealed to no one. (V, 72)

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The Erotic Epigrams of Book V may be one of my favourite books of ancient poetry, alongside Anacreon and the Anacreontea - )

Anyone skipping those three who enjoys Ovid or love poetry in general is seriously missing out . . .
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Book I - Christian Epigrams
May your days be many. (5)

This work too, of all your labours, is worthy of celebration. (9)

For never would she have accomplished so great and so elaborate a work, full of heavenly splendour. (16)
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Book II - Description of the Statues in the Public Gymnasium called Zeuxippus
Intently he spun various thoughts on his divine idea.

There sat rosy-fingered Amymonne. She was gathering up the unbound curls of her hair in back, and kept her forehead bare.

The Pierian bee, clear-humming Sappho, sat quietly. She seemed to be weaving a lovely melody, her mind set alight by the silent Muses.

And you always laughed at the slippery pathways of life, well aware that ancient time outlasts them all.

For wise modesty redolent of beauty is distilled upon your eyes, proclaiming you the divine son of golden Aphrodite.

And with his silent lips he seems to breathe intensely the divine breath of inspiration.

With reverence . . . pondered the unutterable mysteries of the Latin intellectual Muse.

He was endowed with a dignified and beloved bearing, and majesty shined forth from his form.

So that it might be evident to all that he bore the inextinguishable light of wisdom in his heart.

A Pierian bee wandered round his divine mouth, producing a dripping honeycomb.

But in his heart he seemed to be meditating, his mind bore here and there from the inner sanctum of his complex thought, as he wove the martial work of the Pierian Siren.

Wielding the divine barbs of wisdom, he examined the heavens, his eyes focused upwards.

With love he mixed the graver flower of honeyed song.

I did not fail to notice the inspired nightingale of Halicarnassus, learned Herodotus, who dedicated to the nine Muses the glorious deeds of men of old—all that two continents brought about, all that creeping Time witnessed—mingling in his eloquence the flowers of Ionian speech.
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Book IV - Prefaces to the Various Anthologies
. . . embrace your beloved Rome with confident arms. (4, 3a)

For I know that this dedication will instil eternal glory into the work of my study. (4, 3a)

For it was fitting, too, to preserve the skill of imitating ancient writing. (4, 3a)

Monuments and tablets and pillars are a source of great delight to those who possess them—but only as long as they live; for the empty glory of mortals does not benefit the should of the departed. But virtue and the grace of wisdom both accompany them there, and remain here attractive remembrance. So neither Plato nor Homer takes pride in pictures or monuments, but in wisdom alone. Happy are those whose memory is enshrined in wise volumes, and not in empty images. (5 (4))
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Book V - Erotic Epigrams
Short is the season for rejoicing; then the future is hampered by old age and the end—death. (12)

Whether I saw you, Queen, with glossy raven locks or again with blond hair, on both the same charm shines. Truly Love will make its home in your hair even when it is gray. (26)

Fucking is sweet—who denies it? But when it asks for money, it becomes more bitter than hellebore. (29)

You drip honey from your lips when you sweetly kiss . . . (32)

I judged the bottoms of three women; for they themselves chose me and displayed to me the naked splendour of their limbs. Rounded dimples marked the first, her buttocks glowing with white softness; the second’s snowy flesh blushed where her legs parted, redder than a crimson rose; the third was like calm sea furrowed by a silent wave, her delicate flesh juggling involuntarily. If the judge of the goddesses had seen them, he would have refused to look again at the previous ones. (35)

Rhodope, Melite, and Rhodoclea competed to see which of the three had the best pussy, and chose me as a judge. Like the much-admired goddesses they stood, naked, dripping with nectar. The treasure between Rhodope’s thighs gleamed like a rose bush cleft by a gentle zephyr; Rhocolea’s was like glass, its wet surface like a. Temple statue newly carved. But clearly, since I knew what happened to Paris because of his judgement, I straightaway awarded the crown to all three immortals. (36)

Do not take to your arms a woman who is too slender or too stout, but choose the mean between the two. The first does not have enough abundance of the flesh, and the second has too much. Choose neither deficient nor excess. (37)

A fine woman of good proportions is attractive to me, whether in her prime or elderly For the young one will take me in her arms, and if she is an ancient, wrinkled crone, she will suck me. (38)

Does any man throw his woman out naked because he finds her lover with her—as if he himself had never chested, as if he were a Pythagorean? (43)

Satisfy my heart’s passion with your hot mad love. (47)

But now, when you are close to me naked with your sweet limbs . . . (47)

Golden are her eyes and her cheeks like crystal, and her mouth more delightful than a red rosebud. Her neck is of marble and her breasts polished; her feet are whiter than silvery Thetis’, but if a bit of thistle glistens amid her locks, I pay no mind to its white down. (48)

I, Lyde, service three men at once (one above the belly, one below, and one behind): I grant admittance to one man who likes boys, one crazy for women, and one who likes it rough. If you’re in a hurry, don’t hold back, even if you came with two others. (49)

Poverty and love are my two woes. The former I will bear with ease, but the fire of Cypris I cannot. (50)

Never lay a pregnant woman on your bed face-to-face and enjoy her in procreative sex; there will be a large swell between you, and a lot of work for you both—her being rowed and you being tossed. Instead, turn your partner around and en joy her rosy buttocks, practicing boy-sex. (54)

I took Doris, with her rosy buttocks, on my bed and spread her legs, and amid her dewy flowers I felt immortal. She bestrode my groin with here magnificent legs and finished Aphrodite’s long course without swerving, gaming at me with languorous eyes. Her crimson parts quivered like leaves in the wind while she bounced astride me, until the white strength spilled out of us both and Doris lay splayed out with limbs all slack. (55)

I go mad for her rosy, soul-melting, raconteur lips, the portals of her ambrosial mouth; for her eyes that flash under thick eyebrows, nets and snares for my heart; and for her milky breasts—well mated, enticing, well formed, more delightful than any flower. (56)

Childish Love, destroy me. A favour: expend your every shaft on me, leaving no arrows behind, so that you slay only me with your bolts, and when you need to shoot someone else, you have no more darts to spare. (58)

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. (60)

As an eagle Zeus came to godlike Ganymede, and as a swan to the blond mother of Helen. So there is no comparison between the two passions: some prefer one of the two and others the other. I like both. (65)

Beauty without grace only delights but does not captivate, like bait flowing without a hook, (67)

You have the beauty of Cyrpis, the mouth of Persuasion, the body and freshness of the spring Seasons, the voice of Calliope, the intelligence and prudence of Themis, and the hands of Athena; with you, dear, the Graces are four. (70)

Even before I undress I feel the fire. (82)

If only I were a pink rose, so your hands would pluck me and bestow me on your snow-white breasts. (84)

Fire-bringing Love, if you do not have the power to set two equally alight, put out or transfer the game that burns in one. (88)

I send to you sweet perfume, doing a favour to the perfume, not to you; for you can perfume even the perfume. (91)

You have Hera’s eyes, Melite, Athena’s hands, the Paphian’s breasts, Thetis’ ankles. Fortunate is he who looks at you, thrice blessed he who hears your voice, hold divine he who kisses you, immortal he who sleeps with you. (94)

Your bliss is bird lime, your eyes fire: if you look at me, you burn me; if you touch me, you hold me bound. (96)

What is to become of me? To look at her is pure fire . . . (111)

Your breath is ten times sweeter than perfume . . . (118)

Let us flee, we unlucky lovers, before the arrow is on the string: I prophesy a sudden great conflagration. (124)

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 tonguing! Oh (slay me!) her exclamations! If she is Oscan, named Flora, and does not sing Sappho’s songs—well, even Perseus fell in love with Indian Andromeda. (132)

On all sides the Loves surround me, and do not allow me even a moment to breathe. For I am assailed by desire, from your beauty, or your Muse, or your Grace, or—what can I say? Everything! I am on fire! (139)

The girl overpowers sweet-smelling garlands. (144)

I will weave a snowdrop; I will weave a tender narcissus in with myrtles; I will weave the laughing lilies too, and I will weave sweet saffron. Onto these I will weave a purple hyacinth, and I will weave roses, friends to lovers, so that my garland, on the brow of Hliodora with her perfumed curls, may scatter flowers on her beautiful hair. (147)

Northing is sweeter than love; all good things come second: even honey I spat from my mouth. Nossis says this, and whomever Cypris has not kissed does not know what roses her flowers are. (170)

You are sleeping, Zenophila, tender bud; if only I were a wingless Sleep, to slip under your eyelids, so that he who enchants even the eyes of Zeus would not also visit you, but that I would possess you all for myself. (174)

I need no mirror, but I look at myself in it: I am beautiful, because I am in love. (238)

Your glow is like daylight; but while that is mute, you also bring to me that talk, sweeter than the Siren’s upon which all my soul’s hopes depends. (241)

But you knew [her] soft kiss and the sweet honey of her wet mouth. (244)

Your wrinkles are preferable to the youth of any other face . . . For your autumn is superior to another’s spring, and your winter is warmer than another’s summer. (258)

You know, do you? You are not in love; you’re lying. How can a heart that calculates correctly be in the grip of love’s madness? (267)

Yesterday, when I was returning from a party soaked with unmixed wine, [she] poured water too me from her cup as I was wrapping her outer doors with garlands. She flattened my hair, which I had, with effort, arranged to last for three evenings. But the water set me all the more aflame, for a hidden fire from her sweet lips was in the cup. (281)

I love everything about you—I hate only your undiscerning eye, which is pleased by odious men. (284)

Adulterous beds are the worst of all and have no part in love. (302)

[Michael P. · Rating 5 out of 5]

I understand there is a revised and expanded edition of this great classic, so that is probably the one to get. This 1916 edition will be just find until the revised floats my way.