Translations: Moschus and Ovid

Lost love regained through art

Ἔρως Δραπέτης

Ἁ Κύπρις τὸν Ἔρωτα τὸν υἱέα μακρὸν ἐβώστρει:
‘ὅστις ἐνὶ τριόδοισι πλανώμενον εἶδεν Ἔρωτα,
δραπετίδας ἐμός ἐστιν: ὁ μανύσας γέρας ἑξεῖ:
μισθός τοι τὸ φίλημα τὸ Κύπριδος: ἢν δ̓ ἀγάγῃ νιν,
οὐ γυμνὸν τὸ φίλημα, τὺ δ̓ ὦ ξένε καὶ πλέον ἑξεῖς.
ἔστι δ̓ ὁ παῖς περίσαμος: ἐν εἴκοσι παισὶ μάθοις νιν.
χρῶτα μὲν οὐ λεύκος, πυρὶ δ̓ εἴκελος: ὄμματα δ̓ αὐτῷ
δριμύλα καὶ φλογόεντα: κακαὶ φρένες, ἁδὺ λάλημα:
οὐ γὰρ ἴσον νοέει καὶ φθέγγεται: ὡς μέλι φωνά,
ὡς δὲ χολὰ νόος ἐστὶν: ἀνάμερος, ἠπεροπευτάς,
οὐδὲν ἀλαθεύων, δόλιον βρέφος, ἄγρια παίσδων.
εὐπλόκαμον τὸ κάρανον, ἔχει δ̓ ἰταμὸν τὸ μέτωπον.
μικκύλα μὲν τήνῳ τὰ χερύδρια, μακρὰ δὲ βάλλει,
βάλλει κεἰς Ἀχέροντα καὶ εἰς Ἀΐδα βασίλεια.
γυμνὸς ὅλος τό γε σῶμα, νόος δέ οἱ εὖ πεπύκασται.
καὶ πτερόεις ὡς ὄρνις ἐφίπταται ἄλλον ἐπ̓ ἄλλῳ,
ἀνέρας ἠδὲ γυναῖκας, ἐπὶ σπλάγχνοις δὲ κάθηται.
τόξον ἔχει μάλα βαιόν, ὑπὲρ τόξω δὲ βέλεμνον,
τυτθὸν μὲν τὸ βέλεμνον, ἐς αἰθέρα δ̓ ἄχρι φορεῖται.
καὶ χρύσεον περὶ νῶτα φαρέτριον, ἔνδοθι δ̓ ἐντὶ
τοὶ πικροὶ κάλαμοι, τοῖς πολλάκι κἀμὲ τιτρώσκει.
πάντα μὲν ἄγρια ταῦτα: πολὺ πλέον ἁ δαῒς αὐτῷ:
βαιὰ λαμπὰς ἐοῖσα τὸν ἅλιον αὐτὸν ἀναίθει.
ἤν τύ γ̓ ἕλῃς τῆνον, δήσας ἄγε μηδ̓ ἐλεήσῃς.
κἢν ποτίδῃς κλαίοντα, φυλάσσεο μή σε πλανάσῃ.
κἢν γελάῃ, τύ νιν ἕλκε. καὶ ἢν ἐθέλῃ σε φιλῆσαι,
φεῦγε: κακὸν τὸ φίλημα, τὰ χείλεα φάρμακον ἐντί.
ἢν δὲ λέγῃ ‘λάβε ταῦτα, χαρίζομαι ὅσσα μοι ὅπλα,’
μὴ τὺ θίγῃς πλάνα δῶρα: τὰ γὰρ πυρὶ πάντα βέβαπται.

Runaway Love

Thus called hale Venus to her son, the Archer:
“For whosoever sees him circling crossroads – 
He’s fled from me! Who finds him, be rewarded. 
Your prize? The kiss of Venus: but should you find him, 
far more than paltry kisses shall you garner. 
My child is truly wondrous: ‘mong mobs you’d spot him.  
His skin’s not white, but fire-like; his vision,
acute: of impish mind and pleasant prattling:
he thinks not what he speaks, a voice of honey,
a mind of bitter gall, this crafty rascal,
always beguiling, artful child of ruffians.
Rich tresses decorate his chiseled brow,
his hands of minute stature bold and prying,
forever prying those nameless depths of Hades.
Be yet his body nude, his mind’s well-cloaked.
A white-winged bird who flys from one to another,
both men and women, poaching on their hearts.
Yet modest are his bow and arrows above,
and modest too, the arrow that brushes heaven.
A golden quiver about his back and in it,
the bitter arrows that me, too, oft wounded.
But wiliest of all? — the battle that he faces:
to bear the flame that lights the sun itself!
Thus should you catch him, bind him; show no pity.
Beware his tears: take heed lest he deceive you.
Beware his laughter: seize him. Should he kiss you,
take flight! His kiss is sealed by lips of poison.
And if he says, ‘Take these! my lot of weapons!’
Beware his treacherous gifts baptized in fire.

Ars amatoria, liber III, v. 57 - 72

Dum facit ingenium, petite hinc praecepta, puellae
       quas pudor et leges et sua iura sinunt.
venturae memores iam nunc estote senectae:
       sic nullum vobis tempus abibit iners. 
dum licet et veros etiamnunc editis annos,
       ludite: eunt anni more fluentis aquae.
nec, quae praeteriit, iterum revocabitur unda
       nec, quae praeteriit, hora redire potest.
utendum est aetate: cito pede labitur aetas 
       nec bona tam sequitur, quam bona prima fuit.
hos ego, qui canent, frutices violaria vidi;
       hac mihi de spina grata corona data est.
tempus erit, quo tu, quae nunc excludis amantes,
       frigida deserta nocte iacebis anus, 
nec tua frangetur nocturna ianua rixa,
       sparsa nec invenies limina mane rosa.

The Art of Love, Book III, v. 57 - 72

As long as life’s buds blossom – hark now, maiden! – 
demand of me the laws our shame permits you. 
Be mindful now of grey hairs swiftly sprouting, 
and let no day elapse without advantage. 
As long as youth affords You truthful comment, 
be playful – as surging waters course the ages.
For neither cresting waves may be retrievèd  
Nor those fleeting hours spent on folly. 
So seize Your youthful spirit – with nimble feet life races, 
and what’s to be, competes not with what’s been. 
Anon, I spied the bramble, grey, as violets; 
and from its thorns, a goodly crown was woven. 
A time shall come when You who scorns all lovers 
alone shall sleep through frigid nights, a crone, 
And neither suitors’ quarrel bestir your gateway, 
nor your door be strewn with morning roses.