Lovely dove,
     Whence, whence dost thou fly? 
     Whence, running on air,
     Dost thou waft and diffuse
     So many sweet ointments? 
     Who art?  What thy errand?—­
     Anacreon sent me
     To a boy, to Bathyllus,
     Who lately is ruler and tyrant of all. 
     Cythere has sold me
     For one little song,
     And I’m doing this service
     For Anacreon. 
     And now, as you see,
     I bear letters from him. 
     And he says that directly
     He’ll make me free,
     But though he release me,
     His slave I will tarry with him. 
     For why should I fly
     Over mountains and fields,
     And perch upon trees,
     Eating some wild thing? 
     Now indeed I eat bread,
     Plucking it from the hands
     Of Anacreon himself;
     And he gives me to drink
     The wine which he tastes,
     And drinking, I dance,
     And shadow my master’s
     Face with my wings;
     And, going to rest,
     On the lyre itself I sleep. 
     That is all; get thee gone. 
     Thou hast made me more talkative,
     Man, than a crow.

     ON LOVE.

     Love walking swiftly,
     With hyacinthine staff,
     Bade me to take a run with him;
     And hastening through swift torrents,
     And woody places, and over precipices,
     A water-snake stung me. 
     And my heart leaped up to
     My mouth, and I should have fainted;
     But Love fanning my brows
     With his soft wings, said,
     Surely, thou art not able to love.

     ON WOMEN.

     Nature has given horns
     To bulls, and hoofs to horses,
     Swiftness to hares,
     To lions yawning teeth,
     To fishes swimming,
     To birds flight,
     To men wisdom. 
     For woman she had nothing beside;
     What then does she give?  Beauty,—­
     Instead of all sheilds,
     Instead of all spears;
     And she conquers even iron
     And fire, who is beautiful.

     ON LOVERS.

     Horses have the mark
     Of fire on their sides,
     And some have distinguished
     The Parthian men by their crests;
     So I, seeing lovers,
     Know them at once,
     For they have a certain slight
     Brand on their hearts.

     TO A SWALLOW.

     What dost thou wish me to do to thee,—­
     What, thou loquacious swallow? 
     Dost thou wish me taking thee
     Thy light pinions to clip? 
     Or rather to pluck out
     Thy tongue from within,
     As that Tereus did? 
     Why with thy notes in the dawn
     Hast thou plundered Bathyllus
     From my beautiful dreams?

     TO A COLT.