A Poem by Dioscorus

P. Cair. Masp. I 67097 v F, tr. Leslie S. B. MacCoull: I want always to dance, I want always to play the lyre. I strike up my lyre to praise the solemn festival with my words. The Bacchae have cast a spell on me. . . . When I drink wine, my cares go to sleep. What do I care for pains and groans, what do I care for troubles? I love a young soldier, a Herakles with longing eyes, a lion tamer; ever one to save our cities. ἀεὶ θέλω χορεύειν, ἀεὶ θέλω λυρίζμιν. γεραρὴν λόγοις ἑορτήν ἀνα[βάϊλλομαι λυρίζειν. θέλγουσίν με αἷ Βά<κ>χαι α...υ[ [ ὅταν πίννω τὸν οἶνον, εὕδουσιν αἵ μέριμναι· τί μοι πόνων, τί μοι γόων, τί μοι μέλει μεριμνῶν; στρατηγὸν νέον ἔραμαι, ποθοβλήτην Ἡρακλέα, δαμάζοντα τοὺς λέοντας· ἀεὶ τὰς πόλεις σαῶσαι. I owe my knowledge of this poem to James J. O'Donnell, The Ruin of the Roman Empire (London: Profile Books, 2009), p. 23. Related post: Let Us Be Merry.

Commenting on Bubbles has been removed. Why? If you want to talk about this post, write to the author, use the comments on their blog if it has them, or reply with a "RE:" post on your own blog. Suggestions? feedback@bubbles.town