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.