Poliziano’s Greek Epigrams

translated by John Bauschatz, 2016,
from the Greek and Latin of the 2002 edition of Filippomaria Pontani

free to use and distribute for non-commercial purposes with acknowledgement of the translator

I.

1471, in the 17th year of my life. To a certain envious person.

“O friend, greetings!” you say, when I come to your house, but the utterance does not escape my notice as flattery. You do not wish to greet me, envious one, nor do you love me: for this “Greetings!” indicates two things: “Greetings!” is “Be safe!” and “Be destroyed!” Therefore, I say to you: “Friend, greetings very much!”

II.

To Corydon

“I am a boy”, you shout, Corydon, and you force me to say it; but your beard contradicts you: you are a man.

In Greek

“I am a boy”, you say, Corydon, and it is necessary that I say this. But you are a man; your beard was speaking against you.

III.

1472, in the 18th year of my/his life. To Carolus Brixea.

While you were yet a child, Apollo bound your forehead with Corycian tendrils of golden-haired laurel; and he was uttering oracles about you, the marshaller of sweet bards/songs, (you) about to lead Argos, abounding in horses, to glory. But now my heart urges me to raise this power of yours up among the immortals, (me) struck by the whip of Carolus.

IV.

You send me wine: I have an abundance of wine, Pamphilus. Do you want to send what is more pleasing? Send thirst.

In Greek

You send me wine, but of this I have enough; but if you want to please me somewhat more, send me thirst at the same time.

V.

1472, in my/his 17th year. To Joannes Baptista Bonisignius

Already at your side is a storm, is an unspeakably great inundation; the country magistrates have fled, the whole city is full. You alone test the ever-flowing rivers and leafless mountains with your tender feet, you alone inhabit the caves, casting now the eared rabbit, now the wild goat into the nets with your saw-toothed dog. Charming poison-bearing nymphs in the tree-rich woods, you pour out an ambrosial song of your voice and the lyre. Come here, friend; do not run from your friends, and give way at the right time. Even ambrosia is bitter without friends.

VI.

1472. To the same man. A summons to wisdom.

Now the black-winged South wind spits out an unspeakably great deluge, and already the Thracian North wind gathers the snow. The leaves of the oaks and elms were quenched upon the ground and the cold, taunting, was cutting short the mountains’ hair. The fruitless pines, though they are always fruitful, and the high-foliaged firs are letting grow the sprouts of death. But even so, the laurel and the many-colored shoots of the olive tree enjoy the weight of their leaves and fruit; for the powerful jaws of time devour all other things, but Wisdom alone is, for us, without decay.

VII.

In the 18th year of his/my life. To the same man

My, how much greater I hold you than I have been persuaded! Your mouth is full of Muses and Graces. And laurel runs around your temples of its own accord: heavy with leaves, it pours out white flowers. But where will I find your tracks, though I search waves, land, breezes, by ship, by foot, by wing? Always to you, stricken by a sweet gadfly—like cows feeding in the woods—here and there do I run, bending my nose to the ground, lifting up my ears, looking about with my eyes, wandering with my feet. My knees are exhausted. To where will I pursue you, (you) unseen? To where do you not yet flee your friend, friend? But for a man without a friend a dark dawn rises, bitter are honeycombs, and all of life is death. Apart from them, I, at least, would not wish to be immortal, or king of those who are immortal.

VIII.

In the 18th year of my/his life. To the same man

As much as sea-faring sailors enjoy a beautiful voice beneath kingfishers about to announce a soft ship; as much as a king, having sacked a most hated city; as much as someone having escaped a harsh sickness; as much as a lover, climbing up into the sweet bed of his beloved girl; so much our heart exults in our breast, seeing your face and hearing your words. O day worthy of white pumice-stone and hymns, day worthy of memorialization for all time. O friend sweeter than honey, pleasing in appearance, greetings always, and may Zeus provide all things to you blessed. Watch over my love in your breast again and again.

IX.

In the 18th year of his/my life. Prayer to God.

O our father, golden-throned, dwelling in the ether, o king of all, immortal God, ethereal Pan, seeing all and moving all and holding all fast, older than time, beginning and end of all things, soil of all things that are blessed and flame of the heavenly stars, you, father, fashioned the great sun and shining moon, the springs and rivers and land and sea, engendering everything, filling everything with your breath; heavenly, earthly and all those suffering below the ground accomplish your will. Now I address you, (I) your creation here on the ground, (I) wretched and short-fated, God, (I) your earth-formed manikin, feeling grief for the things which I sinned against you and wiping my tears. Come, I beseech you, immortal father, be propitious to me, and drive from me desire for the heart-beguiling universe, the tricks of the demon, and wicked pride; drench my heart with the unspeakably great storm of your breath, so that I may always love you alone, highest of lords.

X.

In the 18th year (of his/my life). To Iuvianus Monopolites

Why do you want me to give ears of corn to Demeter, waves to seafaring Proteus, and grapes to the Nightly god? You alone pour from your tongue sweet honey, you alone pour from your clear mouth an ambrosial voice. This do promontories and great mountains obey, just as once (they followed) the ambrosial song of the Thracian lyre. But if the swift-flying Helper gave me my name, so as to lead a divine Homer to the Romans, you have the name of great Zeus, king of everything, so as for you to be lord in all wisdom: for the nine daughters of Mnemosyne and Zeus filled your throat with milk like nectar, and of its own will luxuria1nt ivy, pouring out many flowers, has spread around your hair. O blessed one, o dearest of all mortals to the gods, happy attendant of the golden-haired Muses; o farewell holy head, clear-sounding bard, and watch over our love forever, friend.

XI.

In the 19th year of his life. To Ioannes Argyropulos, in Doric

As much as a deer, thirsty, takes pleasure in a honey-watered spring, as much as a sheep (takes pleasure in) a well-shaded grove in the middle of Summer, as much as an ant (takes pleasure in) a threshing-floor, as much as a bee (takes pleasure in) a garden, as much as cicadas (take pleasure in) a tree, as much as the tree-frog (?), as much as the babbling swallow (take pleasure in) the beginning of Spring, so much now gladly did all the attendants of the Muses (take pleasure), and we/I among the first, when the return of your holy head was being announced, foremost man of wisdom, Argyropoulos. And not so do they say that, once, Phineas yearned for Boreas, the golden-winged youth, so as to drive away the Harpies, as now, all of us, as many as are seekers of immortal wisdom, thus long with one accord so as to cast away with your mind the mist and whirling before our eyes. For now, oh!, wretched we wander slanting paths, and it is not possible to blindly find the well-bent song of straight-faring life, and to escape the pit of human folly, and the loud-roaring war din, unless you now lead us, father, taking our hand, fastening as torches your sure counsels. But why, having come, do you not hurry? Why are you not listening? All of us, with a common voice, call out in common for you always to come, just like babies sometimes wail for their own nurse. But again, concerning everything, I myself waste away in hope, like some gushing pool of water, whenever the light of the sun roasts it. Indeed, that day will be entirely worthy of white pumice-stone and hymn to me, whenever I see you, having come back again, your dear face.

XII.

In the 19th year of his life. To the same.

Mistress Hebe is said, among the immortals, to pour nectar in golden cups; but to you, among men, Argyropoulos, God granted to pour a draught of wisdom from your golden mouth. She preserves immortal life for the gods, but you, in fact, even from mortals, drive death away.

XIII.

In the 21st year of his life. To Theodoros Gaza.

There was once set a great contest over Theodoros Gaza, between the Ausonian and Heliconian Muses. He owed to the former his stock, to the latter his upbringing: for Greece bore him, but Ausonia raised him. And he had equally excelled both in wisdom and words. But neither alive nor dead did he decide the contest: but he chose to lie in Magna Graecia of Italy, so that glory might belong to both of them.

XIV.

One-liner to the moon.

Send to us, moon, nighttime beams.

XV.

To Theodoros Gaza

Greece, Theodoros, bewailed you in death more than (it did) when the Turkish race sacked it. For once a barbarian king took its scepter, but now destructive fate has stolen the glory of your tongue. Though formerly by war, now by Rome it has been overpowered; but for the first time it has suffered this, the ruination of a tongue.

XVI.

To the same

Lo, the holy mouth of Kalliope is silent, once—oh!—the glory of the Greeks; but now because of this wailing, sweet-speaking Theodoros, which holds all things in its heart, lies in the hearts of all. Before, on the mouth of this man all wise things were in full bloom; but now he himself is through the mouths of all wise people. But what heart, what mouth was I talking about? For with this man dead, every mouth—oh!—is plugged up, every heart is at a loss.

XVII.

To Demetrios, Phalaician meter

From the time when Theodoros went to heaven, like the nestlings of a swallow, with their mother dead at the hands of a child, did he leave us here, unfledged, atop the nest, waiting in vain for a long time for the mouth of this man. O Demetrios, all of us, wretched, now implore (you); and you, coming, mild, give to us, who are hungry, the food of your wisdom. You alone now are our sweet nurse.

XVIII.

To Cornelius, an iambic (verse)

You do not say that my words are poetry, as many as I write to you, Cornelius; but nevertheless you call me a bard. You will say that oxen are not by nature horn-bearing, but all the same you will call oxen oxen. And you happened to say this since you write verse not at all. So does the slow-footed donkey deny that deer are swift, so the rabbit the bold wolf.

XIX.

To the zealous

Flee the countryside, thronging attendants of the Pierides: the whole chorus of the Heliconians has come to the city. But if someone again searches the rooms and halls, it inhabits the breast of that man, Chalkeokondyles.

XX.

Concerning the same man

Once Odysseus fled the clear song of the Sirens, o Demetrios, but he would not have fled your verse. For I, needing sweet drink and food, not unwillingly drank and ate your songs yesterday.

XXI.

Two-liner concerning Paulo and Sisto, popes

Paulo was a good pope once, but a bad man. And now Sisto is a good man, but a bad pope.

XXII.

To Paolo the astronomer

With his feet he traverses the land, and with his mind starry heaven, Paolo does, and he is at the same time mortal and immortal. O gods, o Muses, do not steal, but grant that the earthly partake of the one, while at the same time the heavenly partake of the other.

XXIII.

Erotic poem, Dorian style

A twofold Love is distressing me: I am being melted by two boys, equally flashing, equally charming. The one is sharp and eager, the other like a girl in his appearance; both alike are inspiring love softly. The one has hair, dark like violets, which stretches from his head, while the yellow locks of the other move to and fro. For the most part, I liken them in no respect, but I liken them in cruelty, and neither is victorious in beauty and grace. It is not possible to endure both of them, Cyprian: but you, take counsel with me which flame of these two I am to endure.

XXIV.

Declaimer of Homer

It was fitting for other wise men and clear-voiced bards, those culling the pleasant meadow of rhetoric, and those, at the same time, enjoying child-rearing peace, to sing of quiet and the marketplace; but Phoibos Apollo summoned me alone to sing of evil war and the dread battle-cry.

XXV.

1480. To Giampietro Arrivabene, Dorian style

They say that buzzing bees once dipped the lips of baby Plato in Mopsopian honey, filling them, and a nightingale sang upon the mouth of Stesichoros, examples of the gentle grace of each man. But upon you, I believe, no bird, nor bees but the Pierians themselves, Giampietro, perch. Indeed, even Odysseus himself would have tasted the lotus a little if his own speech were such as yours.

XXVI.

1481. Erotic poem about the Golden-Haired one

Look at me from heaven, Zeus, holding my boy in my arms, and do not begrudge me, and I will not begrudge you. Be satisfied, Zeus, be satisfied with Ganymedes, and release to me my shining Golden-hair, he who is sweeter than honey. O, I am thrice-blessed, and four times, too; in truth I kissed you, and in truth still I kiss your mouth, beautiful boy. O mouth, o hair, o smile, o light in your eyes, o gods, in truth I have you, dear boy, in truth I have you. In truth I have you as mine, my sweetheart; for as many things as I have toiled, as many things as I have suffered, as many things as I do, this prize do I have. Heart, why are you now troubled as before? There is no longer any danger, nor is it necessary any longer for you, heart, to tremble. For the one who once sacked us, who caused fear, he, captured, lo! has been delivered into my arms. Receive this ringdove, goddess, upon this altar, and may you grant to me, Cyprian, that this joy be steadfast. And you, come, breathe love into me, softly, as much as you can, and you, boy, hold your tongue intertwining with mine.

XXVII.

Latin poem—I don’t know to whom I should attribute it—at Rome, which I then translated into Greek at the request of Ciampolini

Dug-up fragments of statues among vast ruins, and which are memorials of your virtue, parent Rome, be forgiving if this house stores them up in a small field and one so burdensome to your master. It is not easy for those who see things so great to give way or to not desire them. Among great things, it is enough even to have desired them.

Greek poem of Angelo Poliziano, 1490, engraved on the 28th of June in the house of Ciampolini

Statues cut in half which even a massive mound of earth has concealed, remnants of your excellence, o Rome, if this house conceals them upon a small enclosure, even if so it proves excessively difficult, be gracious, my mother. It is not easy for those who see these things to yield to them and not desire them, but among great things even desire alone is sufficient.

XXVIII.

1493. To the poetess Alexandra

When Alexandra played the part of Sophocles’ Electra—one virgin playing the part of another—we were all astonished at how easily she spoke the Attic tongue without stumbling, though being Ausonian by birth, and at how she projected a convincing and authentic voice, and at how carefully she observed the customs of the artful stage, and at how she kept the character pure. Fixing her eyes upon the ground, she missed the mark neither in effort nor in her steps; nor did she disgrace herself by projecting a voice heavy with tears, but with wet eyes she stirred up the audience. We were all struck dumb: and jealousy stung me when I saw the brother in her arms.

XXIX.

To his boy

Do not burn me with spinning nods, boy, always shooting forth fire up to my dear heart. For Eros fastens torches on your eyes when you laugh, placing me, o!, onto whole funeral pyres while I still live.

XXX.

1493. To the poetess Alexandra

I have found, I have found what I wanted, what I was always seeking, what I was asking for from Eros, what I was even dreaming of: a maiden whose beauty is pure, and whose form is not derived from artifice, but from a simple nature; a maiden pluming herself upon both tongues, excellent in dances, excellent on the lyre; concerning whom may there be a contest between Prudence and the Graces, dragging her in different directions, this way and that. I have found her, but this is not helpful: for only with difficulty is it possible for one in a blazing frenzy to see her once in a year.

XXXb

Response of Alexandra Scala

Nothing was better than praise from a wise man, and the praise from you—what glory it brought me! Many are the soothsayers, but few are the prophets. Did you find [something]? You did not find [anything], nor did you have a dream. For the divine bard said, “God leads [one] to the similar”; but nothing is less similar to Alexandra than you. Since you, at least, like the Danube, from the West to the South, and again to the East, pour out sheer streams. And in the greatest number of tongues your glory plies the air: in Greek, in Latin, in Hebrew and in your own tongue. The stars, nature, numbers, poems, law tablets and doctors call you Heracles, dragging you in different directions. But my pursuits are those of a maiden, very much games, just like flowers and dew, if you should judge them as Bokchoris [would]. Therefore, let me not hum before an elephant: you, like Pallas, look down upon a cat.

XXXI

To the poetess Alexandra

Why are you sending me a pale violet? Or is he not pale enough, Xandra, (the man) of whom Eros has drunk all the blood?

XXXII

To the same

To me, yearning for fruit, you give only flowers and leaves, indicating that I suffer in vain.

XXXIII

Giving leaves and flowers, the first fruits of Spring, to a lover, you promise the very Spring of your age.

XXXIV

Pacing to and fro in the home of Reparatae, accompanied by friends, I wrote these verses on the spur of the moment.

The house of Simonides had two boxes within: the one for payments, the other for favors. The box of favors was empty, but the one for payments was full. You, stranger, take a loan for all of this.

XXXV

This one is also improvised.

There once was a certain good citizen in beautiful Athens, whom you called Kothornos, Attic Xenophon. This man accommodated both the best men and the people themselves. For this reason, even to death was he sent by Kritias.

XXXVI

1493. Improvised verses while walking around

Don't kiss me, piss-drinker; for being accustomed to love the sweet-smelling lips of boys, I turn myself away from yours.

XXXVII

To organs

Do you not hear the unspeakably great song of the pipe? Indeed, some myriad of swans is dripping their voice into them.

XXXVIII

a) Hortatory verse

If you are eager to grasp a foreign language which always seems to flee, messenger, stretch out your course.

b) Answer

I am stretching and do not grasp: for then even more does it slip, whenever I seem to grab it, like an eel.

c) Hortatory verse

Let us urge each other on in turn, since a knife, as the saying of the ancients went, is a whetstone for knives.

XXXIX

To the elder Angel

Of how much the Angel is dear to me, here’s the proof: he wishes to tread even the earth for my sake.

XL

Allusion to an ancient Greek epigram

When she saw her own son, having fled battles, the Spartan mother met him with a sword, and she killed the wretch, whom she raised, whom she herself bore; and she taunted him thus, looking askance at him: “If I were expecting that you would be like this, I would not have borne you. Begone, since although you are the child of a Spartan woman, you are not willing like a Spartan!”

XLI

He alludes to a Greek epigram

A blind man and a lame man were attendants to each other: the blind man was leading the way, while the lame man was being carried on his back.

XLII

To the Four Contests

Those who won the Olympics of Zeus carried off the wild olive, and the Pythian contest exalted up the apples of Apollo, and Melikertas, son of Ino, offered the Isthmian pine, but you, Archemoros, put celery in Nemea.

XLIII

Epigram of Germanicus

A Thracian boy, while he was playing on the Ebro, with drawn sword, broke the hard waters with the cold weight. And while the deepest parts were being dragged from the rushing river, a slippery shell cut off his delicate head. His deprived mother, while she was placing this, having been found, in an urn, said, “This have I produced for the flames, and the rest for the waters.”

Epigram of Poliziano

A young child was leaping, playing on the frozen Ebro, and the shiny surface of the ice was broken, and he, slipping, fell into the depths, but frost like an ostrakon cut the neck of his unwetted head; the swift track of the rushing water drew his body within, and his mother gave his head alone to the fire. And she said, groaning over it, “Why did I bear a son, ill-fated as I am? So that food for two elements might come into being?”

XLIV

Ancient epigram against that Greek one

You are wronging both of them, both Pluto and Phaethon, by still looking at the one while being left behind by the other.

Greek epigram of Poliziano

I am wronging neither: for that which is lifeless no longer looks at the sun, and Pluto, in turn, does not care about that which lives.

XLV

1493. Allusion to a Greek epigram

A Spartan woman, giving a shield to her child, who was going to war, said: “Child, return either with this or upon this.”

XLVI

Actor of Patroclus

May you not find fault with my spear; for Hector, you know, was not able to face it from the front let alone carry it.

XLVII

To Varinos Kamertes, Scholar

For Greece, having been made to wander in its own labyrinths, not a thread but a cunningly-wrought book did not a Greek, but an Italian, Varinos, set forth; but in no way is it a marvel if we young men recompense an old woman.

XLVIII

To Alexandra the poetess

If I am permitted neither to look at you, nor to hear you, will I not receive a written reply?

XLIX

To Pico Mirandola

Also this do I find fault with in the astrologers, those airy talkers, that they begrudge me the wise discourses of Pico. For the man who steadfastly refutes the trash of these men remains alone in the countryside, for too long, far from the city. Pico, what is there between you and them? It is not seemly for you to raise your fortunate stylus to vagabonds.

L

To Alexandra the poetess

Receive, girl, the comb from the bone, the one that touched my hair; and you, give to me the one from your flesh, the one with hair.

LI

To the organ

“I see a bronze row of reeds; but who secretly makes the great sound in it?”
“This one, the man spinning his smooth-running fingers around with wandering vibrations, and rapidly moving around the trembling pages.”
“But from where comes for him so great a stream of widespread, furious things?”
“Do you not see the two bellows in back?”

LII

I wrote these verses at the end in a book of the Duke of Urbino when I sent it back after it had been lent to me.

“Whose book is this?” “It belongs to a certain young man, who has a beautiful face, and is strong in body; for contending with both skill and might, he is distinguished among all the youths. He stands out especially in horsemanship and weapons, but is not careless of books, exercising his wisdom with a twofold tongue, gentle, free-born, sweet, not unapproachable, cheerful.” “Tell me his rank.” “King.” “This is fitting: you have spoken of Guido, son of an unconquered father, leader of great Urbino, a man like the gods.”

LIII

To Pico

Pico, having been shot and burned many times by the Cupids, could endure no more: he took away all the weapons—bows, arrows, quivers—and, heaping all of these up, he added torches taken as booty to the whole pile. And, seizing them, he bound their weak little hands with bowstrings and threw them into the middle of the pyre: and the fire burned with fire. Why, foolish Cupids, did you fly at Pico, the foremost man of the Muses?

LIV

Aphrodite Rising

Aphrodite, work of the hand of Apelles, the one rising from the sea, when I saw her, I stood astonished for a long time. Shame and laughter were intermixed upon her face, that of a maiden and one who loves to play. With her right hand, she wiped the drops from her head, washed by the sea, and the sea-foam gurgled; and I had a certain fear of the spray. But her left hand was covering her private parts, which were still under water (for she was submerged up to her flanks), and a certain shiver, from the birth pangs of her mother, still held her immature breast. If ever Ares, when bound, were holding such a girl, he would not want to strip off the bonds of Hephaistos.

LV

To Armed Aphrodite

“Why are you mastering the shield, Paphian, and shaking a spear, and why did you put on a breastplate and a double-horned helmet? Remember that the works of war have not been granted to you, dainty one, and that your domain is lovely marriage.” “But I am not being armed for battle, but I am putting on the arms of Ares so that Ares might completely forget battle. For finding in me alone both arms and love, he will never be apart from my bedroom.”

LVI

I translated a Latin epigram of Pulex, an ancient poet, into Greek. It is as follows:

When my mother was carrying me in her heavy womb, she is said to have asked the gods what she would produce. Phoebus said, “It is male”; Mars, “Female”; and Juno, “Neither.” And when I was born, I was a hermaphrodite. And when she asked about my death, the goddess said, “Your child will fall to arms”; Mars, “On a tree”; Phoebus, “In waters.” And each fate was fulfilled: A tree overshadows waters. I climb it, and the sword which I had carried falls, and I myself fall upon it by accident. My foot stuck on the branches, my head fell into the river, and I, female, male and neither, endured waters, arms and trees.

Greek epigram of Poliziano, in which Hermaphroditus is spoken of in the third person. 1494.

A woman, being pregnant, was asking three gods—Phoebus, Ares and Hera—about her baby at the same time. Phoebus said it would be male, Ares female, and Hera neither, and all replies were correct: for it was born androgynous. And when she asked about its fate, Hera proclaimed, “The sword is its fate”; Ares, “A tree”; Phoebus, “The waves.” All of these occurred: the child stood near a tree, and a sword fell on the child, and the child itself fell on it, headfirst into a river, and the child was stuck by the feet from the branches. The child died, then, female, male and neither, by tree, waves and sword.

LVII

1493. To mosquitos

It is fitting to love mosquitos more than even men, as they are born from fertile waters like Cypris, and imitate air-footed Eros by the oarage of their wings and by being blood-drinkers, and sing a reveling ode, a wandering, woman-rousing ode, and yearn dreadfully for conversations which dispel sleep, and stumble into bed, often onto the breasts themselves, and grope all the parts of a woman, and touch her lips and drain the splendor from her appearance, and gently taste the tongue, banishing sleep, eager, seeing in the dark: Who of men has as many examples of love as mosquitos?