Love
Book XII, 50
Translated by W. R. Paton (1916–18) · From The Greek Anthology (Loeb, vol. IV, 1918)
Drink, Asclepiades. Why these tears? What aileth thee? Not thee alone hath cruel Cypris taken captive; not for thee alone hath bitter Love sharpened his arrows. Why whilst yet alive dost thou lie in the dust? Let us quaff the unmixed drink of Bacchus. The day is but a finger’s breadth. Shall we wait to see again the lamp that bids us to bed? Let us drink, woeful lover. It is not far away now, poor wretch, the time when we shall rest through the long night.
This translation is printed as prose in its source edition.
Cite this poem
MLA
Samos, Asclepiades of. “Book XII, 50.” Translated by W. R. Paton. Poetry Codex, poetrycodex.com/poem/asclepiades/27/.
Chicago
Samos, Asclepiades of. “Book XII, 50.” Translated by W. R. Paton. Poetry Codex. https://poetrycodex.com/poem/asclepiades/27/.
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