Love
Book XII, 166
Translated by W. R. Paton (1916–18) · From The Greek Anthology (Loeb, vol. IV, 1918)
Let this that is left of my soul, whatever it be, let this at least, ye Loves, have rest for heaven’s sake. Or else no longer shoot me with arrows but with thunderbolts, and make me utterly into ashes and cinders. Yea yea strike me, ye Loves; for withered away as I am by distress, I would have from you, if I may have aught, this little gift.
This translation is printed as prose in its source edition.
Cite this poem
MLA
Samos, Asclepiades of. “Book XII, 166.” Translated by W. R. Paton. Poetry Codex, poetrycodex.com/poem/asclepiades/35/.
Chicago
Samos, Asclepiades of. “Book XII, 166.” Translated by W. R. Paton. Poetry Codex. https://poetrycodex.com/poem/asclepiades/35/.
Read this poem with the Codex →