DIONYSIS
Pull oar, he saieth! How? Put to what shifts, as poor sea-saylors be oft-times? Neither open ocean nor close battaile has euer embroiled me. Dost thou account me Salamis-seaman? Sirrah, dost think me oar puller?
CHARON
Tut sirrah, no more flaundering. See how facile is the strike, how easie al. Come now, and hearken to the songs yon oar shal stirre i'the pot with their guideing motion.
DIONYSIS
Whose songs bee these?
CHARON
The swansong of the froggs; nay whyte as egg the Frogg Swans. How close they do resemble Swans you soon shall see. Such charms!
DIONYSIS
Giue me but word.
CHARON
I, marry, sir, Ile marle you.
[Enter FROGGS from both flankes of the stage, to daunce about the boat, and sing]
FROGGS
Brake eggs, eggs, eggs, cutt-axe, cutt-axe
Brake eggs, eggs, eggs, cutt-axe, cutt-axe
We children o'the lea and the bubbld spring
In harmony
Do sing,
Brake eggs, eggs, eggs, cutt-axe, cutt-axe
Brake eggs, eggs, eggs, cutt-axe, cutt-axe
Oh doe we lifte our voices throgh the crackes
And loudely our sweet song cutt-axe, cutt-axe
In honour of Ioue’s son Dionyse
And of the marshes hard by Mountains Nyse
The song we sang most choppily
When the swag-head drunkards rold
When murraind on the marche did lye
And broke ope eury winepot they did hold.
Brake eggs, eggs, eggs, cutt-axe, cutt-axe
Brake eggs, eggs, eggs, cutt-axe, cutt-axe
DIONYSIS
Cut axe al daie, youle cleaue my arse in twain.
FROGGS:
So sing we brake eggs, brake eggs againe
DIONYSIS
Go void: Ile haue ye purged if ye go onn.
FROGGS
And yet is cutt-axe, cutt-axe stil our song.
DIONYSIS
Brake eggs, brake eggs, Ile brake ye with this oar.
To Hades with ye, troble me no more.
FROGGS
O can you take aprysal of us now?
Hearken!
The Muses, plaiers of the charming lyre,
Adore us: ours a song that cannot tyre.
Pan, with horned feet and gladsom reed
Harp-strucke Apollo, loue us for our brede
That we growe instruements within our pond
And coniure musick with our rustic wand.
Thus
Brake eggs, eggs, eggs, cutt-axe, cutt-axe
Brake eggs, eggs, eggs, cutt-axe, cutt-axe
DIONYSIS
I, I, my fundamentes al of blysters the size of gooses-O, and soone Ile burst my dish, I prithee. Ye are rogues, sirrahs, who deserue nothing so much as———
FROGGS
Brake eggs, eggs, eggs, cutt-axe, cutt-axe
Brake eggs, eggs, eggs, cutt-axe, cutt-axe
DIONYSIS
What grating prating race is here! Be silent.
FROGGS.
Wele not backetrack, not we batraches.
Wele sing yet louder.
We loue to ruminate a sunny daie,
Through marsh and reed and where the mitdges plaie
Of our owne songs enamoured,
With eache descending siluer note we shed
And when Ioue sendeth raine upon our hed
We diue
Aliue
Into deep watter
And sing, and sing,
Notes cras and flatter
And al brakeing
Our froggishe chorussing.
DIONYSIS, FROGGS:
Brake eggs, eggs, eggs, cutt-axe, cutt-axe
Brake eggs, eggs, eggs, cutt-axe, cutt-axe
DIONYSIS
Thou hast infected me with song.
FROGGS
Contagion is oure musicks idiom.
DIONYSIS
It will be worse for me if I keep at oare. My arse will brake asunder on this benche. O! O!
DIONYSIS, FROGGS:
Brake eggs, eggs, eggs, cutt-axe, cutt-axe
Brake eggs, eggs, eggs, cutt-axe, cutt-axe
DIONYSIS
Prithee scream until your throtes are bags.
Go on as loudly as you wishe. I care not.
FROGGS
I so we shall! cutt-axe, cutt-axe
Wele go on, loud as throte will let us
The liuelong daie
DIONYSIS, FROGGS:
Brake eggs, eggs, eggs, cutt-axe, cutt-axe
Brake eggs, eggs, eggs, cutt-axe, cutt-axe
DIONYSIS
Come come, I doe surpasse you at this game.
FROGGS
By no meanes so.
[Exeunt FROGGS seuerally]
DIONYSIS
Mine the axe to chop up riuall song.
I am surpassing musickal. How lowd
Ile screame and hollow, bellow all the daie.
Until I brake your eggs! Am I alone?
Sunday, 29 June 2014
Aristophanes in Elizabethan English
One last sojourn in the Elizabethan idiom, for the most famous scene from Aristophanes' Frogs. After all, everybody knows how hilarious Elizabethan and Jacobean comedies are, right?
Euripides in Elizabethan English
I was undecided between Jonson or Middleton as the better prototype for an Elizabethan translation of Euripides. Jonson's classical tragedies are probably too stiff for my purposes here (Euripides, whatever other faults he may have, is rarely stiff); but we shouldn't be distracted by that -- it's not as a classicist, but as a contemporary writer of drama that we should take him, and Volpone has some of the verve and healthy cynicism of the Euripidean muse. But then again Medea (from which I've excerpted the most famous, or notorious, scene, below) is a much more Jacobean piece of work: violent in a disturbing way, monstrous and fascinated by monstrosity. So Middleton it is; for this one, at any rate.
JASON
O haste, ye slaues, and loose the bolts,
Undoe the fastenings, that I may see
Vision of doubled woe, my murderd sons
And her, whose blood in vengeance I shal shed.
[Medea appeareth in middest aire, aboue, on a chariot drawn by draggons; the childrens bodyes by her.]
MEDEA
Why rattle at those doors and trie to loose
Their bolts, in quest of corpses and their murderess?
Let such toil goe. If thou wouldst aught with mee
Saie on, man: saie whatere thy tonge can shape.
But neuer shalt thou lay a hand on mee,
So swift the draggons of the sun, my father’s sire,
Wil carrye mee from grasping hand of foes.
JASON.
O cursed woman! Thourte abhorred worste
By gods, by al mankind, and moste by mee
As neuer woman was revyled before,
Who hadst the stomach so to stabbe thy babes,
And thou their mother, leauing mee undone
Mee childless; blacke sin perpetrate by thee.
And still thou gazest upon Sunne and Earth
Still wide yourn eyes and after deeds like these
Impious. Foullest curses spit at thee.
I now perceve what I then failed to see
The day I brought thee, pregnant with thy doom,
From thy barbarian home to dwell in Greace,
Traitress to thy sire and to thy lande
The borne hat nurtured thee. On mee the gods
Haue turnd the curse that dogged ones thy steps,
For thou didst slay thy brother at his hearth
Before thou euer cam’st aboard our ship
And weyted Argo down with pitchest sinne.
Such was prenticeship of thy life’s crime;
Then didst thou wed with mee, bore mee sons
But onlie so to glutt thy passion’s lust,
Thou now hast murderde of them al in blood.
Not one amongst the wiues of Greace eer had
Attempted such grimm deeds before this day.
Yet I chose thee before them al as wife,
Joyning close to mee my hardest foe as doom:
No woman, but a lioness slach-clawed
More fierce than Tyrren Scylla in her soule.
But with reproaches heaped a thousandfold
I cannot wound thee, for thy soul is brass.
Die die vyle witch thy babees slaughterer
Whilst I remain to mourn my luckless fate,
I neuer shal agayne take wife into my bedd
I neuer shal agayne haue children bred
And reared to say the last rytes at my tombe.
I haue lost them.
MEDEA.
To this thy speech I could make long retort,
But Father Zeus knows well al I haue done
For thee, and how thou hast repayd my loue.
Thou wert not priuileged to scorn my loue
And lead a life of ioy in mocking mee,
Nor was thy royal bride nor Creon, hee
Who gaue thee second wife, to chase mee out
In beggary from this lande and rew it not.
Wherefore, if thou wilt speake, call mee a lyonesse,
Saie I am Scylla from the Tyrren land;
For I at leaste haue wrung thy mannes heart.
JASON
O haste, ye slaues, and loose the bolts,
Undoe the fastenings, that I may see
Vision of doubled woe, my murderd sons
And her, whose blood in vengeance I shal shed.
[Medea appeareth in middest aire, aboue, on a chariot drawn by draggons; the childrens bodyes by her.]
MEDEA
Why rattle at those doors and trie to loose
Their bolts, in quest of corpses and their murderess?
Let such toil goe. If thou wouldst aught with mee
Saie on, man: saie whatere thy tonge can shape.
But neuer shalt thou lay a hand on mee,
So swift the draggons of the sun, my father’s sire,
Wil carrye mee from grasping hand of foes.
JASON.
O cursed woman! Thourte abhorred worste
By gods, by al mankind, and moste by mee
As neuer woman was revyled before,
Who hadst the stomach so to stabbe thy babes,
And thou their mother, leauing mee undone
Mee childless; blacke sin perpetrate by thee.
And still thou gazest upon Sunne and Earth
Still wide yourn eyes and after deeds like these
Impious. Foullest curses spit at thee.
I now perceve what I then failed to see
The day I brought thee, pregnant with thy doom,
From thy barbarian home to dwell in Greace,
Traitress to thy sire and to thy lande
The borne hat nurtured thee. On mee the gods
Haue turnd the curse that dogged ones thy steps,
For thou didst slay thy brother at his hearth
Before thou euer cam’st aboard our ship
And weyted Argo down with pitchest sinne.
Such was prenticeship of thy life’s crime;
Then didst thou wed with mee, bore mee sons
But onlie so to glutt thy passion’s lust,
Thou now hast murderde of them al in blood.
Not one amongst the wiues of Greace eer had
Attempted such grimm deeds before this day.
Yet I chose thee before them al as wife,
Joyning close to mee my hardest foe as doom:
No woman, but a lioness slach-clawed
More fierce than Tyrren Scylla in her soule.
But with reproaches heaped a thousandfold
I cannot wound thee, for thy soul is brass.
Die die vyle witch thy babees slaughterer
Whilst I remain to mourn my luckless fate,
I neuer shal agayne take wife into my bedd
I neuer shal agayne haue children bred
And reared to say the last rytes at my tombe.
I haue lost them.
MEDEA.
To this thy speech I could make long retort,
But Father Zeus knows well al I haue done
For thee, and how thou hast repayd my loue.
Thou wert not priuileged to scorn my loue
And lead a life of ioy in mocking mee,
Nor was thy royal bride nor Creon, hee
Who gaue thee second wife, to chase mee out
In beggary from this lande and rew it not.
Wherefore, if thou wilt speake, call mee a lyonesse,
Saie I am Scylla from the Tyrren land;
For I at leaste haue wrung thy mannes heart.
Saturday, 28 June 2014
Sophocles in Elizabethan English
Writing pastiche Shakespeare is both too easy and much, much too hard. It's too easy in the sense that anyone can do it, as ten thousand examples prove. But it's much too hard, because -- well, obviously: setting yourself the challenge of writing as well as Shakespeare is setting yourself up to fail.
Shakespeare may be the wrong analogue for Sophocles actually. He certainly has the grandeur of the Greek, and his plays have the force and fame of the Oedipus Tyrannus and Antigone. But Shakespeare is primarily, of course, distinguished by the extraordinary range and liveliness of his characters, and in that he's closer to Euripides (who was criticised in his own day for writing 'lifelike' aka common individuals into his art). By 'closer to' I mean 'surpasses in every way'; but Euripides is still the best fit amongst the Attic crowd in that regard. I certainly don't want to be misled by a mere co-incidence of birthdays: that Shakespeare (b. 1565) and Middleton (1580) happen to have approximately the same generational gap as Sophocles (b. 496 BC) and Euripides (b. 480). Of course, that counts for little -- especially as Marlowe was only one year older than Shakespeare and died young, where Aeschylus was two decades or more older than Sophocles and lived to be almost a hundred.
At any rate, I've split the difference here, and translated the scene from the middle of the Antigone (where Creon orders Antigone off to be buried alive) into a blank verse too bland to be called properly Shakespearian, but Elizabethan enough to keep it relevant to this project.
I'll need to think, and write, harder about other Sophoclean passages if I want to generate an actually Shakespearian affect. Ho hum.
[Enter CREON, GUARDS, ALCESTIS, shee weeping full]
CREON
Know ye that Songes and shreeking afore death
Would neuer sease if they auerted it?
Begonne with her—away! And when ye haue
Fidelous to my word, inclosed her fast
Within her chaumbered Graue, lett her alone:
It is her forlorn choyse to die inside
Or liue her buried life in such a home.
Prystine our hands in handelling this maide.
And only this is certaine, as for us:
Shee soon shall lose her pleasaunce in the Light.
ANTIGONE
Tombe and bridal-bower sunk in Rock!
Prison Infinite I enter as abode
And all the perishéd are brickd within
Where gracious Persephon receiues the dead!
So now Ile wander in the marrowd stone
At last, and armed in simple miserie,
Dischargd before my purs of life is spent.
But I clasp Good Hope to my breast, and pray
I may find Father welcome, Mother kinde,
And kisse againe my Brothers lippes sweet;
For at your deathe I washd and dressd you al
And poored down honie wine upon your graues
In apt Lybation. Polynisces mine
It is in sufferance such I now must goe.
And yet I honourd thee, as wise muste deem.
I woud not, had I been bereft of childe,
Would not had husband mowldered in strong death
Would not haue done thus in the lawes despyte
And sturrd the citie with my insolence.
What law, ye ask, is Warrant for my worde?
One Husband lost, another might be found,
Child browke of life, another might be borne.
But Father Mother mine in Hades hidd
From whens could other Brother bloome to life?
Such was the law I held in honore firste
But Creon claimed me guilty of graue faulte,
And saies my outrage choake the ayre with shame
O Brother mine! And now he leads me thus
A captiff in his hands; no bridall bed,
No bridal songe for me, no marriage ioy,
No portion in the nurture of children;
But thus, forlorn of friends, unhappy one,
I go aliue into the Vaults of death.
What law of heauen haue I trampled on?
What power the gods to help me in this caue?
What ally darst to stand aside me, when
By pyetie I earne unpyous name?
If such as this giues pleasure to the gods
When I haue faced my doom, I shall goe on
To know in what it is my sin indwels.
But if the sin is with my iudges—ay!
May they endure no fuller euil thann
They haue heere meted wrongfully to me.
CHORUS
The same wilde tempest vexes still the soul
Of this most storm compeled maiden.
CREON
For this her guards shall rew their snayl slowness!
ANTIGONE
Ah me! that word hath brought me near to death.
CREON
Ile cheere thee with no hope that this thy doom
Is torrent to avert as you your fate.
ANTIGONE
O citie of my fathers! Theban land!
O gods, the eldest of our race!—I am led hence
Now, now—they tarry not! Behold me here
Ye noblemen of Thebes, I am the last,
Last daughter of the house of your great kings,
See what I suffer here, and see from whom,
Because I feared to floute the fear of Heauen!
[Exeunt ANTIGONE and her guards.]
Shakespeare may be the wrong analogue for Sophocles actually. He certainly has the grandeur of the Greek, and his plays have the force and fame of the Oedipus Tyrannus and Antigone. But Shakespeare is primarily, of course, distinguished by the extraordinary range and liveliness of his characters, and in that he's closer to Euripides (who was criticised in his own day for writing 'lifelike' aka common individuals into his art). By 'closer to' I mean 'surpasses in every way'; but Euripides is still the best fit amongst the Attic crowd in that regard. I certainly don't want to be misled by a mere co-incidence of birthdays: that Shakespeare (b. 1565) and Middleton (1580) happen to have approximately the same generational gap as Sophocles (b. 496 BC) and Euripides (b. 480). Of course, that counts for little -- especially as Marlowe was only one year older than Shakespeare and died young, where Aeschylus was two decades or more older than Sophocles and lived to be almost a hundred.
At any rate, I've split the difference here, and translated the scene from the middle of the Antigone (where Creon orders Antigone off to be buried alive) into a blank verse too bland to be called properly Shakespearian, but Elizabethan enough to keep it relevant to this project.
I'll need to think, and write, harder about other Sophoclean passages if I want to generate an actually Shakespearian affect. Ho hum.
[Enter CREON, GUARDS, ALCESTIS, shee weeping full]
CREON
Know ye that Songes and shreeking afore death
Would neuer sease if they auerted it?
Begonne with her—away! And when ye haue
Fidelous to my word, inclosed her fast
Within her chaumbered Graue, lett her alone:
It is her forlorn choyse to die inside
Or liue her buried life in such a home.
Prystine our hands in handelling this maide.
And only this is certaine, as for us:
Shee soon shall lose her pleasaunce in the Light.
ANTIGONE
Tombe and bridal-bower sunk in Rock!
Prison Infinite I enter as abode
And all the perishéd are brickd within
Where gracious Persephon receiues the dead!
So now Ile wander in the marrowd stone
At last, and armed in simple miserie,
Dischargd before my purs of life is spent.
But I clasp Good Hope to my breast, and pray
I may find Father welcome, Mother kinde,
And kisse againe my Brothers lippes sweet;
For at your deathe I washd and dressd you al
And poored down honie wine upon your graues
In apt Lybation. Polynisces mine
It is in sufferance such I now must goe.
And yet I honourd thee, as wise muste deem.
I woud not, had I been bereft of childe,
Would not had husband mowldered in strong death
Would not haue done thus in the lawes despyte
And sturrd the citie with my insolence.
What law, ye ask, is Warrant for my worde?
One Husband lost, another might be found,
Child browke of life, another might be borne.
But Father Mother mine in Hades hidd
From whens could other Brother bloome to life?
Such was the law I held in honore firste
But Creon claimed me guilty of graue faulte,
And saies my outrage choake the ayre with shame
O Brother mine! And now he leads me thus
A captiff in his hands; no bridall bed,
No bridal songe for me, no marriage ioy,
No portion in the nurture of children;
But thus, forlorn of friends, unhappy one,
I go aliue into the Vaults of death.
What law of heauen haue I trampled on?
What power the gods to help me in this caue?
What ally darst to stand aside me, when
By pyetie I earne unpyous name?
If such as this giues pleasure to the gods
When I haue faced my doom, I shall goe on
To know in what it is my sin indwels.
But if the sin is with my iudges—ay!
May they endure no fuller euil thann
They haue heere meted wrongfully to me.
CHORUS
The same wilde tempest vexes still the soul
Of this most storm compeled maiden.
CREON
For this her guards shall rew their snayl slowness!
ANTIGONE
Ah me! that word hath brought me near to death.
CREON
Ile cheere thee with no hope that this thy doom
Is torrent to avert as you your fate.
ANTIGONE
O citie of my fathers! Theban land!
O gods, the eldest of our race!—I am led hence
Now, now—they tarry not! Behold me here
Ye noblemen of Thebes, I am the last,
Last daughter of the house of your great kings,
See what I suffer here, and see from whom,
Because I feared to floute the fear of Heauen!
[Exeunt ANTIGONE and her guards.]
Friday, 27 June 2014
Aeschylus in Elizabethan English
The opening speech of the Agamemnon, of course: possibly the single most translated-into-English chunk of any Attic tragedy (possibly the most translated piece of Ancient Greek tout court. Here are a dozen or so samples compared). I have no qualms about adding to that heap; I just wonder whether my Marlovian pastiche is rich enough.
[Here the Curtaines draw, there is discovered the House of Atreus in Argos, and one Watchman]
WATCHMAN:
Heaunely Gods! Set me from labours free!
A twelfmonth haue I languishéd, awatch,
Upon my elbows piuote, on the roof
Of Atreus High Palace, like some dog.
Too well I ken the radiant shapes of starres,
Nightes blazing Emperie, that leades the host
Of yce brighte winter and of summer too.
I know theyr rising and theyr setting times.
And soo I watch, and wait the signal pyre,
Whose burning here will tell us Troye is ashes!
My commander is my mistress, news-agogg:
Her wommans body seales up a man's heart.
For her I lye here, restlesse all the night,
My dripping bed unuisited by dreames.
Fear my couch companion, pricking me,
For all my wish deuout to close my eyes.
I singe my dittie to beguile the time,
And keep me from the sink of Morpheus.
But aye and always teares distil mine eyes,
For how this hous is falln, onse so great.
If this night only could entice our toil.
O, let the fire of fortune light our darke!
[He seeth the bright beacon shyning in the offe]
Ho! Ho! Most welcome, beames of fire
That splitst the night as Eeos doth the day!
Let daunce all Argos in civilitie,
And marketh joy in this good victorye!
I’ll rowse with shouting Agamemnones wife,
And when she quit her bed, will wake the house
Greet signal fire with hallowed huylaboo.
If Troy hath fallen, as these flames vouchsafe
None shall be primer to the daunce than I.
I mingle luck with noble master mine,
The dies haue caste thrice sicxes in my game!
Depryue me not my kinge and his return,
His glad hand gryping mine. As for the rest,
I'll speake not, cattle stands fast on my tonge.
House! Had you speech, what storyes you gan tell!
My words march out in triumph to the trow:
Yon others, memory’s a blank for ye.
[Exit]
[Here the Curtaines draw, there is discovered the House of Atreus in Argos, and one Watchman]
WATCHMAN:
Heaunely Gods! Set me from labours free!
A twelfmonth haue I languishéd, awatch,
Upon my elbows piuote, on the roof
Of Atreus High Palace, like some dog.
Too well I ken the radiant shapes of starres,
Nightes blazing Emperie, that leades the host
Of yce brighte winter and of summer too.
I know theyr rising and theyr setting times.
And soo I watch, and wait the signal pyre,
Whose burning here will tell us Troye is ashes!
My commander is my mistress, news-agogg:
Her wommans body seales up a man's heart.
For her I lye here, restlesse all the night,
My dripping bed unuisited by dreames.
Fear my couch companion, pricking me,
For all my wish deuout to close my eyes.
I singe my dittie to beguile the time,
And keep me from the sink of Morpheus.
But aye and always teares distil mine eyes,
For how this hous is falln, onse so great.
If this night only could entice our toil.
O, let the fire of fortune light our darke!
[He seeth the bright beacon shyning in the offe]
Ho! Ho! Most welcome, beames of fire
That splitst the night as Eeos doth the day!
Let daunce all Argos in civilitie,
And marketh joy in this good victorye!
I’ll rowse with shouting Agamemnones wife,
And when she quit her bed, will wake the house
Greet signal fire with hallowed huylaboo.
If Troy hath fallen, as these flames vouchsafe
None shall be primer to the daunce than I.
I mingle luck with noble master mine,
The dies haue caste thrice sicxes in my game!
Depryue me not my kinge and his return,
His glad hand gryping mine. As for the rest,
I'll speake not, cattle stands fast on my tonge.
House! Had you speech, what storyes you gan tell!
My words march out in triumph to the trow:
Yon others, memory’s a blank for ye.
[Exit]
Wednesday, 25 June 2014
Pindar in Late Tudor English
Here is a translation of Pindar's 'First Olympian' in a Wyatt-y, or Spenser-ish English. I'm heading towards doing Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides as Marlowe, Shakespeare and Jonson; but these Pindaric odes can't really be rendered into the Elizabethan English that the actual Pindar's chronological position would indicate (hence the rather mealy-mouthed 'Late Tudor' of the blogpost title, there). Actually he was a couple of years younger than Aeschylus. But my justification for a rather more antiquated idiom is that Pindar's Greek harks back to epic language, overlaid upon a rather artificially formal Doric, in a way not true of the Attic tragedians. Not that this is a precise analogy, any more than translation is an exact art.
For those wondering what's going on here, the rationale is in the first paragraph of this post.
[Note: I originally published the first quarter of this as a placeholder, and then added stanzas over two days. It proved hard to write this one, though; much harder to write than the earlier samples were. I'm not sure why. I'm afraid the result is more hit-and-miss than the earlier ones, as well. Too much of this lives up to C S Lewis's famous dismissal of Tudor poetry as Literature's 'Drab Age'. Though there are few lines I like, and a couple I like a lot. That said, and if I'm honest, I've never been the world's biggest fan of Pindar in the first place. Genius and all that; but, whew!]
Strophe A.
Natures croun is water, and golde most bryght
In gentil gleame that goeth throw the nyght
Is of wealthe best;
Yet, o mine breast,
If ye would sing of mannes contest wunne
No heigher wot ye than the shyning sunne
The Sport Alympic that in peake of skye doth wone.
Thence cometh hymn of gloried prayse
That loudly singeth Crounos sonne,
An wrapt what wysest poet saies:
Yon holie hearthe of Hieronne.
Antistrophe A
For Hieronne ist who rules in Sicilye
By sceptre holdynge lawe in right degree
At vertues prime
Renowned in rime.
That hospyte banquet heareth choysest quyre
Reach thou from doun its peg the Doric lyre
If Pizan splendour and Phrencus dooest thee inspyre!
And swetest thoghts besyde Alphurse
As runnynge stede that noght can tyre
He needeth not the pricking spurrs
To winne the race for Suracke squire.
Epode A
His glory shineth most in the citye
That Lydian Pelopps first had founded, hee
Whom erthe’s great holder Poseydon loved moost;
Whan Clothoo tooke him out the pure cauldrone
And shyning ivry capped his shouldebone.
Yet wondres throng the world, and what is troost
Maie haply wear the garb of glitterynge lies
That leede men not to goode, but otherwys.
Strophe B
And Grayce, who fashyons gentil things for menn
Confers esteeme and streyen to set eyen
All force of faithe
Agaynste meschief,
But daies to com are witnesses most wise.
Semely it is the god to well apprize
To ward of blame. Tantalouses sonne, I thee surmize
Quete other than how menn saie thus:
Thy father summonéd all deityes
To feasten with his Siseyfus
The Trydent god took thee as prize.
Antistrophe B
His minde quite overthrowen by lustes neede
He bore thee far awaie on golden steede
To high paleuse;
Of honourde Zeus,
To which at after time cam Ganemayde
To lye with Zeus as thou wast layde;
But thou evanishéd, thy mother left dismayed
Some envyous man then proved the lyer
And thou wert slitt by knif, he sayd:
And chopped and boiled upon the fire
And thy choys limbes to victuals mayd.
Epode B
Mann most not clepe the goddes canniball
I do not so! lest evil-spekers fall.
If ere a mortall wyte was honouréd
Then Tantalous was hee: but unfit leude
He felle from hight to ruin and to grede.
A heavie stone was balaunced ore his head
And hee it yearnynge ay to throst awaie
So strays he stil from joies festivitye.
Strophe C
Thus neverendynge was his life of toile
Fourthe labor efter third did hym embroile:
That, thief, he baar
Ambrossiar
And goddes nectar swete that they him fed
To purger death and mak him god instead:
If any think to fool goddes, be he better led!
Tantale they banishéd below
A beard dounynge his mortal hed;
And as his youth begann to grow
Bethoght him of the marryage bed.
Antistrophe C
Hee thought to win mensk Hippodaimes hande
From father hir, lord of the Pisan lande
He beacht the sea
And calléd hee
In darknesse unto Poseydon the grete
Who cam and sait the mortall at his feet.
Sayd he: ‘if ever gifts of Cyprus semed you swete
Swerf Oenomaiouses spear!
And mak my chaariot most flete,
Let me to Royalness apere
Forteenth, yet suitor the moste mete.
Epode C
Bot highest prize dar fitte no coward wight
We all dye: why sitt cherlishe in the night?
In this contest I pledge to stande ful bold.
May you holp my acheve!” And so he spake
And naver framéd words as oathe to breke.
The god him gafe an chaariot of gold
And winged steedes that never wearyéd
And thuswise fixéd honor to his sted.
Strophe D
And thus hee Oenomaious overcame
And marryéd the maiden to his name
And had sixe sonne
Het glorie wonne:
That now he wonne an holie funerall
And resteth by the holie Alphurse fal
Were to his tombe ful manie visitants doe cal
Here shyneth blessynge from aferr
That by his fame Alympicall
At Pelopps racing courses there
By foot and hand are tested al.
Antistrophe D
A winner who has wonnge the conteste palme
Enioyes for al his life a honyed calme
As such renowned
He most be cronwed.
With horse hymne sunge in the Aeolyane straine
This ist a thinge no rival can obtaine
Of knowledge wonne by beautie and by maine
Adornd with gloried foldes of song
Ambitions watched by godde aine
Heiron, thy prosper to prolonge
And I to hymne thee soone againe.
Epode C
Thy chaariot let spede to victory stille
And I sing helpynge song on Crounos Hill
For me the Muse suplies hir mightyest speare.
Som men excel in this and som in that
But limmit hight for man is kinges stat.
Do nat ye lok beyond the godds frontere!
May thou walke hih thy wholest life along
And I be blesst with souch to stande among.
[Here's the Project Perseus translation of the relevant Greek. A: 'Water is best, and gold, like a blazing fire in the night, stands out supreme of all lordly wealth. But if, my heart, you wish to sing of contests, [5] look no further for any star warmer than the sun, shining by day through the lonely sky, and let us not proclaim any contest greater than Olympia. From there glorious song enfolds the wisdom of poets, so that they loudly sing [10] the son of Cronus, when they arrive at the rich and blessed hearth of Hieron, who wields the scepter of law in Sicily of many flocks, reaping every excellence at its peak, and is glorified [15] by the choicest music, which we men often play around his hospitable table. Come, take the Dorian lyre down from its peg, if the splendor of Pisa and of Pherenicus placed your mind under the influence of sweetest thoughts, [20] when that horse ran swiftly beside the Alpheus, not needing to be spurred on in the race, and brought victory to his master, the king of Syracuse who delights in horses. His glory shines in the settlement of fine men founded by Lydian Pelops, [25] with whom the mighty holder of the earth Poseidon fell in love, when Clotho took him out of the pure cauldron, furnished with a gleaming ivory shoulder. Yes, there are many marvels, and yet I suppose the speech of mortals beyond the true account can be deceptive, stories adorned with embroidered lies.'
B: So Grace, who fashions all gentle things for men, confers esteem and often contrives to make believable the unbelievable. But the days to come are the wisest witnesses. [35] It is seemly for a man to speak well of the gods; for the blame is less that way. Son of Tantalus, I will speak of you, contrary to earlier stories. When your father invited the gods to a very well-ordered banquet at his own dear Sipylus, in return for the meals he had enjoyed, [40] then it was that the god of the splendid trident seized you, his mind overcome with desire, and carried you away on his team of golden horses to the highest home of widely-honoured Zeus, to which at a later time Ganymede came also, [45] to perform the same service for Zeus. But when you disappeared, and people did not bring you back to your mother, for all their searching, right away some envious neighbour whispered that they cut you limb from limb with a knife into the water's rolling boil over the fire, [50] and among the tables at the last course they divided and ate your flesh. For me it is impossible to call one of the blessed gods a glutton. I stand back from it. Often the lot of evil-speakers is profitlessness. If indeed the watchers of Olympus ever honoured a mortal man, [55] that man was Tantalus. But he was not able to digest his great prosperity, and for his greed he gained overpowering ruin, which the Father hung over him: a mighty stone. Always longing to cast it away from his head, he wanders far from the joy of festivity.
C: He has this helpless life of never-ending labor, [60] a fourth toil after three others, because he stole from the gods nectar and ambrosia, with which they had made him immortal, and gave them to his drinking companions. If any man expects that what he does escapes the notice of a god, he is wrong. [65] Because of that the immortals sent the son of Tantalus back again to the swift-doomed race of men. And when he blossomed with the stature of fair youth, and down darkened his cheek, he turned his thoughts to an available marriage, [70] to win glorious Hippodameia from her father, the lord of Pisa. He drew near to the grey sea, alone in the darkness, and called aloud on the deep-roaring god, skilled with the trident; and the god appeared to him, close at hand. [75] Pelops said to the god, “If the loving gifts of Cyprian Aphrodite result in any gratitude, Poseidon, then restrain the bronze spear of Oenomaus, and speed me in the swiftest chariot to Elis, and bring me to victory. For he has killed thirteen [80] suitors, and postpones the marriage of his daughter. Great danger does not take hold of a coward. Since all men are compelled to die, why should anyone sit stewing an inglorious old age in the darkness, with no share of any fine deeds? As for me, on this contest [85] I will take my stand. May you grant a welcome achievement.” So he spoke, and he did not touch on words that were unaccomplished. Honouring him, the god gave him a golden chariot, and horses with untiring wings.
D: He overcame the might of Oenomaus, and took the girl as his bride. She bore six sons, leaders of the people eager for excellence. [90] Now he has a share in splendid blood-sacrifices, resting beside the ford of the Alpheus, where he has his attendant tomb beside the altar that is thronged with many visitors. The fame of Pelops shines from afar in the races of the Olympic festivals, [95] where there are contests for swiftness of foot, and the bold heights of toiling strength. A victor throughout the rest of his life enjoys honeyed calm, so far as contests can bestow it. But at any given time the glory of the present day [100] is the highest one that comes to every mortal man. I must crown that man with the horse-song in the Aeolian strain. I am convinced that there is no host in the world today who is both knowledgeable about fine things and more sovereign in power, [105] whom we shall adorn with the glorious folds of song. A god is set over your ambitions as a guardian, Hieron, and he devises with this as his concern. If he does not desert you soon, I hope that I will celebrate an even greater sweetness, [110] sped by a swift chariot, finding a helpful path of song when I come to the sunny hill of Cronus. For me the Muse tends her mightiest shaft of courage. Some men are great in one thing, others in another; but the peak of the farthest limit is for kings. Do not look beyond that! [115] May it be yours to walk on high throughout your life, and mine to associate with victors as long as I live, distinguished for my skill among Greeks everywhere. ]
For those wondering what's going on here, the rationale is in the first paragraph of this post.
[Note: I originally published the first quarter of this as a placeholder, and then added stanzas over two days. It proved hard to write this one, though; much harder to write than the earlier samples were. I'm not sure why. I'm afraid the result is more hit-and-miss than the earlier ones, as well. Too much of this lives up to C S Lewis's famous dismissal of Tudor poetry as Literature's 'Drab Age'. Though there are few lines I like, and a couple I like a lot. That said, and if I'm honest, I've never been the world's biggest fan of Pindar in the first place. Genius and all that; but, whew!]
Strophe A.
Natures croun is water, and golde most bryght
In gentil gleame that goeth throw the nyght
Is of wealthe best;
Yet, o mine breast,
If ye would sing of mannes contest wunne
No heigher wot ye than the shyning sunne
The Sport Alympic that in peake of skye doth wone.
Thence cometh hymn of gloried prayse
That loudly singeth Crounos sonne,
An wrapt what wysest poet saies:
Yon holie hearthe of Hieronne.
Antistrophe A
For Hieronne ist who rules in Sicilye
By sceptre holdynge lawe in right degree
At vertues prime
Renowned in rime.
That hospyte banquet heareth choysest quyre
Reach thou from doun its peg the Doric lyre
If Pizan splendour and Phrencus dooest thee inspyre!
And swetest thoghts besyde Alphurse
As runnynge stede that noght can tyre
He needeth not the pricking spurrs
To winne the race for Suracke squire.
Epode A
His glory shineth most in the citye
That Lydian Pelopps first had founded, hee
Whom erthe’s great holder Poseydon loved moost;
Whan Clothoo tooke him out the pure cauldrone
And shyning ivry capped his shouldebone.
Yet wondres throng the world, and what is troost
Maie haply wear the garb of glitterynge lies
That leede men not to goode, but otherwys.
Strophe B
And Grayce, who fashyons gentil things for menn
Confers esteeme and streyen to set eyen
All force of faithe
Agaynste meschief,
But daies to com are witnesses most wise.
Semely it is the god to well apprize
To ward of blame. Tantalouses sonne, I thee surmize
Quete other than how menn saie thus:
Thy father summonéd all deityes
To feasten with his Siseyfus
The Trydent god took thee as prize.
Antistrophe B
His minde quite overthrowen by lustes neede
He bore thee far awaie on golden steede
To high paleuse;
Of honourde Zeus,
To which at after time cam Ganemayde
To lye with Zeus as thou wast layde;
But thou evanishéd, thy mother left dismayed
Some envyous man then proved the lyer
And thou wert slitt by knif, he sayd:
And chopped and boiled upon the fire
And thy choys limbes to victuals mayd.
Epode B
Mann most not clepe the goddes canniball
I do not so! lest evil-spekers fall.
If ere a mortall wyte was honouréd
Then Tantalous was hee: but unfit leude
He felle from hight to ruin and to grede.
A heavie stone was balaunced ore his head
And hee it yearnynge ay to throst awaie
So strays he stil from joies festivitye.
Strophe C
Thus neverendynge was his life of toile
Fourthe labor efter third did hym embroile:
That, thief, he baar
Ambrossiar
And goddes nectar swete that they him fed
To purger death and mak him god instead:
If any think to fool goddes, be he better led!
Tantale they banishéd below
A beard dounynge his mortal hed;
And as his youth begann to grow
Bethoght him of the marryage bed.
Antistrophe C
Hee thought to win mensk Hippodaimes hande
From father hir, lord of the Pisan lande
He beacht the sea
And calléd hee
In darknesse unto Poseydon the grete
Who cam and sait the mortall at his feet.
Sayd he: ‘if ever gifts of Cyprus semed you swete
Swerf Oenomaiouses spear!
And mak my chaariot most flete,
Let me to Royalness apere
Forteenth, yet suitor the moste mete.
Epode C
Bot highest prize dar fitte no coward wight
We all dye: why sitt cherlishe in the night?
In this contest I pledge to stande ful bold.
May you holp my acheve!” And so he spake
And naver framéd words as oathe to breke.
The god him gafe an chaariot of gold
And winged steedes that never wearyéd
And thuswise fixéd honor to his sted.
Strophe D
And thus hee Oenomaious overcame
And marryéd the maiden to his name
And had sixe sonne
Het glorie wonne:
That now he wonne an holie funerall
And resteth by the holie Alphurse fal
Were to his tombe ful manie visitants doe cal
Here shyneth blessynge from aferr
That by his fame Alympicall
At Pelopps racing courses there
By foot and hand are tested al.
Antistrophe D
A winner who has wonnge the conteste palme
Enioyes for al his life a honyed calme
As such renowned
He most be cronwed.
With horse hymne sunge in the Aeolyane straine
This ist a thinge no rival can obtaine
Of knowledge wonne by beautie and by maine
Adornd with gloried foldes of song
Ambitions watched by godde aine
Heiron, thy prosper to prolonge
And I to hymne thee soone againe.
Epode C
Thy chaariot let spede to victory stille
And I sing helpynge song on Crounos Hill
For me the Muse suplies hir mightyest speare.
Som men excel in this and som in that
But limmit hight for man is kinges stat.
Do nat ye lok beyond the godds frontere!
May thou walke hih thy wholest life along
And I be blesst with souch to stande among.
[Here's the Project Perseus translation of the relevant Greek. A: 'Water is best, and gold, like a blazing fire in the night, stands out supreme of all lordly wealth. But if, my heart, you wish to sing of contests, [5] look no further for any star warmer than the sun, shining by day through the lonely sky, and let us not proclaim any contest greater than Olympia. From there glorious song enfolds the wisdom of poets, so that they loudly sing [10] the son of Cronus, when they arrive at the rich and blessed hearth of Hieron, who wields the scepter of law in Sicily of many flocks, reaping every excellence at its peak, and is glorified [15] by the choicest music, which we men often play around his hospitable table. Come, take the Dorian lyre down from its peg, if the splendor of Pisa and of Pherenicus placed your mind under the influence of sweetest thoughts, [20] when that horse ran swiftly beside the Alpheus, not needing to be spurred on in the race, and brought victory to his master, the king of Syracuse who delights in horses. His glory shines in the settlement of fine men founded by Lydian Pelops, [25] with whom the mighty holder of the earth Poseidon fell in love, when Clotho took him out of the pure cauldron, furnished with a gleaming ivory shoulder. Yes, there are many marvels, and yet I suppose the speech of mortals beyond the true account can be deceptive, stories adorned with embroidered lies.'
B: So Grace, who fashions all gentle things for men, confers esteem and often contrives to make believable the unbelievable. But the days to come are the wisest witnesses. [35] It is seemly for a man to speak well of the gods; for the blame is less that way. Son of Tantalus, I will speak of you, contrary to earlier stories. When your father invited the gods to a very well-ordered banquet at his own dear Sipylus, in return for the meals he had enjoyed, [40] then it was that the god of the splendid trident seized you, his mind overcome with desire, and carried you away on his team of golden horses to the highest home of widely-honoured Zeus, to which at a later time Ganymede came also, [45] to perform the same service for Zeus. But when you disappeared, and people did not bring you back to your mother, for all their searching, right away some envious neighbour whispered that they cut you limb from limb with a knife into the water's rolling boil over the fire, [50] and among the tables at the last course they divided and ate your flesh. For me it is impossible to call one of the blessed gods a glutton. I stand back from it. Often the lot of evil-speakers is profitlessness. If indeed the watchers of Olympus ever honoured a mortal man, [55] that man was Tantalus. But he was not able to digest his great prosperity, and for his greed he gained overpowering ruin, which the Father hung over him: a mighty stone. Always longing to cast it away from his head, he wanders far from the joy of festivity.
C: He has this helpless life of never-ending labor, [60] a fourth toil after three others, because he stole from the gods nectar and ambrosia, with which they had made him immortal, and gave them to his drinking companions. If any man expects that what he does escapes the notice of a god, he is wrong. [65] Because of that the immortals sent the son of Tantalus back again to the swift-doomed race of men. And when he blossomed with the stature of fair youth, and down darkened his cheek, he turned his thoughts to an available marriage, [70] to win glorious Hippodameia from her father, the lord of Pisa. He drew near to the grey sea, alone in the darkness, and called aloud on the deep-roaring god, skilled with the trident; and the god appeared to him, close at hand. [75] Pelops said to the god, “If the loving gifts of Cyprian Aphrodite result in any gratitude, Poseidon, then restrain the bronze spear of Oenomaus, and speed me in the swiftest chariot to Elis, and bring me to victory. For he has killed thirteen [80] suitors, and postpones the marriage of his daughter. Great danger does not take hold of a coward. Since all men are compelled to die, why should anyone sit stewing an inglorious old age in the darkness, with no share of any fine deeds? As for me, on this contest [85] I will take my stand. May you grant a welcome achievement.” So he spoke, and he did not touch on words that were unaccomplished. Honouring him, the god gave him a golden chariot, and horses with untiring wings.
D: He overcame the might of Oenomaus, and took the girl as his bride. She bore six sons, leaders of the people eager for excellence. [90] Now he has a share in splendid blood-sacrifices, resting beside the ford of the Alpheus, where he has his attendant tomb beside the altar that is thronged with many visitors. The fame of Pelops shines from afar in the races of the Olympic festivals, [95] where there are contests for swiftness of foot, and the bold heights of toiling strength. A victor throughout the rest of his life enjoys honeyed calm, so far as contests can bestow it. But at any given time the glory of the present day [100] is the highest one that comes to every mortal man. I must crown that man with the horse-song in the Aeolian strain. I am convinced that there is no host in the world today who is both knowledgeable about fine things and more sovereign in power, [105] whom we shall adorn with the glorious folds of song. A god is set over your ambitions as a guardian, Hieron, and he devises with this as his concern. If he does not desert you soon, I hope that I will celebrate an even greater sweetness, [110] sped by a swift chariot, finding a helpful path of song when I come to the sunny hill of Cronus. For me the Muse tends her mightiest shaft of courage. Some men are great in one thing, others in another; but the peak of the farthest limit is for kings. Do not look beyond that! [115] May it be yours to walk on high throughout your life, and mine to associate with victors as long as I live, distinguished for my skill among Greeks everywhere. ]
Tuesday, 24 June 2014
Sappho in Late Middle English
And so we go on. If (in my timeline, at any rate) Hesiod's 7th-century Greek maps onto an early Middle-English idiom, then Sappho's 6th-century lyrics ought to be renderable into a kind of Chaucerese without doing too much violence to the time-scheme of the project. I've elected to do this, at any rate, for the only one of her poems to have survived complete: the 'Hymn to Aphrodite'. Three parts to this blogpost: the cod-Chaucer of the poem itself; a literal English prose translation of the Greek stanza by stanza and finally, as an added bonus, the Greek itself. (If you're interested, here's a modern English translation by Edwin Marion Cox).
Glytering-troned and dethlesse Afrodytte,
Gods dowhter, wunder-wicche, on me haf pitee,
Let passe me, queene, thes agonie and thole,
Grinde not my soule.
Wheneer byfor thou hast mi hearkenéd—
And ploumbed the distans heering that I said,
And heeding, thou hast com, and left behand
Gods golden land,
In chaar moste flete bi wingéd steedes drawn,
Upon the skye al dark afore the dawn,
Throgh hevenes hy and wide espace in glyde
Doun to erthside;
Than soonest com thou blessedest ladie,
With contenance devyne and asketh me
Asmile, what wo anonder me did falle,
That I thee calle?
What in my leesting hertes maddenesse
Who now most feele my ane besechenesse?
Who is it most thir own hertsease ago
For wreyed Sapfo?
For yif she fleeth, fresshly shal she folowe,
Today turn giftes, yet offreth them tomorwe,
She chues nat love, yet loving shal her chues
Thogh she eschewes.
Com then, I preye, gyf me an ende to grief,
Remoeven care o godess if thou leef,
What I moste coveite an it be provyde,
Thou at my syde!
---------------
[[Stanza 1] Glittering-throned and immortal Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, wondrous sorceress, spare me, o queen, this anguish and distress and do not crush my spirit. [2] Whenever before you discerned my call in the great distance, and heard my words, you came, leaving behind your father’s golden realm. [3] You came with chariot drawn by winged beasts through the darkness of the sky, from the expanses of heaven and down to the earth. [4] Quickly you arrived; most blessed lady, and with a smile upon your divine countenance did ask me what woe had fallen upon me that I had called you: [5] What is it now, in my yearning heart's madness? Who now must be made to feel desire for me? Who now must sacrifice their heart’s-ease for wronged Sappho? [6] For even if she flies she shall soon follow and if she rejects gifts today, yet tomorrow she will offer them, and if she does not choose love yet shall love choose her, howevermuch she tries to avoid it. [7] Come I pray thee, give me release from my sorrows, and if it please you o goddess take away my cares; what my heart most craves may it be provided, and you my ally.]
Ποικιλόθρον᾽ ἀθάνατ᾽ ᾽Αφρόδιτα,
παῖ Δίος, δολόπλοκε, λίσσομαί σε
μή μ᾽ ἄσαισι μήτ᾽ ὀνίαισι δάμνα,
πότνια, θῦμον.
ἀλλὰ τυίδ᾽ ἔλθ᾽, αἴποτα κἀτέρωτα
τᾶς ἔμας αὔδως ἀίοισα πήλοι
ἔκλυες, πάτρος δὲ δόμον λίποισα
χρύσιον ἦλθες
ἄρμ᾽ ὐποσδεύξαια• κάλοι δέ σ᾽ ἆγον
ὤκεες στροῦθοι περὶ γᾶς μελαίνας
πύκνα δινεῦντες πτέρ᾽ ἀπ᾽ ὠράν᾽ αἴθε-
ρος διὰ μέσσω,
αἶψα δ᾽ ἐξίκοντο• σὺ δ᾽, ὦ μάκαιραv
μειδιάσαισ᾽ ἀθάνατῳ προσώπῳ,
ἤρε᾽ ὄττι δηὖτε πέπονθα κὤττι
δηὖτε κάλημι
κὤττι μοι μάλιστα θέλω γένεσθαι
μαινόλᾳ θύμῳ• "τίνα δηὖτε †πείθω
ἄψ σ᾽ ἄγην† ἐς σὰν φιλότατα; τίς τ᾽, ὦ
Ψάπφ᾽, ἀδίκηει;
καὶ γάρ αἰ φεύγει, ταχέως διώξει,
αἰ δὲ δῶρα μὴ δέκετ᾽, ἀλλὰ δώσει,
αἰ δὲ μὴ φίλει, ταχέως φιλήσει,
κωὐκ ἐθέλοισα".
ἔλθε μοι καὶ νῦν, χαλέπαν δὲ λῦσον
ἐκ μερίμναν, ὄσσα δέ μοι τέλεσσαι
θῦμος ἰμέρρει, τέλεσον• σὐ δ᾽ αὔτα
σύμμαχος ἔσσο.
Glytering-troned and dethlesse Afrodytte,
Gods dowhter, wunder-wicche, on me haf pitee,
Let passe me, queene, thes agonie and thole,
Grinde not my soule.
Wheneer byfor thou hast mi hearkenéd—
And ploumbed the distans heering that I said,
And heeding, thou hast com, and left behand
Gods golden land,
In chaar moste flete bi wingéd steedes drawn,
Upon the skye al dark afore the dawn,
Throgh hevenes hy and wide espace in glyde
Doun to erthside;
Than soonest com thou blessedest ladie,
With contenance devyne and asketh me
Asmile, what wo anonder me did falle,
That I thee calle?
What in my leesting hertes maddenesse
Who now most feele my ane besechenesse?
Who is it most thir own hertsease ago
For wreyed Sapfo?
For yif she fleeth, fresshly shal she folowe,
Today turn giftes, yet offreth them tomorwe,
She chues nat love, yet loving shal her chues
Thogh she eschewes.
Com then, I preye, gyf me an ende to grief,
Remoeven care o godess if thou leef,
What I moste coveite an it be provyde,
Thou at my syde!
---------------
[[Stanza 1] Glittering-throned and immortal Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, wondrous sorceress, spare me, o queen, this anguish and distress and do not crush my spirit. [2] Whenever before you discerned my call in the great distance, and heard my words, you came, leaving behind your father’s golden realm. [3] You came with chariot drawn by winged beasts through the darkness of the sky, from the expanses of heaven and down to the earth. [4] Quickly you arrived; most blessed lady, and with a smile upon your divine countenance did ask me what woe had fallen upon me that I had called you: [5] What is it now, in my yearning heart's madness? Who now must be made to feel desire for me? Who now must sacrifice their heart’s-ease for wronged Sappho? [6] For even if she flies she shall soon follow and if she rejects gifts today, yet tomorrow she will offer them, and if she does not choose love yet shall love choose her, howevermuch she tries to avoid it. [7] Come I pray thee, give me release from my sorrows, and if it please you o goddess take away my cares; what my heart most craves may it be provided, and you my ally.]
Ποικιλόθρον᾽ ἀθάνατ᾽ ᾽Αφρόδιτα,
παῖ Δίος, δολόπλοκε, λίσσομαί σε
μή μ᾽ ἄσαισι μήτ᾽ ὀνίαισι δάμνα,
πότνια, θῦμον.
ἀλλὰ τυίδ᾽ ἔλθ᾽, αἴποτα κἀτέρωτα
τᾶς ἔμας αὔδως ἀίοισα πήλοι
ἔκλυες, πάτρος δὲ δόμον λίποισα
χρύσιον ἦλθες
ἄρμ᾽ ὐποσδεύξαια• κάλοι δέ σ᾽ ἆγον
ὤκεες στροῦθοι περὶ γᾶς μελαίνας
πύκνα δινεῦντες πτέρ᾽ ἀπ᾽ ὠράν᾽ αἴθε-
ρος διὰ μέσσω,
αἶψα δ᾽ ἐξίκοντο• σὺ δ᾽, ὦ μάκαιραv
μειδιάσαισ᾽ ἀθάνατῳ προσώπῳ,
ἤρε᾽ ὄττι δηὖτε πέπονθα κὤττι
δηὖτε κάλημι
κὤττι μοι μάλιστα θέλω γένεσθαι
μαινόλᾳ θύμῳ• "τίνα δηὖτε †πείθω
ἄψ σ᾽ ἄγην† ἐς σὰν φιλότατα; τίς τ᾽, ὦ
Ψάπφ᾽, ἀδίκηει;
καὶ γάρ αἰ φεύγει, ταχέως διώξει,
αἰ δὲ δῶρα μὴ δέκετ᾽, ἀλλὰ δώσει,
αἰ δὲ μὴ φίλει, ταχέως φιλήσει,
κωὐκ ἐθέλοισα".
ἔλθε μοι καὶ νῦν, χαλέπαν δὲ λῦσον
ἐκ μερίμναν, ὄσσα δέ μοι τέλεσσαι
θῦμος ἰμέρρει, τέλεσον• σὐ δ᾽ αὔτα
σύμμαχος ἔσσο.
Sunday, 22 June 2014
Hesiod in Early Middle English
[Following on from this post, in which the first 50-or-so lines of the Iliad are translated into Beowulfian Old English, I've beguiled a few hours this Sunday morning turning the opening passage (first 50 lines of the Greek) of Hesiod's Theogony into early Middle English, modelled very roughly on the language of Laȝamon's Brut with a splash of Piers Plowman. This is a bit of a cheat: scholars don't know exactly when Homer composed, or Hesiod either, but they tend to assume they were roughly contemporaneous, '8th-7th Centuries BC'. That covers a lot of ground. For my purposes I've decided to believe that Homer is late 9th and Hesiod mid 7th-C, and to render the former into a 9th/10th-Century English and the latter in a sort of 12th-Century-ish idiom. In fact the Greek of Homer and Hesiod is not so different from one another as the English of Beowulf and Brut; but I'm cutting myself some slack. Nothing about this project is going to involve precise parallels, after all.]
Heesiod, his Þeogonie
Fram þeo Muses of hiȝe hooly Helcon swoote mæidens þeir muȝik
Let ūsic begin, whan þei frolic on flotte feete atte þeo fontaine
Of Croenos his son, and clanse þeir comly careynes in Permeȝes
Or in Stedes-Springen or Olmaeuȝe, and mak þeir swoote steppes
In daunce devout wiþ deintie feet, dowelyng ypon hiȝe Helcon.
Þens þei ariȝe and go aboute at niȝt, synging in armonye
Þorow an þicke myst, wiþ þryving towches aprayȝe of troned God,
And of hiȝe Hera, Hargoȝes queene, and hir shooen of gold,
And Goddes dohter Aþene of þe glad eeyen, and glisnande Apolo,
And Artemis armèd wiþ arrowes, and aglich Posidonne who shakeþ al arthe,
And þankworþ Þemise, and Þryes-gladd Afrodyte cwic-glenten,
And Hebe hed goldfaȝen, and hevened Dione, Leyto and Hiapete,
And Cronos þe craftig counsailer, Heeliuȝe and Heos, and comlych Seleyn
Arthe anan, Occean almiȝtig, and asshenblacke Niȝt,
Al þe deaþless and hali wiȝts wa wondres ay ævere.
Ac on ane daie þei Heesiod ytauȝt ane aþel armonye
Þewhyl he sheaphierde was of sheep yspradde on hooly Helcon,
Þes sustren to me sæden, singers of Alympus, Æȝis Goddes seede:
“Sheaphierdes of þeo wyldren, wofyl men, meere wombes
Wotte we þeo wei to spende fals wyckednesse as trow
Bot wotte we yf we wille yt to spende trow witnesses among.”
Swulche declarèd þeo defte voysed dohters of drede God
And þei ypluckt and past me ane pole of lorrer puyre
Mervayl to me, that moȝt ane maȝt godlic to muȝik
And prayȝe in phalmes yf past and swulche wil comme
Ybad me blowe of þeo blysfol goddess, aeternal and blyþe
Þei syng to selven of selven atte start and ende.
But wens þis writelinge? Comst þu, in womann wyse
Wiþ Muses wo mak gladnes micel in miȝhtig Goddes brest
In prayȝe Alympus of past afore and swulche anan to com,
Wiþ voys þat vorseyde was virtue in al wiȝhtes.
Unweryng floeþ þeo facound fayryȝe þeir lippes fram
Gladd ys hire fader hooly hus, God þeo felle-þunorer
In licnes of ane lilly þeir lossom voys lyȝteþ from Alympus
Soundeþ ofer snaw and faleþ a swogh þro þeo deþless stedes;
And þei in prayȝe þeir ondying voys oloft an orisoun:
Of þeo hali godes, hu þei were hewen of Erth and hende Heven,
And þeir goddechilder, giferes of good þings to þeo grete.
Þan feir Muses forsang of þeo Faþer of goddes and men, ȝeos yclept.
Þeo mayster, meast mervaylous of goddes and al yn miȝt.
And þei wayl in þis wyse of mortal wiȝts and wodwos geant
And Goddes heorte is gladened in gaynlich Alympus
Atourned he wiþ þeo Æȝis, bi his dohters, Muses of Alympus.
[Let us begin with the muses of high and holy Mount Helicon, sweet maidens and their music, who dance on soft feet about the spring of the almighty son of Cronos, and, when they have washed their comely bodies in Permessus or in the Horse's Spring or Olmeius, make their fair, lovely dances moving with nimble feet upon highest Helicon where they dwell. Thence they arise and go abroad by night, veiled in thick mist, and voicing their beautiful music in praise of Zeus on his throne, and queenly Hera of Argos who walks in golden sandals, and of the daughter of Zeus bright-eyed Athena, and Phoebus Apollo, and Artemis who delights in arrows, and terrible Poseidon who shakes the earth, and worthy Themis, and quick-glancing Aphrodite thrice blessed, and Hebe with her head adorned with gold, and heaven-fair Dione, Leto, Iapetus, and Cronos the crafty counsellor, Eos, and great Helius, and bright Selene, Earth, too, and great Oceanus, and Night black as ashes, and all the dealthless and holy beings that live in wonder for ever.
And one day they taught Hesiod most noble song while he was shepherding his lambs under holy Helicon, and this word first the goddesses said to me—the Muses of Olympus, offspring of Zeus who holds the aegis: “Shepherds of the wilderness, wretched men, mere bellies as you are: we know how to speak many false things as though they were true; but we know as well, when we choose, to utter true things.”
So said the ready-voiced daughters of dread Zeus, and they plucked and gave [30] me a rod, a shoot of perfect laurel, a marvellous thing, and breathed into me a divine voice to sing psalms of praise of things that once were and thing that shall be; and they bade me sing of the race of the blessed gods that are eternally, but ever to sing of themselves both first and last.
But whence this warbling? Come you, let us begin with the Muses who gladden the great spirit of their father Zeus in Olympus with their songs, telling of things that are and that shall be and that were aforetime with consenting voice. Unwearying flows the enchanted sound from their lips, and the holy house of their father Zeus the dread-thunderer is glad at the lily-like voice of the goddesses as it spreads abroad, and the peaks of snowy Olypmus resound, and the homes of the immortals. And they, raising up their immortal voice, celebrate in song: the gods and how they were created by Earth and lovely Heaven, and the gods begat by these, givers of good things to the Earth. Then next, the goddesses sing of Zeus, the father of gods and men, the most marvellous among all the gods and greatest in power. And again, they chant of mortal men and giant beings, and Zeus’s heart is gladdened upon gracious Olympus,—the Olympian Muses, daughters of Zeus the aegis-holder.]
Heesiod, his Þeogonie
Fram þeo Muses of hiȝe hooly Helcon swoote mæidens þeir muȝik
Let ūsic begin, whan þei frolic on flotte feete atte þeo fontaine
Of Croenos his son, and clanse þeir comly careynes in Permeȝes
Or in Stedes-Springen or Olmaeuȝe, and mak þeir swoote steppes
In daunce devout wiþ deintie feet, dowelyng ypon hiȝe Helcon.
Þens þei ariȝe and go aboute at niȝt, synging in armonye
Þorow an þicke myst, wiþ þryving towches aprayȝe of troned God,
And of hiȝe Hera, Hargoȝes queene, and hir shooen of gold,
And Goddes dohter Aþene of þe glad eeyen, and glisnande Apolo,
And Artemis armèd wiþ arrowes, and aglich Posidonne who shakeþ al arthe,
And þankworþ Þemise, and Þryes-gladd Afrodyte cwic-glenten,
And Hebe hed goldfaȝen, and hevened Dione, Leyto and Hiapete,
And Cronos þe craftig counsailer, Heeliuȝe and Heos, and comlych Seleyn
Arthe anan, Occean almiȝtig, and asshenblacke Niȝt,
Al þe deaþless and hali wiȝts wa wondres ay ævere.
Ac on ane daie þei Heesiod ytauȝt ane aþel armonye
Þewhyl he sheaphierde was of sheep yspradde on hooly Helcon,
Þes sustren to me sæden, singers of Alympus, Æȝis Goddes seede:
“Sheaphierdes of þeo wyldren, wofyl men, meere wombes
Wotte we þeo wei to spende fals wyckednesse as trow
Bot wotte we yf we wille yt to spende trow witnesses among.”
Swulche declarèd þeo defte voysed dohters of drede God
And þei ypluckt and past me ane pole of lorrer puyre
Mervayl to me, that moȝt ane maȝt godlic to muȝik
And prayȝe in phalmes yf past and swulche wil comme
Ybad me blowe of þeo blysfol goddess, aeternal and blyþe
Þei syng to selven of selven atte start and ende.
But wens þis writelinge? Comst þu, in womann wyse
Wiþ Muses wo mak gladnes micel in miȝhtig Goddes brest
In prayȝe Alympus of past afore and swulche anan to com,
Wiþ voys þat vorseyde was virtue in al wiȝhtes.
Unweryng floeþ þeo facound fayryȝe þeir lippes fram
Gladd ys hire fader hooly hus, God þeo felle-þunorer
In licnes of ane lilly þeir lossom voys lyȝteþ from Alympus
Soundeþ ofer snaw and faleþ a swogh þro þeo deþless stedes;
And þei in prayȝe þeir ondying voys oloft an orisoun:
Of þeo hali godes, hu þei were hewen of Erth and hende Heven,
And þeir goddechilder, giferes of good þings to þeo grete.
Þan feir Muses forsang of þeo Faþer of goddes and men, ȝeos yclept.
Þeo mayster, meast mervaylous of goddes and al yn miȝt.
And þei wayl in þis wyse of mortal wiȝts and wodwos geant
And Goddes heorte is gladened in gaynlich Alympus
Atourned he wiþ þeo Æȝis, bi his dohters, Muses of Alympus.
[Let us begin with the muses of high and holy Mount Helicon, sweet maidens and their music, who dance on soft feet about the spring of the almighty son of Cronos, and, when they have washed their comely bodies in Permessus or in the Horse's Spring or Olmeius, make their fair, lovely dances moving with nimble feet upon highest Helicon where they dwell. Thence they arise and go abroad by night, veiled in thick mist, and voicing their beautiful music in praise of Zeus on his throne, and queenly Hera of Argos who walks in golden sandals, and of the daughter of Zeus bright-eyed Athena, and Phoebus Apollo, and Artemis who delights in arrows, and terrible Poseidon who shakes the earth, and worthy Themis, and quick-glancing Aphrodite thrice blessed, and Hebe with her head adorned with gold, and heaven-fair Dione, Leto, Iapetus, and Cronos the crafty counsellor, Eos, and great Helius, and bright Selene, Earth, too, and great Oceanus, and Night black as ashes, and all the dealthless and holy beings that live in wonder for ever.
And one day they taught Hesiod most noble song while he was shepherding his lambs under holy Helicon, and this word first the goddesses said to me—the Muses of Olympus, offspring of Zeus who holds the aegis: “Shepherds of the wilderness, wretched men, mere bellies as you are: we know how to speak many false things as though they were true; but we know as well, when we choose, to utter true things.”
So said the ready-voiced daughters of dread Zeus, and they plucked and gave [30] me a rod, a shoot of perfect laurel, a marvellous thing, and breathed into me a divine voice to sing psalms of praise of things that once were and thing that shall be; and they bade me sing of the race of the blessed gods that are eternally, but ever to sing of themselves both first and last.
But whence this warbling? Come you, let us begin with the Muses who gladden the great spirit of their father Zeus in Olympus with their songs, telling of things that are and that shall be and that were aforetime with consenting voice. Unwearying flows the enchanted sound from their lips, and the holy house of their father Zeus the dread-thunderer is glad at the lily-like voice of the goddesses as it spreads abroad, and the peaks of snowy Olypmus resound, and the homes of the immortals. And they, raising up their immortal voice, celebrate in song: the gods and how they were created by Earth and lovely Heaven, and the gods begat by these, givers of good things to the Earth. Then next, the goddesses sing of Zeus, the father of gods and men, the most marvellous among all the gods and greatest in power. And again, they chant of mortal men and giant beings, and Zeus’s heart is gladdened upon gracious Olympus,—the Olympian Muses, daughters of Zeus the aegis-holder.]
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