Greek Texts & Translations

Theocritus offers a conolatio amoris to his friend the poet-physician Nicias of Miletus, with whom he studied under the physician Erasistratus. After a brief introduction by way of stage-direction, he tells him the song the Cyclops sang to his love the sea-nymph. Metrical and grammatical considerations make it probable that the poem was an early one; it may well be anterior to The Distaff. There is ‘tragic irony’ in the Cyclops’ reference to his eye when speaking of singeing his beard, and also in his mention of the possible advent of a stranger from overseas.

11.1 It seems there’s no medicine for love, Nicias, neither salve nor plaster, but only the Pierian Maids. And a gentle medicine it is and sweet for to use upon the world, but very hard to find, as indeed one like you must know, being both physician and well-belov’d likewise of the Nine. ‘Twas this, at least, gave best comfort to my countryman the Cyclops, old Polyphemus, when he was first showing beard upon cheek and chin and Galatea was his love. His love was no matter of apples, neither, nor of rosebuds nor locks of hair, but a flat frenzy which recked nought of all else. Time and again his sheep would leave the fresh green pasturage and come back unbidden to the fold, while their master must peak and pine alone upon the wrack-strown shore a-singing all the day long of Galatea, sick at heart of the spiteful wound the shaft of the great Cyprian had dealt him. Nevertheless he found the medicine for it, and sitting him down upon an upstanding rock looked seawards and sang:

11.19 O Galatea fair and white, white as curds in whey,
Dapper as lamb a-frisking, wanton as calf at play,
And plum o’ shape as ruddying grape, O why deny thy lover?
O soon enow thou’rt here, I trow, when sweet sleep comes me over,
But up and gone when sleeping’s done – O never flees so fast
Ewe that doth spy gray wolf anight, as thou when slumber’s past.
My love of thee began, sweeting, when thou – I mind it well –
Wast come a-pulling luces wi’ my mother on the fell;
I showed ye where to look for them, and from that hour to this
I’ve loved ye true; but Lord! to you my love as nothing is.

11.30 O well I wot pretty maid, for why thou shun’st me so,
One long shag eyebrow ear t o ear my forehead o’er doth go,
And but one eye beneath doth lie, and the nose stands wide on the lip;
Yet be as I may, still this I say, I feed full a thousand sheep,
And the milk to my hand’s the best i' the land, and my cheese ‘tis plenty alsó;
Come summer mild, come winter wild, my cheese-racks ever o’erflow.
And, for piping, none o’ my kin hereby can pipe like my piping,
And of thee and me, dear sweet-apple, in one song oft I sing,
Often at dead of night. And O, there’s gifts in store for thee,
Eleven fawns, all white-collárs, and cosset bear’s cubs four for thee.

11.42 O leave it be, the blue blue sea, to gasp an ‘t will o’ the shore,
And come ye away to me, to me; I’ll lay ye’ll find no ill store.
A sweeter night thou’lt pass i' the cave with me than away i' the brine;
There’s laurel and taper cypress, swart ivy and sweet-fruit vine,
And for thy drinking the cool watér woody Etna pours so free
For my delight from his snow so white, and a heav’nly draught it be.
Now who would choose the sea and his waves, and a home like this forgo?

11.50 But if so be the master o’ t too shag to thy deeming show,
There’s wood in store, and on the floor a fire that smoulders still,
And if thou would’st be burning, mayst burn my soul an thou will,
Yea, and the dear’st of all my goods, my one dear eye. O me!
That I was not born with fins to be diving down to thee,
To kiss, if not thy lips, at least hey hand, and give thee posies
Of poppies trim with scarlet rim or snow-white winter-roses!
And if a stranger a-shipboard come, e’en now, my little sweeting,
E’en now to swim I’ll learn of him, and then shall I be weeting
Wherefore it be ye folk o’ the sea are so life to be living below.

11.63 Come forth and away, my pretty fay, and when thou comest, O
Forget, as he that sitteth here, they ways again to go;
Feed flock wi’ me, draw milk wi’ me, and if ‘t my darling please,
Pour rennet tart the curds to part and set the good white cheese.
‘Tis all my mother’s doing; she sore to blame hath bin;
Never good word hath spoke you o’ me, though she sees me waxing so thin.
I’ll tell her of throbbing feet, ^note I’ll tell her of aching eyne;
I am fain that misery be hers sith misery be mine.

11.72 O Cyclops, Cyclops, where be your wits gone flying?
Up, fetch you loppings for your lambs, or go a withy-plying;
The wearier’s oft the wiser man, and that there’s no denying.
Milk the staying, leave the straying, chase not them that shy;
Mayhap you’ll find e’en sweeter Galateans by and by.
There’s many a jill says ‘Come an you will and play all night wi’ me,’
And he laugh I hear when I give ear is soft and sweet as can be;
E’en I, ‘tis plain, be somebody, ashore, if not ‘I the sea.

11.80 Thus did Polyphemus tend his love-sickness with music, and got more comfort thereout than he could have had for any gold.