It is bitter not to be kissed, it is bitter to be kissed; but bitterer than all things is to lose one's love.
Love now has no child; O cunning one, old custom is disdained—they care only for money.
May he perish who first loved money! Through him there are no brothers, through him no fathers; enemies, murders, because of him.
And this is the worst—through him we that are lovers are destroyed.

I would like to sing of the Atridae and of Cadmos, but my lyre sings Love alone upon its strings.
Just now I changed the strings of the lyre and sang of Heracles, but the lyre spoke only of love.
There is nothing left but to say farewell, O heroes, for the lyre sings only of love.

The child of Tantalus once stood, a stone upon the hills of Phrygia; and the bird, the swallow of Pandion, was once a girl.
I would be a mirror that you would always look at me — I would be your dress so that you would always wear me.
I would be water so that I could bathe your flesh; I would be a perfume, dear, so that I could touch you.
And I would be the riband at your breast and the pearls about your throat; I would be your sandal that I might be trodden by your feet.

I lie by the grove of Bathyllus and a beautiful tree sways with the most delicate shoots of soft leaves.
Beside it a flowing fountain murmurs of desire.
Who then, seeing this resting place, would depart?

O women, let me drink a draught of Bromius, for now I am wearied with heat and cry aloud. Give me flowers; I will be covered thick with garlands.
My temples burn; where shall I shelter, O heart, from the flames of love?

Paint for me Bathyllus, the lover, as I tell you. Make his hair bright; black at the roots, yet golden at the ends; and let the free tendrils of his hair lie lawless as they choose.
Let his eyebrow, which is darker than a serpent, garland his dew-soft brow. Let his fierce dark eye be tempered with grace — the fierceness of Ares, the grace of Aphrodite — so that any one who flees from the one surrenders to the other.

Come, dearest of painters, master of Rhodian art, and paint for me the picture of my absent mistress in the way I tell you.
First, paint her hair soft and black — and if wax can render it — paint it scented with perfume. Above her cheek and under her dark hair paint her ivory temple. Do not cut or entirely join her eyebrows and put in that imperceptible dark shadow about her eyes. Make her eyes of real fire, clear like Athene's, and languid, like the Cytherean's.

If all the leaves of the trees could be numbered, if the sands of the whole great sea could be counted, I could make you the sole computer of my loves.
Take first from Athens twenty loves and then fifteen more. From Corinth take strings of mistresses, for this is Achaia where the women are beautiful.
Give me two thousand loves from the Lesbians to the Ionians, Carians and Rhodians.
" Why do you talk such folly! "
I have not yet counted the Syrians, not yet my mistresses at Canopus nor all those at Crete where Love riots in the cities.

I will, I will kiss.
Love urges me to kiss. And since this is not my desire I was unwilling to be urged.
Love shook his straight bow and gold quiver; he called me to the fight.
I struggled with Love, throwing the breast-plate upon my shoulders, my spear and ox-hide shield, like Achilles.
He struck and I fled. And as he had no shafts he grew angry, hurled himself at me in a glance.
He pierced to my heart and overwhelmed me. In vain I have a shield; for, since he is within me, is he not out of shot?

They say that stately Cybele cried out among the hills in an agony of grief for Attis.
And those beside the banks of Claros, drinking the singing water of laurel-bearing Apollo, cry out and are mad.
But I will take my fill of wine and of perfume and of my mistress—
And I will be mad drunk!