This page presents texts and information relating to            It’s All Greek (and Latin!) to Me                      the Classics Podcast co-hosted by me and Jimmy Mulville.

Episode 1:  Carpe Diem

In this episode we talk about the phrase that is commonly – but not accurately – translated “Seize the day!”

The phrase is taken from an ode (short poem) by the poet Horace which I have translated as follows:

Don’t ask, Bianca – for we may not know –
what end the gods decree for me or you.
Don’t try to learn the future from the stars.
It’s better to accept whatever comes –
whether we’re bound for many winters more
or whether this one, buffeting the rocks
that front the Tuscan shore, will be our last.
Be sensible and strain the wine instead,
and trim down long-term fancies. While we talk,
ungenerous time runs by; enjoy today,
and place no trust in what tomorrow holds.

In Latin (Horace Odes 1.11)

Tu ne quaesieris – scire nefas – quem mihi, quem tibi
finem di dederint, Leuconoe, nec Babylonios
temptaris numeros. Ut melius quicquid erit pati!
Seu pluris hiemes seu tribuit Iuppiter ultimam,
quae nunc oppositis debilitat pumicibus mare               5
Tyrrhenum, sapias, vina liques et spatio brevi
spem longam reseces. Dum loquimur, fugerit invida
aetas: carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.

 

EPISODE 4: Odi et Amo, Catullus and Lesbia

In this episode we talk about that poem, I hate and love…and its implications for Catullus’s life and love for Lesbia. We go on to think about an number of other glorious poems by the young Roman.

Catullus 85

I hate and love: perhaps you ask how both of these I do.
I don’t know, but I feel it, and I’m being torn in two.

Odi et amo: quare id faciam fortasse requiris.
   nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

Catullus 83

Lesbia badmouths me intensely when her husband’s there.
He thinks it’s quite hilarious, that dimwit, how he hoots.
You donkey, don’t you get it? Don’t you see, she wouldn’t care
if she were silent? But the way she jabbers on and snoots
shows not just that I’m in her thoughts, but even clearer still,
she’s riled, i.e. she’s hot for me and needs to talk her fill!

Lesbia mi praesente viro mala plurima dicit:
   haec illi fatuo maxima laetitia est.
mule, nihil sentis? si nostri oblita taceret,
   sana esset: nunc quod gannit et obloquitur,
non solum meminit, sed, quae multo acrior est res,
   irata est. hoc est, uritur et loquitur.
 

Catullus 8

Lovelorn Catullus, stop being such a fool,
and what you see is lost, write off as lost.
Time was, the sun shone burning bright for you,
when you would tag along behind your girl –
loved by me as no woman will be loved.
That time, when lots of fun and games were had
(how keen you were – and she was just as keen!)
truly the sun shone burning bright for you.
No longer. Now she’s cold: you too be cold;
don’t live in hope, don’t chase her when she flees,
but let your heart grow hard, be resolute.
Goodbye, girl. Now Catullus is steadfast;
he won’t pursue a girl against her will.
But you’ll be sad when you’re not chased at all.
Oh, you poor bitch, what will your life hold now?
Who’ll visit you? Who’ll say you’re beautiful?
Who’ll be your lover? Who’ll call you his girl?
Who will you kiss? Whose sweet lips will you bite?
But no, Catullus: drop it, stand resolved.

Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire,
et quod vides perisse perditum ducas.
Fulsere quondam candidi tibi soles,
cum ventitabas quo puella ducebat
amata nobis quantum amabitur nulla.
Ibi illa multa cum iocosa fiebant,
quae tu volebas nec puella nolebat,
fulsere vere candidi tibi soles.
Nunc iam illa non vult: tu quoque impotens noli,
nec quae fugit sectare, nec miser vive,
sed obstinata mente perfer, obdura.
Vale puella, iam Catullus obdurat,
nec te requiret nec rogabit invitam.
At tu dolebis, cum rogaberis nulla.
Scelesta, uae te! quae tibi manet uita?
Quis nunc te adibit? cui videberis bella?
Quem nunc amabis? Cuius esse diceris?
Quem basiabis? Cui labella mordebis?
At tu, Catulle, destinatus obdura.

Catullus 2

O sparrow, you’re the thing my girl loves best:
she fondles you and hugs you to her breast,
and teases you with wagging fingertip,
drawing from time to time an eager nip;
and when she’s glowing from my adulation,
she turns to you for welcome recreation,
to find some solace for love’s pain, I guess,
and to relieve her amorous distress.
If only I, like her, for my own part
could play with you and soothe my aching heart.
[But now this sign of passion, sparrow, feels]
as welcome as that golden apple felt,
they say, to the fleet-footed girl whose belt
of virgin virtue was at last released.

Passer, deliciae meae puellae
quicum ludere, quem in sinu tenere,
cui primum digitum dare appetenti
et acris solet incitare morsus
cum desiderio meo nitenti
carum nescio quid lubet iocare,
et solaciolum sui doloris,
credo, ut tum gravis acquiescat ardor:
tecum ludere sicut ipsa possem
et tristis animi levare curas.
[signum quod mihi nunc moves amoris]
tam gratum est mihi quam ferunt puellae
pernici aureolum fuisse malum,
quod zonam soluit diu ligatam.

Catullus 3

Weep Venuses and Cupids all,
and you who love’s delights recall!
dead is my sweetheart’s little bird,
her sparrow, whom my love preferred
to her own eyes, for honey-sweet
it would, just like a daughter, greet
my love alone; and it would stay
perched on her lap and barely stray,
but would hop forward and retreat,
and always to its mistress tweet.
But now it treads that gloomy way
To go whence none returns, they say.
Damn you, infernal shades of gloom,
foul Death who all sweet things consume!
So sweet a bird you’ve snatched away:
oh monstrous deed! Poor little stray.
Now thanks to you the sparrow’s dead.
And my girl’s eyes are sore and red.

Lugete, O Veneres Cupidinesque,
et quantum est hominum venustiorum!
passer mortuus est meae puellae,
passer deliciae meae puellae,
quem plus illa oculis suis amabat.
nam mellitus erat, suamque norat
ipsam tam bene quam puella matrem,
nec sese a gremio illius movebat,
sed circumsiliens modo huc modo illuc
ad solam dominam usque pipiabat;
qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum
illuc, unde negant redire quemquam.
at vobis male sit, malae tenebrae
Orci, quae omnia bella devoratis:
tam bellum mihi passerem abstulistis.
o factum male! o miselle passer!
tua nunc opera meae puellae
flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli.

Catullus 10

I’m idling in the square when my mate Varus
drags me away to meet his new amour;
a little slapper, is my first impression,
quite pretty, though, and not without allure.
We fall to chatting about sundry matters,
like how I’d found it serving in Bithynia,
and how much cash I’d raked in from the trip.
I told them how it was: not even bosses,
much less their aides, could make a decent tip,
or add a measly penny to their coffers,
especially as the Praetor was a bugger
who didn’t give a toss about his staffers.
“At least”, she says, “you won’t have missed the chance
to get the local product, litter-bearers?”
Keen to impress the girl and make her fancy
I’m not some loser, I reply “You betcha!
A rotten province, but that didn’t stop me
from bringing home eight able-bodied bearers.”
The truth is, I can’t claim a single bearer,
not there, nor here in Rome, not even one who
could hoist a broken bed-post on his shoulders.
But then the little tart says “Oh Catullus!
My darling, can you lend me them? I need them
to make a little trip – I’ve an appointment
at Serapis’s temple.” “W-wait,” I stammer,
I should have said, look, they aren’t mine to lend you.
You see, they’re my friend Cinna’s – that is Gaius
Cinna – just mine to use if I should want to…”
(But you’re a nuisance and a tiresome hag
to trip me up in an unguarded brag!)

Varus me meus ad suos amores
visum duxerat e foro otiosum,
scortillum, ut mihi tunc repente visum est,
non sane inlepidum neque invenustum.
huc ut venimus, incidere nobis
sermones varii, in quibus, quid esset
iam Bithynia, quo modo se haberet,
ecquonam mihi profuisset aere.
respondi id quod erat, nihil neque ipsis
nec praetoribus esse nec cohorti,
cur quisquam caput unctius referret,
praesertim quibus esset irrumator
praetor nec faceret pili cohortem.
“at certe tamen,” inquiunt, “quod illic
natum dicitur esse comparasti,
ad lecticam homines.” ego, ut puellae
unum me facerem beatiorem,
“non,” inquam, “mihi tam fuit maligne,
ut, provincia quod mala incidisset,
non possem octo homines parare rectos.”
at mi nullus erat neque hic neque illic
fractum qui veteris pedem grabati
in collo sibi conlocare posset.
hic illa, ut decuit cinaediorem,
“quaeso,” inquit, “mihi, mi Catulle, paulum
istos commoda: nam volo ad Sarapim
deferri.” “Mane,” inquii puellae,
“istud quod modo dixeram, me habere,
fugit me ratio: meus sodalis
Cinna est Gaius; is sibi paravit.
verum, utrum illius an mei, quid ad me?
utor tam bene quam mihi pararim.
sed tu insulsa male et molesta vivis,
per quam non licet esse neglegentem.”

Catullus 1

Whom shall I gift this smart new little book,
just polished smooth with crispy pumice-stone?
Cornelius, to you, since you are prone
to think my trifles worth a second look –
yes, even though, alone in Italy,
you’ve ventured on a history of the world
and set it forth in three papyrus scrolls,
a learned and, by Jove, exacting task!
So take, for what it’s worth, this book as your
slight recompense. And goddess Muse, I ask:
may it survive a century or more.

Cui dono lepidum novum libellum
arido modo pumice expolitum?
Corneli, tibi; namque tu solebas
meas esse aliquid putare nugas,
iam tum cum ausus es unus Italorum
omne aevum tribus explicare chartis,
doctis, Iuppiter, et laboriosis!
quare habe tibi quidquid hoc libelli
qualecumque, quod, o patrona virgo,
plus uno maneat perenne saeclo.