XXIV
Ψάπφοι, τί τὰν πολύολβον Ἀφροδιταν;
WHY should I praise thee, blissful Aphrodite ?
Wrong hast thou wrought
Thy Sappho, thy flower-weaving one, who brought
The fair, white goat, and poured the milky bowl,
Using thy mighty,
Malignant craft to baulk me of m y goal;
Though all my days
And starless nights I crown thee with my lays :
Why should I praise,
Why should I praise thee, blissful Aphrodite ?
Why should I praise thee, blissful Aphrodite ?
Thou dost not guide,
Rather with conflict dire my mind divide ;
For me the trembling boy grows honey-pale,
While for the mighty
Fervours of Phaon's breast, without avail,
My mad heart prays.
Win him, O Queen, who shunned to seek my gaze !
Then will I praise,
Then will I praise thee, blissful Aphrodite.
