by Nonnus
ἱστοπόνον Κυθέρειαν ἐριδμαίνουσαν Ἀθήνῃ.
[237] Lapethos, a dweller in the unarmed Cyprian land, sat next to the inspired minstrel, and he passed him a fat portion of meat, begging him to sing a pleasant story that never-silent Athens loves, the weaving-match between Athena and Cythereia.
αὐτὰρ ὁ φορμίζων ἀνεβάλλετο Κύπριν ἀείδειν,
ὥς ποτε κέντρον ἔχουσα φιληλακάτοιο μερίμνης
χερσὶν ἀπειρήτοισι μετήιεν ἱστὸν Ἀθήνης,
245 κερκίδα κουφίζουσα καὶ οὐκέτι κεστὸν Ἐρώτων.
καὶ Παφίης τετάνυστο παχὺς μίτος, οἷά τε μακρὴ
οἰσυΐνη μήρινθος ἐύστροφος, ἥν τινι τέχνῃ
ὁλκοῖς μηκεδανοῖσι γέρων ἐρράψατο τέκτων,
φράξας ἀρτιτέλεστα σεσηρότα δούρατα νηῶν:
250 ἡ δὲ πανημερίη καὶ παννυχίη πέλας ἱστοῦ
Παλλάδος ἔργον ἔτευχε παλίλλυτον, ἀλλοτρίῳ δὲ
ἀτρίπτους ἕο χεῖρας ἀήθεϊ τείρετο μόχθῳ:
καὶ κτενὶ πουλυόδοντι διαξύουσα χιτῶνα
καὶ λίθον ὀρχηστῆρα περικρεμάσασα μεσάκμῳ
255 κερκίδι πέπλον ὕφαινε, καὶ ἔπλετο Κύπρις Ἀθήνη:
καὶ πόνος ᾖν ἀγέλαστος: ὑφαινομένοιο δὲ πέπλου
εὐρυτενὴς ὠγκοῦτο πέλωρ μίτος: αὐτόματοι δὲ
στήμονες ἐρρήγνυντο παχυνομένοιο χιτῶνος:
εἶχε δὲ διχθαδίοισι πόνοις ἐπιμάρτυρα τέχνης
260 ἠέλιον καὶ λύχνον ἀναγκαίην τε Σελήνην.
οὐ χορὸν ὠρχήσαντο χορίτιδες Ὀρχομενοῖο
ἀμφίπολοι Πασιθέη κλωστῆρα, καὶ εἰροκόμος πέλε Πειθώ,
Πασιθέη κλωστῆρα, καὶ εἰροκόμος πέλε Πειθώ,
καὶ μίτον Ἀγλαϊη καὶ νήματα δῶκεν ἀνάσσῃ.
265 καὶ μερόπων ἀλάλητο γάμων βίος: ἁρμονίην δὲ
ἔστενεν ἀχρήιστον ἀνυμφεύτων ὑμεναίων
ἡνίοχος βιότοιο γέρων δεδονημένος Αἰών:
καὶ φλογερὴν ἀγέραστος Ἔρως ἀνελύσατο νευρήν,
παπταίνων ἀλόχευτον ἀνήροτον αὔλακα κόσμου.
270 οὐ τότε φορμίγγων ἐρόεις κτύπος, οὐ τότε σύριγξ,
οὐ λιγὺς αὐλὸς ἔμελπεν ‘Ὑμὴν Ὑμέναιε’ λιγαίνων:
ἀλλὰ βίου μινύθοντος ἱμασσομένης τε γενέθλης
συζυγίης ἀλύτοιο μετωχλίσθησαν ὀχῆες.
[242] So he struck up his harp and began to sing of Cypris, how she once felt the sting of ambition and fell in love with the distaff, how she tried Athena’s loom with unpractised hands and lifted the shuttle, no longer the girdle of love. The Paphian spun a coarse thread, like the long cord of twisted withies which the old roper makes by his craft in long stretches, to tighten the gaping planks of a ship newly finished. Then all day and all night long by the loom she undid the work of Pallas, and roughened her soft hands with a strange unwonted labour; she hung the dangling stone from the beam, and parted the threads of the stuff with the comb’s many teeth, and wove the cloth with her shuttle, and so Cypris turned Athena. There was no laughing over that task; but as the cloth was woven, the monstrous thread pulled across swelled out and thickened the stuff, so that the warpthreads burst of themselves. Witnesses for the double labour of her skill were the Sun, and the lamp, and the Moon of her necessity. The dancers of Orchomenos who were attendants upon the Paphian had no dancing then to do; but Pasithea made the spindle run round, Peitho dressed the wool, Aglaia gave thread and yarn to her mistress. And weddings went all astray in human life. Time, the ancient who guides our existence, was disturbed, and lamented the bond of wedlock used no more; Eros unhonoured loosed his fiery bowstring, when he saw the world’s furrow unplowed and unfruitful. Then the harp made no lovely music, the syrinx did not sound, the clear pipes did not sing in clear tones Hymen Hymenaios the marriage-tune; but life dwindled, birth was hardsmitten, the bolts of indivisible union were shot back.
καὶ Παφίην φιλόμοχθον ἴδεν ταλαεργὸς Ἀθήνη,
275 καὶ χόλον εἶχε γέλωτι μεμιγμένον, ὡς ἴδε μακρὴν
τρηχαλέην μήρινθον ἀπειροπόνου Κυθερείης:
ἀθανάτοις δ᾽ ἤγγειλε: βαρυζήλῳ δὲ μενοινῇ
ἔννεπε, μεμφομένη καὶ Κύπριδι καὶ γενετῆρι:
[274] Industrious Athena saw the Paphian hard at work. Anger and laughter commingled came over her, as she beheld the long rough cords of inexperienced Cythereia. She told the immortals; and in a passion of jealousy reproached both Cypris and her father:
‘σὴ δόσις ἀλλοπρόσαλλος ἀμείβεται, οὐράνιε Ζεῦ:
280 οὐκέτι Μοιράων μεθέπω δόσιν: ἱστοπόνος γὰρ
κλῆρον ἐμὸν σύλησε τεὴ θυγάτηρ Ἀφροδίτη.
κλῆρον Ἀθηναίς οὐχ ἥρπασε δεσπότις Ἥρη,
γνωτὴ καὶ παράκοιτις ἐμοῦ Διός, ἀλλὰ χαλέπτει
ἐκ γενετῆς σακέεσσι κορυσσομένην Ἀγελείην
285 ἡ ταμίη θαλάμων, ἁπαλὴ θεός. ὑμετέρου δὲ
ἀπτόλεμος Κυθέρεια πότε προμάχιζεν Ὀλύμπου,
ἠὲ τίνας Τιτῆνας ἀπώλεσε θήλει κεστῷ,
ὅττι μετὰ πτολέμους με βιάζεται; ἀλλὰ καὶ αὐτὴ
εἰπέ μοι, ἰοχέαιρα, τεῆς πότε μεσσόθεν ὕλης
290 εἶδες ὀιστεύουσαν ἥ ἀγρώσσουσαν Ἀθήνην;
τίς καλέει γλαυκῶπιν, ὅτ᾽ ὠδίνουσι γυναῖκες;’
[279] “So there are changes and chances in your gifts, Heavenly Father! I no longer manage the gift of the Fates, for your daughter Aphrodite has taken to weaving and stolen my lot. Athenaia has been robbed of her lot not by Hera the Queen, the sister and consort of my Zeus; but the mistress of the bedchamber, that soft goddess, affronts one armed with shield from her birth, Ageleia the plunderer! When has your cowardly Cythereia fought for Olympos? what Titans has she destroyed with that womanish girdle, that she comes fresh from her battles to outrage me? Yes, and you, Archeress — tell me this, when have you seen Athena in your forest ° shooting arrows or hunting game? Who calls upon Brighteyes, when women are in labour?”
ὣς φαμένης ἀγέροντο θεοὶ ναετῆρες Ὀλύμπου,
ἱστὸν ἰδεῖν ἐθέλοντες ἐποιχομένην Ἀφροδίτην.
καὶ καμάτους ὁρόωντες ἀπειρομόθου Κυθερείης
295 θαμβαλέοι νόθον ἔργον ἐκυκλώσαντο θεαίνης:
καὶ γελόων ἀγόρευε πάλιν φιλοκέρτομος Ἑρμῆς:
‘ἱστὸν ἔχεις, Κυθέρεια: τεὸν λίπε κεστὸν Ἀθήνῃ.
εἰ μί
τον ἀμφαφάᾳς εἰ κερκίδα χερσὶ τιταίνεις,
καὶ δόρυ θοῦρον ἄειρε καὶ αἰγίδα Τριτογενείης.
300 οἶδα, πόθεν, Κυθέρεια, πολύκροτον ἱστὸν ὑφαίνεις,
σὸς δόλος οὔ με λέληθε: τεὸς τάχα νυμφίος Ἄρης
εἰς γάμον ἱμερόεντας ἀπαιτίζει σε χιτῶνας.
Ἄρεῖ πέπλον ὕφαινε: νεοκλώστῳ δ᾽ ἐνὶ πέπλῳ
ἀσπίδα μή ποίκιλλε: τί γὰρ σακέων Ἀφροδίτῃ;
305 τεῦχε τεῆς Φαέθοντα φεραυγέα μάρτυρον εὐνῆς,
φώριον ἀγγέλλοντα τεῶν συλήτορα λέκτρων:
ἢν ἐθέλῃς, ποίκιλλε καὶ ἀρχαίους σέο δεσμούς,
καὶ θεὸν ἀσκήσειε νόθον πόσιν αἰδομένη χείρ:
καὶ σὺ τεὸν μετὰ τόξον, Ἔρως, ἄτρακτον ἑλίσσων
310 μητέρι νήματα τεῦχε φιληλακάτῳ Κυθερείῃ,
ὄφρα μετὰ πτερόεντα καὶ ἱστοπόνον σε καλέσσω,
καὶ μετὰ νεῦρα βόεια θεὸν πυρόεντα νοήσω
πηνίον ἐξέλκοντα παρὲκ μίτον ἀντὶ βελέμνων.
χρυσῷ τεῦξον Ἄρηα μετὰ χρυσῆς Ἀφροδίτης
315 κερκίδα χειρὶ φέροντα καὶ οὐ πάλλοντα βοείην,
δίπλακα ποικίλλοντα σὺν ἐργοπόνῳ Κυθερείῃ.
[292] When she had spoken, the gods of Olympos came thronging to see Aphrodite working the loom. They gathered round and stared at the labours of the divine fumbler, amazed at her bungling work; and Hermes, who loved his joke, said laughing, “You have the loom, Cythereia, leave Athena your girdle! If you handle the thread and throw the shuttle, then raise also the furious spear and the aegiscape of Tritogenia. Ah, Cythereia, I know why you weave at the rattling loom. I understand your secret: no doubt your bridegroom Ares begs from you fine dress for the wedding. Weave your stuff for Ares, but don’t embroider a shield in the new cloth. What does Aphrodite want with shields? Put in Phaethon, the shining witness of your loves, who told tales of the furtive robber of your bed; if you like, put those old nets of yours in the pattern, and let your hand, if it can for shame, make a picture of the god who was the husband’s proxy. And you, Eros, leave your bow and help your mother in her passion for the distaff, twirl the spindle for her and spin the thread. Then I may call you weaver instead of winger, I may see the fiery god pulling the spool past the warp, instead of the arrows on the leather bowstring. Make Ares of gold beside golden Aphrodite; let him hold a shuttle instead of waving a shield, and embroider a double cloth with industrious Cythereia.
ἀλλά, θεὰ Κυθέρεια, φιληλακάτων ἀπὸ χειρῶν
ῥῖπτε μίτους ἀνέμοισι καὶ ἄμφεπε κεστὸν ἱμάντα,
συζυγίης δ᾽ ἀλέγιζε τὸ δεύτερον: ἀρχέγονος γὰρ
320 πλάζεται εἰσέτι κόσμος, ἕως ἔτι πέπλον ὑφαίνεις.’
[317] “No, Cythereia goddess, throw your threads to the winds out of those distaff-enamoured hands and use your stitched girdle. Take care once more of marriage; for the ancient nature of the world has all been going astray since you have been weaving cloth.”
ὣς φαμένου μείδησαν, ὅσοι ναετῆρες Ὀλύμπου.
καὶ μίτον ἡμιτέλεστον ἀπορρίψασα χιτῶνος
αἰδομένη γλαυκῶπιν ἑῆς ἐπεβήσατο Κύπρου
ἀνδρομέης Κυθέρεια τιθηνήτειρα γενέθλης:
325 καὶ βίον αἰολόμορφον Ἔρως πάλιν ἥρμοσε κεστῷ
σπείρων εὐαρότοιο λεχώιον ἄντυγα κόσμου.
[321] As he finished, all the Olympians smiled. Then Cythereia thus put to shame before Brighteyes threw down the stuff of the cloth half finished, and away she went to her own Cyprus to be nurse of the human race; and Eros once more ordered all the varied forms of life by the girdle, sowing the circle of the well-plowed earth with the seed of generation.
τοίην ἱμερόφωνον ἀνέπλεκε Λεῦκος ἀοιδὴν
ἠλακάτης ἀδίδακτον ἀνυμνείων Ἀφροδίτην,
ἐργοπόνῳ μέγα νεῖκος ἀναστήσασαν Ἀθήνῃ.
[327] Such was the melodious lay which Leucos wove, celebrating how Aphrodite untaught of the distaff, set up her great contest with industrious Athena.
330 Ἀλλ᾿ ὅτε δὴ κόρος ἔσκε φιλακρήτοιο τραπέζης,
οἶνον ἀναβλύζοντες ἐρημάδι κάππεσον εὐνῇ·
οἱ μὲν δαιδαλέης ἐπὶ νεβρίδος, οἱ δ᾿
ἐπὶ φύλλων πεπταμένων, ἕτεροι δὲ χυτῆς
ἐφύπερθε κονίης δέρμασιν αἰγείοισιν ἐπεστορέσαντο χαμεύνην·
335 ἄλλοι δ᾿ ἐγρεμόθοισιν ἐφωμίλησαν ὀνείροις,
χάλκεον ἁπλώσαντες ἐνυαλίῳ δέμας ὕπνῳ,
ὧν ὁ μὲν Ἰνδὸν ἔβαλλε καθήμενον ὑψόθεν ἵππου,
ἄλλος δ᾿ Ἰνδὸν ἔνυξε κατ᾿ αὐχένος, ὃς δὲ
δαΐζων ἄορι πεζὸν ἔτυψεν, ὁ δ᾿ οὔτασε Δηριαδῆα·
340 ἄλλος δ᾿ ἠερόφοιτον ἑὸν βέλος ὑψόσε πέμπων
ἠλιβάτους ἐλέφαντας ὀνειρείῳ βάλεν ἰῷ.
[330] But when they had surfeit of this table so well furnished with liquor, they fell on their beds in the wilderness spluttering wine: dropping on dappled fawnskins, or on spreads of leaves, or just spreading goatskins on the ground amid the deep dust. Some stretched their armoured bodies in the soldier’s sleep, and held traffic with battlerousing dreams, where one struck some Indian sitting on horseback, one pierced an Indian’s throat, one slew a footman with his sword, one wounded Deriades, one shot his bolt high in the air and wounded some huge elephant with his dream-arrow.
Πορδαλίων δὲ γένεθλα καὶ ἄγρια φῦλα λεόντων
καὶ κύνες ἀγρευτῆρες ἐρημονόμου Διονύσου
εἶχον ἀμοιβαίης φυλακῆς ἄγρυπνον ὀπωπήν,
345 πάννυχον ἐγρήσσοντες ὀρειάδος ἔνδοθεν ὕλης,
μή σφιν ἐπαΐξειε μελαινομένων μόθος Ἰνδῶν·
καὶ δαΐδες στοιχηδὸν ἐπαστράπτεσκον Ὀλύμπῳ,
Βακχιάδος λαμπτῆρες ἀκοιμήτοιο χορείης.
[342] Tribes of leopards and wild packs of lions and hunting-dogs took turns in guarding Dionysos in the wilderness with sleepless eyes; all night they kept vigil in the mountain forest, that no assault of black Indians might approach him. Long lines of torches flashed up to Olympos, the lights of the dancing Bacchants which had no rest.
BOOK 25
εἰκοστὸν κατὰ πέμπτον ἔχεις Περσῆος ἀγῶνα
καὶ κρίσιν Ἡρακλῆος ἐς ἠνορέην Διονύσου.
Μοῦσα, πάλιν πολέμιζε σοφὸν μόθον ἔμφρονι θύρσῳ:
οὔ πω γὰρ γόνυ δοῦλον ὑποκλίνων Διονύσῳ
<
br /> φύλοπιν ἑπταέτηρον Ἑώιος εὔνασεν Ἄρης:
ἀλλὰ δρακοντείοιο τεθηπότες ἄκρα γενείου
5 Ἰνδῴης πλατάνοιο πάλιν κλάζουσι νεοσσοί,
Βακχείου πολέμοιο προμάντιες. οὐ μὲν ἀείσω
πρώτους ἓξ λυκάβαντας, ὅτε στρατὸς ἔνδοθι πύργων
Ἰνδὸς ἔην: τελέσας δὲ τύπον μιμηλὸν Ὁμήρου
ὕστατον ὑμνήσω πολέμων ἔτος, ἑβδομάτης δὲ
10 ὑσμίνην ἰσάριθμον ἐμῆς στρουθοῖο χαράξω:
Θήβῃ δ᾽ ἑπταπύλῳ κεράσω μέλος, ὅττι καὶ αὐτὴ
ἀμφ᾽ ἐμὲ βακχευθεῖσα περιτρέχει, οἷα δὲ νύμφη
μαζὸν ἑὸν γύμνωσε κατηφέος ὑψόθι πέπλου,
μνησαμένη Πενθῆος: ἐποτρύνων δέ με μέλπειν
15 πενθαλέην ἕο χεῖρα γέρων ὤρεξε Κιθαιρὼν
αἰδόμενος, μὴ λέκτρον ἀθέσμιον ἠὲ βοήσω
πατροφόνον πόσιν υἷα παρευνάζοντα τεκούσῃ.
Ἀονίης ἀίω κιθάρης κτύπον: εἴπατε, Μοῦσαι,
τίς πάλιν Ἀμφίων λίθον ἄπνοον εἰς δρόμον ἕλκει;
20 οἶδα, πόθεν κτύπος οὗτος: ἀειδομένῃ τάχα Θήβῃ
Πινδαρέης φόρμιγγος ἐπέκτυπε Δώριος ἠχώ.
BOOK XXV
In the twenty-fifth you have the struggle of Perseus and the comparison of Heracles with the valour of Dionysos.
O MUSE, once more fight the poets war with your thyrsus-wand of the mind: for not yet has Eastern Ares bent a servile knee and calmed the sevenyear conflict. The nestlings of the Indian planetree are shrinking again in horror at the dragon’s jaw-point, and thus they foretell war with Bacchos. I will not sing the first six lichtgangs, while the Indian army remained behind walls; I will make my pattern like Homer’s and sing the last year of warfare, I will describe that which has the number of my seventh sparrow. For sevengate Thebes I will brew my bowl of poesy, for she also dances wildly about me, baring her breast nymph-like over her robe in sorrow while she remembers Pentheus; old Cithairon urges me to sing, stretching out his mourning hand, fearing lest I proclaim the unhallowed bed or the fatherslaying son, the husband who lay beside her who bore him. I hear the twang of the Aonian lyre: tell me, Muses, what new Amphion is pulling dead stones to a run? I know where that sound comes from: surely it is the Dorian tune of Pindar’s lyre sounding for Thebes.