230 Quotes About Willis-barnstone

Eros, the blind god of lovers,strikes me with a purple balland asks me to play with a womanwearing colorful sandals,but she is from beautifulLesbos, and scorns my white hair,and turning her back runs gapingbehind another woman.

My Thracian foal, why do you glare with disdainand then shun me absolutely as if I knewnothing of this art?I tell you I could bridle you with tight straps,seize the reins and gallop you around the postsof the pleasant course.But you prefer to graze on the calm meadow,or frisk and gambol gayly—having no manly rider to break you in.

Bring out water and wine and an armfulof flowers.I want the proper settingwhen I spar a few rounds with love.

Eros, the blacksmith of love,smashed me with a giant hammerand doused me in the cold river.

Lord! I clamber up the white cliffand dive into the steaming wave,O dead drunk with love.

O sweet boy like a girl,I see you though you will not look my way.You are unaware that you handle the reinsof my soul.

I do not like a man who sits by his bowland sobs about the sad warsbut the rake who loves to rave about fine featsin the arts and art of love.

Come swiftlyand rub aromatic myrrh on her breasts:the hollow cave around her heart.

Here, the tomb of Timokritos, a hero in the wars.It is the coward whom Ares spares, not the brave.