Declamationes

... and the Tritons emerge; seeing the Nereids as if some long-sought prey, they take hold of them, one each, and dance in varied steps, and the dolphins wish to play. The swallows—for these birds hate gloomy air and a hidden sun—now that the earth barely peeps forth, and the air has shed its clouds, break their silence (for they were silent when they saw him sinking) and visit us, piping fresh melodies of their inborn music, while nightingales respond with trills. For the myth deemed them sisters and made them so. At any rate, both are said—if I am skilled at hearing the speech of birds—to be Attic maidens and children of Pandion. Tereus was an unjust thing and insolent in guarding a maiden. He begrudged her even speech, and left the girl no tongue. But she had hands skilled at imitating sufferings. And she depicts the outrage, and though silent, it was shown. As for the boy, Tereus’ murder—the poets call him Itys; his mother had cut him up, and an unlawful feast lay before an unlawful father, and the spirit transformed them into birds. I shall be silent, but the birds sing when they see. And a shepherd leads his flock to pasture “in springtime, when milk wets the pails.” The syrinx—for winter is hostile to music—had hung idle; taking it down, he himself sings of spring, or perhaps of Pan the pastoral god. And if a lamb has strayed, it recognizes the song and hurries back to its fellow flock at a run. The whole flock, some leap with light gambols into the air, others slip under their mothers and draw at the teat.

And the rams, full of spring, rush at the ewes and perform a pastoral Aphrodite. And a bull, seeing the grass and perceiving the shepherd's pipes, lifts its neck, rejoices, and bellows. You would think you were hearing Homer: "As when a bull goes and mingles with the cattle of curved horns." And that Pan, the lover and pastoral god, seeks the maiden Echo, and having her, does not have her. And then, needing to hear her speaking again, he is, I think, both vexed and delighted from that. For he has her voice, but nowhere the desired one. And Apollo sees the hyacinth and rejoices. The youth was a Laconian and a beloved of the god. But Zephyrus was a rival to Apollo, and was second in the judgment of the beloved. This one repays his defeat with murder, and Earth repays the youth with a plant. Apollo, loving Daphne, also failed, and though she fled the lover's pursuit and sank into the earth, she remained in the tree. He had the plant, but no longer the maiden. And now he sees it flourishing and tends his love. Nearby was also Narcissus. Having beauty, he hunted, and striking, he prevailed, and prevailing, he rejoiced. But a spring, taking him when thirsty, offered him a sight of himself for love. The end of his futile desire was his death and a comely plant. For Fortune, changing his nature, spared his beauty. Now you might see how beautiful maidens, with moist eyes and smiling very sweetly, are graceful as can be and bare their arms. They are fortunate... and sing, as is fitting, a kindly bridal chamber, and, I think, ask the Loves for a bridegroom.

Roses, which the buds reveal, they plucked from the meadows, and binding them into a necklace, they conceal the fragrance in the midst of their breasts. And for the sake of Aphrodite, they call upon Adonis, a beloved name, saying how beautiful the youth is and desired by Aphrodite. For the youth was Adonis, beautiful by nature, if one must speak according to the myth, but he seemed more beautiful to Aphrodite, love adding an increment. And Ares, a lover preferred over the one who yearned grievously, was exceedingly jealous over the youth. And Ares was wholly that, having added love to his nature. The young man cared about hunting and roamed for wild game. And Aphrodite was often present with him, leading dogs and touching his spear. And what nature did not give, desire taught. And once, when the young man was occupied with the hunt, Ares deceived him—for Aphrodite was not present—and he concealed his appearance and seemed a wild boar. And the youth lay dead. The report of this is announced to Aphrodite. The goddess was immediately stricken in her hearing; and as she was, she went, agitated by passion and love. Terrible indeed are both love when despaired and grief upon love. She happened to be barefoot, and she chanced upon a rose. For she stepped on it unknowingly. For when reason suffers, even one who sees does not see, and one who hears is unaware. So when she stepped on the rose, its thorns pricked her foot. And what was previously white was there tinged with blood, becoming an image of the goddess and a memorial of love. But since winter is gone and the clouds are no more, and nothing troubles the sight, and spring has shone forth, come then, let us too, as if dissolving some winter of words, break our silence; for it would be terrible otherwise.

If swallows, flitting here and there through the air, sing—I suppose because they wish to sing of the spring—then among us the Muses would become more dishonored than the birds. For even the swans now, because of the season, come to mind for their song, and I suppose by the river Xanthus, or the banks of the Ister, or even across the plains by that Lydian river Pactolus, they take flight, and entrusting their wing to Zephyrus, they hymn Apollo and remind him of his musical lyre. And he listens to them most gladly; but seeing also the laurel, flourishing and proud with its abundant foliage, and the hyacinth just appearing, he comes to mind of ancient loves, takes up his lyre, and sings of the spring, and sings of their love: how Daphne was a beautiful maiden, and Hyacinthus was a Laconian youth. But she flees, and denied her lover, and is transformed. Yet Apollo, having a plant instead of a maiden, does not deny his love. And Hyacinthus, the beautiful boy, having met with two lovers, chose as was fitting Apollo, but Zephyrus grew angry; and the youth died, and became a flower, and preserves his beauty. A similar experience overtook Pan. Hence, I suppose, he too welcomes the spring, seeing the pine in full foliage. For she was a maiden, even if she became a tree. Having entered into a contest of lovers, she scorned Boreas—for he is a wind—and chose rather Pan, seeing how he leaped sweetly and sweetly breathed upon his syrinx. But when Boreas thrust her down a cliff, she became the pine now seen. Thus does the pleasure of the season reach even to the gods.

Of men, one who derives his livelihood from trade rejoices, seeing the sea lying flat, gently falling upon the shores, and as if making a truce with the beaches. Hence he dares to board a ship, and carries cargo with light hope, while the seasonal winds kindly escort the merchant vessel from city to city; and he conveys to men, in exchange for what abounds among them, what they happen to need. And some farmer, having labored with many, many sweats around the furrows, now sees the crop, how like a wave it is swelled and bent by the breeze. Beholding these things and seeing the reward, he forgets his former toils. And already shepherds lead their flocks, goatherds their goats, and cowherds their cattle, now to grass, now to springs and streams. And the herdsmen pipe, while the beasts, receiving long-unheard music, prick up their ears and are lifted in their leaps. And one sees a goat full of milk, holds his mouth beneath the teat, and draws the stream. And he sings of the Nymphs, and hymns Pan. And "Dear Seasons!" he has often uttered. But I, yesterday or the day before, when I perceived the season, immediately throwing the books from my hands, went out before the city as day was declining. And having gone outside the wall, I journey into myself, bearing groves and trees. And wandering my eyes here and there, I came to the memory of Socrates, son of Sophroniscus.

For a certain ancient story leads this man, too, out of the city, and arriving at the Ilissus—this is an Attic river—he plunges his feet into the cold waters, and lies down on some soft grass and takes his ease. A plane tree and another tree had grown nearby, and they provided shade. Phaedrus, the handsome youth, was with him, and he marvels at the grove and prays to the Nymphs. Reflecting on these things, I come upon a marvelous meadow by some chance. Water flowed through the middle of it. Variegated with the colors of flowers, it imitated a painting. Musical birds sang overhead, and bees, buzzing around the flowers, stored whatever they gathered in their hives. For nearby, on some rock, they seemed to be, from which the water, flowing down, passed through the meadow. Seeing this, I rested my head on my hand and stood still, gaping at the flowers. I was at a loss as to where to fix my eyes. There I saw a narcissus, and I nearly lamented its fate. For it was a handsome youth, and he cared for hunting and hunted. And once, when the sun beat down more hotly—for it was summer—he grew thirsty. He comes to a certain spring that was nearby. And while drinking, as is usual, since the water shows the images of those standing over it, looking at himself in the water, he thought a beautiful youth was lurking beneath the water. And through his own image he became a lover. From then on he said farewell to his craft, and no longer knew deer or dogs or wild beasts, but, gazing at himself, he persisted, and, ever increasing his desire, he perishes.

Therefore Earth pities his suffering and preserves it in memory, and having transformed him into a flower, did not forget his beauty. But I seem, while passing over the rose—greater both in word and wonder—to admire the meadow from its lesser parts. For it conquers at once, summoning the spectator to itself by both scent and beauty. And you would say that the Graces attend it. For it is guarded on all sides, as if surrounded by thorns as by a bodyguard, and does not permit anyone who wishes to approach it insolently and, as it were, casually, to lay hands upon it. For anyone approaching thus, not expecting to take something great, nor honoring it as is fitting, will pay the penalty for his insolence with a wound. And it itself appears royally, rising from the middle of the calyx. And you would think that from there Loves are sent forth to the beholders. Red color mingling with white, and after the mixture they flow into one another, the extremity of each being relaxed. Let no one say that the rose, being originally white, acquired its present form from this. Adonis was beautiful and a hunter, and Aphrodite loved him. For the Loves, it seems, do not wish even their mother to be spared. Once while he was hunting, it happened that he was struck by a wild beast and lay dead. And this was reported to Aphrodite. Immediately, just as she was, she rose and rushed barefoot through everything, not heeding any of the obstacles in her path; hence, falling into rose-bushes, she was pricked on the foot by the thorns, and the blood of the goddess became the nature of the roses. Reasonably, then, whether in truth I do not know; but in paintings, Aphrodite and the Loves are crowned with roses.

Having enjoyed the meadow so much, and taking with me very many roses, I went home, singing of spring and praying to see the season again. Painting and poetry—the one with colors, the other with words; for words are to poetry what colors are to painting. Both, then, imitate the forms, passions, and loves of gods and men. And the one gives drops from Heaven to the sea and creates Aphrodite, calling her foam-born, unless I have forgotten the verse, which says "in the much-washed sea"; the other reveals her account through sight. For it creates forms of the sea, and you would say that the painting moves, and the waves as well. From the midst of this it brings up Aphrodite, with a beauty beyond measure and such as was fitting for Aphrodite to possess. She is conveyed by a chariot of Tritons. These are human above to the flanks, their nature from there downward being that of fish. Around her is a chorus of Nereids; and you would see dolphins, these too from pleasure now diving into the waters, now rising from the waves. Such are the works the arts create of the Heavenly Aphrodite. The other—some ancient myths wish to sing of this as the Pandemos; the mark of this one is marriages, and to send forth the Erotes to shoot with

as a bow, and leads it wherever it wishes. And they now represent her as contending about beauty—for there was a contest about this, not among any men, but goddesses were making it against each other; a shepherd had to judge, and an apple was the prize for the victor. She appears to the shepherd with her whole body, and along with the sight she received the vote and the apple, and she seemed beautiful. Hence, whenever the Erotes wish to play, they throw apples at each other with laughter. But now she acts insolently against the others and brings Zeus down from heaven to earth, and he was gold, and a swan flew, and she did not even spare making Zeus a bull. And because of her, Poseidon has forgotten the sea, and, admiring Tyro, mingles with fresh waters. And Pan seemed to see Echo, hearing only her voice, and did not know his beloved. And Apollo, having the laurel as his plant, proclaims his love for Daphne. And Aphrodite drew the gods to herself. And Hephaestus lived with Aphrodite, but Ares was jealous of him. And Hermes also loved, having Apollo as a partner in his passion. But indeed, she herself had to experience her own arrows at some time, and to know what kind of shots she lets fly against others, and it was not even possible to escape. For the rose cries out to the goddess Adonis and Aphrodite. He cared for mountains and hunting. But for Aphrodite, Adonis was everything; and sometimes, letting go her girdle and her own children the Erotes, she would cross through glens and, leaning her hand on his neck, gaze upon Adonis. But indeed, something unpleasant seen disturbed your love, and lament mingled with desire.

For Ares, learning of these things, also became enamored of Aphrodite and grew jealous of the youth. And one day, watching for her absence, he steals from the goddess her form, and, pretending to be a boar, drew the lad into a hunt. And he, as was natural, rushes headlong, calling his dogs, and hastened to capture what he thought was a beast. But it is hard for men, O Adonis, when they have a god as an enemy; for this was the last course you ran; and hoping for prey, you yourself lay as prey. Alas, what tidings Aphrodite had to hear, and did hear. Stricken by the report, she was wholly given over to her grief, and allowed no room for reason, but, forgetting what was fitting, rose as she was and sped in a run through everything. No cliffs hindered her, no ravines stopped her, no river held her back with its flooding waters. How cruel the Erotes were! For the mother, driven mad by passion, followed wherever her children wished. And as she was thus borne along, she falls upon a rose bush, and, being somewhat delicate in body—and what else is Aphrodite?—and having nothing to cover her feet—for her passion did not allow her to take thought of this—thus, being so, she is pricked by a thorn and changes the rose’s appearance along with it, and the color of her blood became the nature of roses. For once it was white, and it has changed to this, and it counts the wound of Aphrodite as a blessing; and you would say it is an image of the color for the rose. With this, bridal chambers are crowned—for I think it fitting that the plant of the Erotes should be adorned by the Erotes, like the Graces with each other. This, when mixed with Dionysus, imitates a salvation for men. Already for roses, even speeches that are fashioned become graceful and charming.

But may the god appear favorable to us, and grant us to see spring again and to hymn the rose. O bridal chamber of a newer light, which long ago I yearned for, but could not see, and only prayer remained; now the sun is kind, the air has dispersed its brows, the wind is moderate, the sea is tame, and the earth has imitated the art of painters with its flowers. Now the Muses dance with the birds, the Graces with the meadows, Pan with the flocks, and the Loves with our thoughts. All has been transformed and become favorable, and there is peace, I suppose, and war nowhere. Take courage now, goats and livestock, and greet the long-awaited grass. For recently Zeus poured down heavily upon the earth, and the bright sun, this one, was hidden, warring with the clouds. The air and the trees were shaken together by the winds; the sea rose high and threatened sailors with hostility, like a lion roaring. Torrents, imitating this, swept away whatever they encountered. The traveler did not trust the road, the sailor his vessel, the hunter his prey; there was no pasture, no herds frequented it. The trees stood as if in mourning, their foliage shorn. And I, with these sheep, sitting here like prisoners in a cave, having done no wrong. They fed on dry leaves stored from summer, and their bleating was pitiful, while I lived on fresh cheese that showed nothing. The cold of the season was heavier than the prison. For it was not easy to move my feet, to stretch out my hands as needed, to breathe into reeds or to tune the pipes.

and one had to sleep even through the day, sinking down with the flocks, consoled by their wool. No sound of the Muse was heard, but even the chattering swallow slept, I think. Already some spider lurks in the pipe, and everything seemed silent, except when Zeus, flashing lightning, brought a terrible crash, as if moving furniture or rearranging the sky. Often I reminded him, beseeching him: "What have we done to offend you so greatly, O Zeus? Stop clashing everything together, lest the city be shattered and you need to create a new one. Has a host of Giants again risen up against you in war?" Why need I say more? For there was nothing further, until he willingly relented. Perhaps he has grown weary of moving everything and now sleeps from long toil. Hence now everything is reconciled, speaks, and seems to renew itself, having shed its old age. Now leap, lambs, and rouse yourselves with your bounds toward the midst of the sky; fill yourselves with grass. But if anyone has been transformed into a plant through love, and preserves its beauty, even if it has changed its nature—beautiful is Narcissus, but his passion was unworthy of his beauty; beautiful is Hyacinth, but become more kindly than Zephyrus, and spare a beautiful youth. And if there is need to drink, I will lead you to a spring and guide you with my pipe. You follow the songs; for the one left behind will be a loss to the wolf. And if midday oppresses you, I will lead the flock under a pine; and above, a nightingale will sing a spring song; as they say, she seeks her child and laments like a mother. And I will compete with her on my pipe, and my sheep will lie down in order, listening to the songs.

Then all the more will Pan call upon Echo, a maiden neither speaking nor silent, always seeming near yet escaping, and consoling her lover with a counterfeit voice. Now swans and swallows sing overhead, wandering through the air. And Apollo delights, crowned with laurel, possessing as a plant the maiden he wished to have. Now bees buzz over the meadows; I will draw out the many honeycombs, and milking their honey, I will mix it with the milk. And what is that nectar to me, that drink vainly celebrated? Now Loves dance among the herds, and the bull has bellowed amorously, while rams, snorting, mount the ewes. Nor will I now stand idle; for to be idle alone is unbearable. I will lead my beloved and imitate the herd. Instead of a bed, some soft grass will be spread beneath. I will strew upon it many violets and lilies, and more roses, that we may honor Aphrodite as well. For she too could not escape Love; the little boy is haughty and bold, and arms himself against anyone. He grieves even Aphrodite, not respecting his own mother, lest she alone pride herself on both bearing and escaping Love. What then does he do? He lifts his bow and smiles at his mother, and lodged a small arrow within. And suddenly Adonis seemed beautiful; and one would more easily see a goat separated from its mate than Aphrodite from Adonis. I pass over the passion in silence, gratifying the goddess, lest I cause pain by speaking and she show me the herd unloved. Yet by the blood of Aphrodite the rose was reddened for us.

Enjoying such delights of the season, I will pray with the herd to see summer, for winter to be silent, and for spring to shine upon us again. The merchant: I have seen what I prayed for, and my intention has come to pass. The war threatening from the clouds is gone, the light is renewed, and the sun is again with us. With the season, my grief has also dissolved. And now the sea is friendly, and its anger has changed. All things are reconciled to mankind: sky, air, stars, the sea. For the one, always pelting with snowflakes, brought danger to the dwellings; the others hid the view; the one furrowed its brows; the other was shaken by the winds. Now it is possible with clear eyes to see the Bear, dear to us and everywhere guiding the voyage. For it does not endure sinking with the others, lest it overlook a wandering sailor, but always stands, proclaiming cities to those at sea. It is possible to see also great Orion, hunting in the stars by his form. If I see Andromeda, I pity her bonds and lament her fate. But when I see Perseus, raising his right hand against the sea monster, I say, "Courage!" to the maiden, and I console her within myself, and I rejoice with her in her fortune. I rejoice, now seeing the Pleiades, which preside over spring for us, now the Argo, a ship in the sky, proclaiming ancient myths: Pelias, the fleece, Medea, the loves, Jason. Why then do I still delay and shrink from the voyage? I have given up, settled in one place, always spending and deprived of profit.

For what commerce has bestowed, winter has consumed, and a housemate—alas—none more tolerable than winter. For she was always pressing upon me, bringing some new thing that led to loss. And she says, "I need a garment that alleviates the season." I provided it, though I would rather not have. But she was again naked, again she intensified the loss. And she says, "So-and-so's wife shines with gold adornment," and "I must obtain similar things." And I said to her, "Woman, does not this too alleviate the season?" But if I disregarded her request, "I am dishonored," she often cried out, and "I am nothing in your eyes." And it was necessary to quarrel all day long, like penned-up cattle, until my purse ran dry and was gone. But now I am freed from want, now from evils; now intercourse with cities is free. The sea will no longer hinder my ship. Now the sailor dares the deep, and the traveler sings, and shepherds play the flute, and the flocks dance. Now birds sing with varied notes, weaving a strange music, and the trees now hasten to bear fruit, and the earth parades with diverse flowers, shining like stars, as if vying with heaven. What then? I will board the merchant ship, I will take courage for the voyage. I have many sailors sharing in the enterprise, who besides profit also enjoy a varied spectacle. One hastens to Sicily and sees Etna and fire sometimes pouring forth, and will behold Odysseus's Charybdis. Another, coming to Italy, sees a very great city, in which are the trophies of the inhabited world.

Others sail around the islands as if in the midst of a chorus, but he sees Troy and laments its fate, taking Helen into memory. But again women, again shall we recall the evils at home? Another, having arrived in Attica, sees the Piraeus, the islands, Salamis, and the children of the Athenians and ancient tales—how Xerxes threatened, how all was stirred, how he who insulted land and sea wept at the hands of the Athenians. But we shall not sail past Cyprus and its Aphrodite; I will disembark from the ship, I will see the island of Adonis, and I will console Aphrodite—the image of the passion, the memory of the love. And I will sing to the hunter of his beauty, his strength, his graces, the bows of the boys, the jealousy of Ares, the untimely death, the message, the running, the wound, the blood, the rose itself, a fortunate plant, depicting the passion of Aphrodite by its sight. Then, having completed my commerce, I will grow rich with money, but only until I see the woman. Adonis: This, Fortune, was left for your plotting—neither to seek Adonis, nor to run to him, nor to console the longing with the running, nor to encounter him lying there, nor to embrace him fallen, nor to call the dearest one a corpse. It was enough to see his eyes even closed, it was enough for me to behold even his silent lips. Not yet for me entirely—

He left no blush on the face, no bloom on the cheek, no Graces in the hair. And if I had asked the cause of the fall, perhaps even as he lay he would have cried out to Ares. But what have I been led to say? Am I to believe that Adonis has fallen? He still lives and hunts, and perhaps seeks Aphrodite, who is not present. But I delay, and sit idly, my foot bound by passion. Yet again I think of Ares, again Adonis is dead. For the god is terrible; he looks fiercely, gapes for blood, knowing not how to pity a beloved face. O dreadful helplessness! O excess of misfortunes! Whom shall I accuse? Whom shall I blame? Fortune? My own children? From them I came to know Adonis, from that one Ares armed himself. Now I experience my own arrows, now I relearn my own flame, now I feel my own birth-pangs. This is Aphrodite, whom Zeus begot, whom heaven bore, whom nature brought forth, from whom fire and arrows and all things were joined in desire. I became the mother of the Erotes, I provided bows, the little ones were winged, and nothing was inaccessible to them. I traversed the earth, they clothed the wave, they flew through the air, they danced among the stars and once arrayed themselves against the gods. Nothing escaped my dominion. Everything bowed to my right hand. If anyone grieved Aphrodite, I looked to the children, I nodded; they moved their arrows, and suffering remained. Zeus knows, the ruler of all, yielding only to love. Poseidon knows, burning in the midst of the sea. I did not overlook Pan, I did not marvel at Hera. I pursued Zephyrus, Boreas was tried, and the arrow of the winds was seen to be swifter.

Apollo knew the bow of a god, being struck by my bow. Why need I speak of a human lover, and the gadfly of a lion, and a bull bellowing with desire, and those driven mad through their children? And trophies everywhere, and everything was filled with Aphrodite. But when all was under the dragon, the beautiful boys were being armed. And they had the war from home, and I knew it with my own eyes; seeing from there, I marveled; I suffered, I was at a loss, I laughed, I wept at what had come to be. I looked beneath the cestus, lest some thief be hiding unnoticed; and I find the thieves are the Erotes. I bowed to the birth; thereafter I praised Adonis, how beautiful, and I thought his hair was well-mixed, that the Graces dwelt in his eyes, that the Erotes shot arrows from his lips. And his cheeks, alas, hunted together. I desired; I hated Olympus from then on. His face, even defeated by gods, was with me, and everything became secondary to the youth. He hunted, and I marveled at his strength. He seemed bolder than lions, leaping beyond deer. I considered Olympus the forest, the glens heaven. When I had him, I thought I saw the sun brighter than usual. I loved one sight, Adonis; I longed for one sound, the man. No one speaking to me pleased me, unless speaking of Adonis. This grieved Ares and nurtured his envy, and his purpose came to action. I am the cause of your suffering; because of me, even Ares is an enemy. Hearing these things, I was confounded, and I became agitated by the rumor, and I had no regard for adornment. A run came upon me, and bare feet, and things at my feet were overlooked.

From this my suffering was more terrible, and I am struck in my heart by desire, and in my foot by the thorn. Let this be a symbol of my fortune, and for those after this let my blood become the nature of the rose to show the image of the suffering. And whoever sees the flower will not consign Adonis to oblivion, but seeking the cause will hear of the suffering, the desire, the report, the race, the wound, the blood, the transformation into the rose, and above all Adonis. I rejoice with the Greeks, but I weep for the Thessalian. For those who found a savior, but for him who fell to the disgrace of the Greeks and the laughter of Troy. For not even the Trojans, I think, are ignorant of our sufferings. Agamemnon found well from where he might obtain allies, and he will exact punishment from a disobedient soldier with shame. Would that this prey had happened before our embassy. But now our affairs are misfortune and words. The wise Odysseus did not persuade. Ajax was overlooked along with his lineage and his Zeus. But I am the old man, for I have no teacher to speak; I had nothing persuasive to say on these matters, no gray hair, no words, no tears. My son's ambition consoled me, and the appearance of loving glory more than a girl. But now everything has changed, and seeing her he bowed down. Why did we not take her with us and show her to Achilles? For sight is stronger than hearsay for desire. Therefore he did not hold out when he saw. Embracing her with his arms and weeping with pleasure, the noble one said, "Because of you I was angry, because of you I am reconciled." Did Cheiron teach you these things? Did I after him? He trained his feet for running, he exercised him for arms and arrows and preparation for war.

He taught how to restrain wild beasts. If only he had taught how to restrain love. But I, running to the task, guided his mind, educated him. I made the boy a soldier and an orator. "You have learned music," I said, "so that you may measure your passion, so that you may know how to regulate your soul, which leaps disorderly, applying the yoke of reason. Be moderate toward insolence, and know how to bear those who are drunken with rage." Hearing these things, Peleus rejoiced exceedingly, and had good hopes for me and for the boy. And he sent me out with him to Troy, and in my old age I was seen as a soldier, so that I was also a counselor, and I was credited with the boy's noble deeds. He laid low Telephus, but I was in the praises. Cycnus fell, and I enjoyed the glory. Cities were counted as fallen, and everything was Phoenix in praise and renown. A plague afflicted Greece, and it was ended through us. Up to this point I was fortunate and was credited with the noblest deeds. But what came after this I speak of with tears. There was strife and wonders and the foremost of Greece suffering. They spoke, they threatened, they reviled. Agamemnon was wrong in that he was about to take away what ought to have been given as a prize for valor. And at this Achilles suffered in his soul, and there was no end. For love when wronged knows no truce, nor does desire grant forgetfulness to the mind. Achilles, for his part, sang well as they fell, while Priam of the Greeks' corpses, one stood apart from the Greeks, the other reveled in the opportunity. For me, there was the madness of the boy, the boundless anger of Achilles, the calamities of the Greeks falling one after another, even as he threatened what he knows how to do. Nevertheless, it seemed good. And we were the ambassadors. And all the hope of Greece rested in us.

And having found many devices to shake a soul mastered by anger and desire, we did not have one, but there was indeed one device for the lover: the sight of the beloved. This it did not occur to learn, neither to me the old man, nor to Odysseus the wise, nor to Ajax the noble. To fail in all things made Agamemnon wiser for success. For sending the girl in the guise of mourning, he obtained what he wanted. For the son of Peleus could not bear the sight, and pleasure dissolved his anger. And a woman is stronger than a teacher, a girl than a wise man, a captive than kinship, and erotic persuasion surpassed that from speech and art. Henceforth let the son of Thetis conquer the Trojans. For victory will not conceal the shame. What will Peleus be to us, having learned these things? We have become glorious, O Cheiron. Would that I had not been present. For it is not the same to be ashamed when present and to hear of these things from afar. And now, Achilles, enjoy the captive along with the disgrace that comes from this.