O would to thee, Father Zeus, and to you, unaging Host of Heaven, that when a hundred hundred years shall be passed away, one bring me word upon the prisoning bank of Acheron our love is yet upon every lip, upon the young men’s most of all! Be that or no the People of Heaven shall stablish as they will; for theirs is the dominion; now, when I sing thy praises, there shall no push-o’-leasing[1] rise upon the tip of this tongue; for if e’er thou giv’st me torment, thou healest the wound out of hand, and I am better off than before, seeing I come away with overmeasure.
Heaven rest you glad, Nisaean masters o’ the oar, for that you have done such exceeding honour unto an Attic stranger that was among you, to wit unto Diocles; about whose grave, so surely as Spring cometh round, your children vie in a kissing-match, and whosoever presseth lip sweetliest upon lip,cometh away to’s mother loaden with garlands. Happy the justicer holdeth that court of kissing! God wot he prays beamy Ganymed, and prays indeed, to make his lips like the touchstones which show the money-changer whether the gold be gold or dross.
- ↑ “Push-o’-leasing”: in the Greek the tell-tale pimples, themselves called ‘lies,’ rise, not upon the tongue, but upon the tip of the nose. “Diocles”: an Athenian who, while living in exile at Megara, died in battle to save the youth he loved.
