Odes 2.4
by Horace
Is it OK to fall in love with a slave? It’s clear that Horace in this poem is saying exactly the opposite of what he thinks on the subject. His form of address suggests that Xanthias, whether real or imaginary, is free and a Greek. There may be in-jokes about him and his predicament that we do not know enough to appreciate.
Metre: Sapphics.
See the illustrated blog post here.
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Ne sit ancillae tibi amor pudori,
Xanthia Phoceu: prius insolentem
serva Briseis niveo colore
movit Achillem,
movit Aiacem Telamone natum
forma captivae dominum Tecmessae,
arsit Atrides medio in triumpho
virgine rapta,
barbarae postquam cecidere turmae
Thessalo victore et ademptus Hector
tradidit fessis leviora tolli
Pergama Grais.
nescias an te generum beati
Phyllidis flavae decorent parentes:
regium certe genus, et penatis
maeret iniquos.
crede non illam tibi de scelesta
plebe dilectam neque sic fidelem,
sic lucro aversam potuisse nasci
matre pudenda.
bracchia et voltum teretesque suras
integer laudo: fuge suspicari,
cuius octavum trepidavit aetas
claudere lustrum.
Don’t be ashamed of love for a slave-girl, Phocian Xanthias: in the old days, the enslaved Briseis captivated proud Achilles with her snowy skin; the figure of the captive Tecmessa captivated her new master, Ajax the son of Telamon; even in the act of winning his battle, Agamemnon burned with love for the ravished maiden Cassandra, when Troy’s barbarian forces went down to defeat after Achilles’s victory and the loss of Hector had made Troy easier for the war-weary Greeks to take. You never know, perhaps your fair-haired Phyllis’s parents are wealthy, and would do you credit as a prospective son-in-law: surely she is of royal lineage, and lamenting the unsuitability of her present home! You can be sure that she can’t be from lowly stock, a girl so dear to you; surely, a girl so faithful, and with so little concern for money, couldn’t have been born to a mother you would be ashamed of! My praise for her arms and face and shapely calves is entirely disinterested: you can’t be suspicious of a man like me, whose life has hurried on to finish its fortieth year.