Wet your lungs with wine: the star is corning round,
the season is harsh, everything is thirsty under the heat,
the cicada sings sweetly from the leaves . . .
the artichoke is in flower;
now are women most pestilential, but men are feeble,
since Sirius parches their heads and knees . . .
…and honestly I wish I were dead.
She was leaving me with many tears and
said this: ‘’Oh what bad luck has been ours, Sappho;
truly I leave you against my will.’’
I replied to her thus: ‘’Go and fare well and remember me,
for you know how we cared for you.
If not, why then I want to remind you . . .
and the good times we had.
You put on many wreaths of violets
and roses and (crocuses?) together by my side,
and round your tender neck you put many woven garlands made from flowers and …
with much flowery perfume, fit for a queen,
you anointed yourself . . . and on soft beds . . .
you would satisfy your longing (for?) tender…
There was neither .. nor shrine from which we were absent,
no grove . . . nor dance … sound … ”