Wet your whistle—have some wine! Soon Sirius will rise and shine;
the weather’s bad, and the sweltering is sweating every thirsty thing.
Leaf-shadowed, the cicada sings sweetly; from underneath his wings
he pours a ceaseless, high-pitched shimmer-music, while the blaze of
Now, while the bloom is on the thistle, women are most inclined to
but men are drained by the dog days, their knees and heads baked in
τέγγε πλεύμονας οἴνῳ, τὸ γὰρ ἄστρον περιτέλλεται,
ἀ δ᾿ ὤρα χαλέπα, πάντα δὲ δίψαισ᾿ ὐπὰ καύματος,
ἄχει δ᾿ ἐκ πετάλων ἄδεα τέττιξ . . .
ἄνθει δὲ σκόλυμος· νῦν δὲ γύναικες μιαρώταται,
λέπτοι δ᾿ ἄνδρες, ἐπεὶ <δὴ> κεφάλαν καὶ γόνα Σείριος
*Note: This poem is a remarkably close imitation of Hesiod, Works and Days 582 ff., though translated into Lesbian dialect and meter (trans. A.E. Stallings):
When thistle blooms, and loud Cicada rings
In a tree, and shrills from underneath his wings
Clear, ceaseless song, in toilsome summertime,
That’s when she-goats are fattest, wine is prime,
Women are lustiest, and men instead
Are at their weakest, parched in knees and head
By Sirius, and the heat’s made their skin dry.