Raise high the roof beam, carpenters. Like Ares comes the bridegroom, taller far than a tall man.
Delicate Adonis is dying, Cytherea; what shall we do? Beat your breasts, maidens, and rend your tunics.
I asked myself: What, Sappho, can you give one who has everything, like Aphrodite? And I said: I shall burn the fat thigh-bones of a white she-goat on her alter.
Must I remind you, Cleis, That the sounds of grief are unbecoming in a poet's household? and that they are not suitable in ours?
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