Brill's Companion To Greek and Latin Epyllion and Its Reception

Brill’s Companion to Greek and
Latin Epyllion and Its Reception

Brill’s Companion to Greek and
Latin Epyllion and Its Reception
Edited by
Manuel Baumbach and Silvio Bär
Leiden • boston
2012
Cover illustration: Europa und der Stier, 340-320 BC, ANSA IV 189, Kunsthistorisches Museum Wien.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Brill’s companion to Greek and Latin epyllion and its reception / edited by Manuel Baumbach and
Silvio Bär.
pages. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and indexes.
ISBN 978-90-04-21432-3 (hardback : alk. paper)—ISBN (invalid) 978-90-04-23305-8 (e-book)
1. Greek poetry—History and criticism. I. Baumbach, Manuel. II. Bär, Silvio.
PA3061.B75 2012
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2012017986
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Contents
A Short Introduction to the Ancient Epyllion ........................................ ix

Manuel Baumbach & Silvio Bär
Contributors ...................................................................................................... xvii
Abbreviations .................................................................................................... xxv
Part 1
History and Development of the Term and

Concept of the Epyllion
Before the Epyllion: Concepts and Texts ................................................. 3

Virgilio Masciadri
On the Origins of the Modern Term “Epyllion”: Some Revisions

to a Chapter in the History of Classical Scholarship ....................... 29
Stefan Tilg
Catullus 64: The Perfect Epyllion? .............................................................. 55

Gail Trimble
part 2
The Archaic and Pre-Hellenistic Period
The Songs of Demodocus: Compression and Extension in Greek

Narrative Poetry .......................................................................................... 83
Richard Hunter
Demodokos’ Song of Ares and Aphrodite in Homer’s Odyssey

(8.266–366): An Epyllion? Agonistic Performativity and
Cultural Metapoetics ................................................................................. 111
Anton Bierl
vi contents
Borderline Experiences with Genre: The Homeric Hymn to

Aphrodite between Epic, Hymn and Epyllic Poetry ......................... 135
Manuel Baumbach
Rhapsodic Hymns and Epyllia ..................................................................... 149

Ivana Petrovic
A Proto-Epyllion? The Pseudo-Hesiodic Shield and The Poetics of

Deferral .......................................................................................................... 177
Peter Bing
part 3
The Hellenistic Period
Pindaric Narrative Technique in the Hellenistic Epyllion .................. 201

Christine Luz
The Hecale and Hellenistic Conceptions of Short Hexameter

Narratives ...................................................................................................... 221
Kathryn Gutzwiller
Miniaturizing the Huge: Hercules on a Small Scale

(Theocritus Idylls 13 and 24) .................................................................... 245
Benjamin Acosta-Hughes
Herakles in Bits and Pieces: Id. 25 in the Corpus Theocriteum .......... 259

Thomas A. Schmitz
Achilles at Scyros, and One of His Fans: The Epithalamium of

Achilles and Deidameia (Buc. Gr. 157–158 Gow) ................................ 283
Marco Fantuzzi
part 4
The Late Roman Republic and the Augustan Period
“εἰς ἔπη καὶ ἐλεγείας ἀνάγειν”: The Erotika Pathemata of

Parthenius of Nicaea .................................................................................. 309
Jacqueline J.H. Klooster
contents vii
A Virgo Infelix: Calvus’ Io vis-à-vis Other Cow-And-Bull Stories ....... 333

Regina Höschele
The Tenth Book of Ovid’s Metamorphoses as Orpheus’ Epyllion ..... 355

Ulrich Eigler
part 5
The Imperial Period
The Fast and the Furious: Triphiodorus’ Reception of Homer

in the Capture of Troy ................................................................................ 371
Vincent Tomasso
Musaeus, Hero and Leander: Between Epic and Novel ........................ 411

Nicola Nina Dümmler
“Museum of Words”: Christodorus, the Art of Ekphrasis and the

Epyllic Genre ................................................................................................ 447
Silvio Bär
The Motif of the Rape of Europa: Intertextuality and Absurdity

of the Myth in Epyllion and Epic Insets .............................................. 473
Peter Kuhlmann
part 6
The Middle Ages and Beyond
“Epyllion” or “Short Epic” in the Latin Literature of the

Middle Ages? ................................................................................................ 493
Carmen Cardelle de Hartmann & Peter Stotz
Short Mythological Epic in Neo-Latin Literature .................................. 519

Martin Korenjak
Robert Burns’ Tam O’ Shanter: A Lallans Epyllion? .............................. 537

Ewen L. Bowie
viii contents
Bibliography ...................................................................................................... 563
General Index .................................................................................................... 597

Index Locorum ................................................................................................. 617
Index of Selected Greek Words ................................................................... 639
A Short Introduction to the Ancient Epyllion
Manuel Baumbach & Silvio Bär
“Epyllion” (τὸ ἐπύλλιον) is an established generic term within modern clas-

sical scholarship.1 Derived from “epos” (τὸ ἔπος), the diminutive is most
commonly used to denote shorter hexameter poems with a focus on sin-
gle episodes in the life of a mythical figure.2 However, the corpus of texts
labelled “epyllia” varies; different generic characteristics are applied, and
the birth of the genre is a matter of dispute: most scholars regard it as a
Hellenistic invention,3 whereas some point to possible archaic and clas-
sical predecessors. Part of the problem is the fact that we do not have
any traces for a generic usage of the term in antiquity, and no reflections
about a shorter epic can be found in classical literary criticism. This does
not, of course, imply that such a genre did not exist at all,4 but in dealing
with ancient epyllia we have to rely on modern taxonomies and theo-
retical approaches towards this genre.5 However, these approaches do not
necessarily reconstruct an ancient generic consciousness of what an epyl-
lion was or had to be, but they rather attempt to construct the history of
a certain literary form and may sometimes reveal more about the scholar
than about the object of his or her investigation. As a consequence, the
proposed definitions of what exactly an epyllion is have to be tested
against each other and against the literary tradition they try to explain.6
Both the values and limits of this genre can be seen in asking the question
1 Cf. e.g. Most (1982), Wolff (1988) and Tilg (this volume).
2 Cf. e.g. Gutzwiller (1981) 3, Courtney (1996) 550 (“a narrative poem of up to c. 600
hexameters, usually about an episode from the life of a mythological hero or heroine”),
Fantuzzi (1998a) and Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004) 191.
3 Most lately Wasyl (2011) 22.
4 For the analogous case of the ancient novel cf. Selden (1994) and Ruiz-Montero (22003)
32–37. The existence of a genre “epyllion” was denied by Allen (1940) and (1958).
5 On the problems concerned with defining antique literary genres from a historical
perspective, and questions relating to their establishment within literary societies, cf.,
amongst others, Nauta (1990) (on Bucolic poetry). On the classification of genres in gen-
eral, cf. Hempfer (1973) and Zymner (2003).
6 In this regard, Allen’s (1958) 517 criticism of the whole concepts of an “epyllic” genre
still provides a challenge: “Certainly, if seven or eight Classical poems are supposed to
belong to a distinctive minor genre, it is not too much to ask that they should have some
recognizable qualities in common.”
x manuel baumbach & silvio bär
of how the classification of a text as an “epyllion” affects or enriches our

reading of a specific ancient text.
The present volume, which is the result of a conference hosted by the
editors in Zurich in 2009, takes this question as a starting point for investi-
gating both the history of scholarship on the epyllion and the perspectives
and limits of applying its generic characteristics to ancient texts and their
reception. The conditions for such an investigation could not be more
favourable: at least five comprehensive studies discuss the possible (Hel-
lenistic) origin of this genre and attempt to define a corpus of ancient
epyllia,7 a number of commentaries and interpretations on single poems
have been published, and forms and functions of epyllia are widely dis-
cussed in Classics8 and modern philologies.9 However, our volume does
not aim at a consensus either methodologically or with regard to the range
of texts included in the discussion. Some of the contributions adhere to
the established usage of the genre with regard to its origin in Hellenistic
poetry (cf. e.g. Fantuzzi; Gutzwiller; Klooster; Luz), whereas others suggest
abandoning the term “epyllion” entirely and merely speak of short hexam-
eter poetry (cf. e.g. Cardelle de Hartmann / Stotz; Korenjak), or propose
new generic approaches (cf. e.g. Acosta-Hughes; Bär; Baumbach; Bing;
Hunter; Schmitz; Tomasso). What holds the papers together and gives the
volume a common focus is the interest in generic aspects of Greek and
Latin epyllia.
In contrast to a historical definition of a specific genre, which often
implies a certain knowledge of the origin and the protos euretes, a theo-
retical generic concept is principally open with regard to the texts it clas-
sifies. Following the general definition of genre as “a grouping of texts
related within the system of literature by their sharing recognizably
functionalized features of form and content,”10 there are no fixed tem-
poral or cultural demarcation lines that might include or exclude certain
texts. Rather, it is only the texts which open or restrict themselves from
7 Heumann (1904), Crump (1931), Kirkwood (1942), Gutzwiller (1981) and Merriam
(2001).
8 Cf. the studies on Latin epyllia by May (1910), Perutelli (1979), Styka (1995) 220–230,
Koster (2002), Bartels (2004), Edmunds (2010) and Wasyl (2011) 13–109.
9 See for example Broich’s definition (1968) of English mock-epic in the period of Clas-
sicism as epyllia, or Maler (1973) 42, who defines the Rococo-epyllion as being “driven by
the intention to amuse, which is offensive both to the monumental pathos of the epic and
to the moral seriousness of satire” (“von der Absicht spielender Unterhaltung getragen,
der das monumentale Pathos der Epopöe gleichermassen anstößig ist wie der moralische
Ernst der Satire”).
10 Conte/Most (1996) 630.
a short introduction to the ancient epyllion xi
a generic classification and, depending on the categories of grouping the

genre, might comprise a wider or smaller scope of texts. As a consequence,
both the generic concept and the number of epyllia vary, and texts and
theoretical classifications are in a constant negotiation with each other
especially as generic developments take place in the course of reception.11
Furthermore, like in other theoretical generic concepts, there is always a
number of texts on the “fringe” of the genre which has to be taken into
account.12 Such “borderliners,” generic Hippocentaurs or predecessors of
the genre, help to shape our understanding of a specific generic form. In
this regard especially texts which are in dialogue with epyllia by way of
intertextuality are taken into account.13 Thus, the range of texts discussed
in this volume reaches from the Homeric epics (8th/7th cent. BC) to Rob-
ert Burns’ narrative poem Tam O’ Shanter (1790), with a special focus on
Greek and Latin poems and their reception. For labelling a poem an epyl-
lion we suggest the following criteria.
Form: Metre and Scale
In analogy to the diminutive “epyllion” the term “small(er) epic” com-

prises two formal generic markers: metre (i.e. hexameter) and small scale
(i.e. “shortness”). Whereas most scholars agree on the hexametrical form
as a condicio sine qua non for considering a poem an epyllion,14 the latter
criterion is a matter of dispute. Not only does the estimation of what is
to be considered small vary between “rarely exceeding 400 lines” (Mer-
riam [2001] 2), “up to c. 600 hexameters” (Hollis [2006] 142) or even 1000
verses (Bouquet/Wolff [1995] 37), but the very concept of smallness can
in fact be approached from different perspectives. Whereas Wilamowitz
11 For the question of the mixing of genres (Kreuzung der Gattungen) cf. e.g. Kroll (1924)
202–224 and Wasyl (2011) 20–22. Hollis (2006) 141 remarks on the history of the epyllion
from Hellenistic times: “It is a history of strange transformations and combinations with a
wide range of other literary genres.”
12 Cf. e.g. Holzberg’s (22003) concept of the “fringe novel.”
13 Cf. e.g. the contributions by Bär; Baumbach; Bierl; Bowie; Dümmler; Hunter; Klooster;
Petrovic.
14 See Gutzwiller (1981) 3, Merriam (2001) 2, Bartels (2004) 8, Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004)
191–193, Hollis (2006) 141. For the close affinity between elegy and epyllion cf. Crump
(1931), Pinotti (1978), Cameron (1995) 437–453, Koster (2002) 42–43 (on Propertius 1.20)
and Wasyl (2011) 21. However, only few scholars propose to abandon the hexameter as a
strong generic criterion in order to include specific elegiac poems into the corpus of epyllia
(cf. e.g. Fantuzzi [1998a] 31 and, cautiously, Fantuzzi/Hunter [2004] 193).
xii manuel baumbach & silvio bär
questioned the value of scale as a criterion for modern literary criticism,15

smallness is a crucial aesthetical term for the production and reception
especially of Hellenistic poetry. In terms of a generic criterion, how-
ever, we have to avoid any aesthetical evaluation with regard to both
production and reception. Even if in Hellenistic poetry the smallness of
form nicely and—following Callimachus’ prologue of the Aitia—even
programmatically corresponds with a new poetical self-definition and
(provocative) re-estimation of the literary tradition,16 this aspect neither
applies to pre-Hellenistic epyllia nor to the post-Hellenistic tradition.
Thus, smallness as a generic marker has to be treated in a strictly formal
sense, which does not exclude the possibility that it can be enriched with
further meaning or specific aesthetical estimation in certain times and
contexts.17
Relation: Short vs. Long Epic
Approaching the epyllion as short hexametrical poetry reconciles the

theoretical generic definition with the historical generic term of epic,
which—according to ancient literary criticism—is strictly based on the
hexametrical metre and does not include any content-related issues.18
Thus it seems to be the most fruitful way of dealing with epyllia as a sub-
genre of epic, whose characteristics and special generic markers can be
best detected in dialogue with (long) epic. Such an approach avoids an
intrinsic definition of how long an epyllion could or should be and makes
shortness a relational generic category,19 which manifests itself either
by way of intertextuality or by way of comparison. Apollonius Rhodius’
Argonautica (5,835 verses), for instance, positions itself in an agonistic
dialogue with the Homeric epics, especially the Odyssey, and might be
approached as an epyllion with regard to its shortness relative to the
Odyssey. Compared to Callimachus’ Hecale (1000–1500 verses), however,
15 Wilamowitz (1924) 117: “Vor allem kommt es auf die Behandlung an; mit der Elle
misst man Gedichte nicht.”
16 Cf. Jackson (1913) 40: “The epyllion . . . was born of revolt: it constituted a protest
against the methods pursued by the poets of the old-fashioned epic.”
17 Cf. the distinction and discussion of high and low genres in Hellenistic period
(Hutchinson [1988] 11–12).
18 Cf. e.g. Koster (1970) 124–143; cf. also Aristotle, Poet. 1447b 13–16. Seen from this angle,
it is not surprising that for instance Quintilian (10.1.55) classifies Theocritus’s œuvre as
epic; cf. Gutzwiller (1981) 3–4.
19 Cf. Bartels (2004) 3.
a short introduction to the ancient epyllion xiii
the Argonautica might be called an (Alexandrian) epic. As both shape and

scale of epic poetry changes within the history of the genre, the category
of shortness also varies in terms of relation, and so does the usage of this
generic marker for categorising a specific poem as an epyllion.20 In any
case, establishing a relational generic marker helps to contextualise epyl-
lia both synchronically and diachronically.
Further, a generic definition that is solely (or primarily) based on the
formal criterion of shortness will necessarily include all didactic and hym-
nic epic as well, and perhaps even hexametrical epigram.21 Finally, it has
to be taken into account that the almost entirely lost poems of the so-
called “Epic Cycle” were probably considerably shorter than the Homeric
epics22 and would thus have to be labelled “epyllia” as well. Thus, when
seen from this angle, a dichotomy between short versus long epic poetry
can be traced back as early as to the time of the first written records of
the Trojan (and Theban) saga and the first “mass production” of heroic
epic poetry.
Narration and Content
With regard to the established core of epyllia within modern scholarship,

a focus on the narrative epic of the Homeric type seams reasonable. Epyl-
lion can be thus defined in relation to a narrow definition of epic, rul-
ing out all kinds of didactic epic or “wisdom poetry”23 and parts of the
Homeric hymns. As a consequence, we expect a third person narration of
a mythical topic24 progressing in a somehow linear sequence which does
not programmatically aim at teaching its audience about specific objects
and fields of (religious) knowledge.
20 In terms of aesthetics we cannot play off small and long epic against each other;
rather, it seems to be a question of choice instead of quality; cf. Edmunds (2010) 40: “If a
major poet can write minor poems, then one can already see minor poetry as a possible
choice and not a necessity imposed upon a poet.”
21 Cf. also Bär (this volume) on the affinity between the epyllic and the epigrammatic
genre.
22 Cf. e.g. Burgess (2001) 143–148 and (2005) 345.
23 See West (1978) 3–25 and the critical discussion of the epic/didactic dichotomy in
the Archaic period given by Ford (1997a).
24 This definition includes parodying forms of mythical topics in epic like the pseudo-
Homeric Batrachomyomachia, which discuss the conventional contents of the genre, ele-
ments and intentions.
xiv manuel baumbach & silvio bär
A further specification of the content, that is, a mythical topic, does

not seem helpful for defining the characteristics of an epyllion. Whereas
reference points such as metre (i.e. hexameter), scale (i.e. relative brevity)
and “narrativity” can be seen as “hard” criteria that allow a comparatively
firm location of a specific literary text within the vastness of antiquity’s
textual production (irrespective of all the problems that still may remain;
cf. above), attempts at defining the epyllion with reference to content-
oriented matters are likely to fail. The idea of a precisely defined catalogue
of content-related criteria in order to pinpoint a certain text as an epyl-
lion essentially stems from Heumann’s (1904) doctoral thesis and was later
popularised by Crump’s (1931) monograph.25 This idea has been generally
adopted by later critics up to the present.26 In this context a stance that is
often taken is, as Wasyl (2011) 19 puts it, the assumption of an “ideological
dimension” of the epyllic genre, that is, the presumed undermining, sub-
version, or parody of epic heroic values in epyllic texts, so much so that
the “protagonists of the miniature epic . . . are presented in situations of
everyday life and behave like ordinary people” (ibid.). Along a similar line,
Merriam (2001) argues that epyllia typically focus on female characters
and feminity in general, thus challenging the traditionally male worldview
of heroic epic poetry. Other content-related definitions include that of
Gutzwiller (1981) 6 who sees an “ironic approach to the Homeric world
of heroes and gods” as typical of the epyllic genre,27 whereas according
to Koster (2002), an epyllion necessarily contains a love story (ἐρωτικὸν
πάθημα), usually in the form of a digressive element within the narrative,
whereas other short forms of epic poetry should rather be called Kleinepen
or Kleinstepen. All these and similar definitions are, however, highly prob-
lematic, as they depend on the fallacy of circular reasoning.28 Further,
they do not do justice to the texts insofar as they curtail any potential
generic (or intertextual) connection a priori. A prominent victim of this
truncation resulting from narrow content-related definitions are short
hexameter poems such as Colluthus’ Abduction of Helen or Triphiodo-
25 Cf. esp. Crump (1931) 22–23.

26 Cf. e.g. Kirkwood (1942), Courtney (1996), Fantuzzi (1998a).
27 In so doing, Gutzwiller manages to incorporate the hymnic genre into the discus-
sion. On the affinity between the epyllic and the hymnic genre, cf. also Baumbach (this
volume) and Petrovic (this volume).
28 This problem is particulary virulent in the case of Merriam (2001), who, after defining
the epyllion as a kind of short female epic, attempts to strengthen her point by resorting
to various hexametric texts that deal with aspects of feminity. Cf. also Trimble in this
volume, pp. 76–77.
a short introduction to the ancient epyllion xv
rus’ Sack of Troy that were often not regarded as epyllia because of their
supposedly “un-epyllic,” “Homeric” character.29 All things considered, we
therefore argue that content-related criteria may, at best, constitute cer-
tain soft, additional factors that may allow us to see certain texts as more
closely related, but they cannot be seen as exclusively constitutive of a
genre (or sub-genre) to be called epyllion.
Conclusion
The proposed approach to the epyllic genre attempts to take into account
the problems concerned with establishing and applying the term “epyl-
lion,” and to scrutinise its validity in a productive way. Apart from the
fuzziness that arises when we attempt to define a textual corpus, the ques-
tion also arises as to how we are to deal with epyllic insets and compo-
nents in other pieces of literature. In other words: how independent, both
in terms of form and content, has a text to be in order to be read as an
epyllion? In fact, our approach as suggested above does not exclude inset
epyllia—on the contrary: from Demodocus’ song of Ares and Aphrodite
in Homer’s Odyssey30 to Ovid’s Metamorphoses and Nonnus’ Dionysiaca,31
we can find traces of a continuous tradition of self-standing epyllia that
were integrated into epic/Homeric poetry.
The present volume encompasses epyllia from a time span as wide
as from the Archaic Greek period to the eighteenth century. Apart from
“epyllia” that are well-known and much-discussed in scholarship, other
texts were also taken into consideration that do not seem to belong to
the epyllic genre. An example of this is Christodorus of Coptos and his
hexametric ecphrasis of the statues in the public bath/gymnasium of the
so-called Zeuxippus in Constantinople, featuring stone figures of gods as
well as mythical and historical personages from Greek culture.32 This wide
spectrum of texts was chosen on purpose so as to be able to investigate
the area between the texts and to gain new insights into well-known and
(seemingly) established interpretive patterns by way of an intertextual
and comparative dialogue between epic and epyllic poetry. Therefore,
29 Cf. e.g. Fantuzzi (1998a) 32 (“nicht konform . . . vom kyklischen Thema und der man-
gelnden Einheit der Handlung her”); but cf. Tomasso (this volume) on Triphiodorus.
30 Cf. Bierl (this volume) and Hunter (this volume).
31 Cf. Kuhlmann (this volume) and Eigler (this volume).
32 Cf. Bär (this volume).
xvi manuel baumbach & silvio bär
the inclusion of post-antique texts—ranging from mediaeval and Neo-

Latin epyllia to Scottish drinking songs—is of prime importance to this
volume. With these inclusions, we are able to read the generic history of
the epyllion as a reception history and to pursue the question of how a
textual family can evolve by way of intertextual relations as well as by
the establishment of a “generic memory” (Gattungsgedächtnis) beyond
linguistic and temporal boundaries. Further, the dialogue between antiq-
uity and modernity enables us to identify breaks in the tradition of the
generic history and to compare different branches of short epic texts of
independent origin.
* * *
The publication of this volume would not have been possible without the
help and support of numerous colleagues, friends and collaborators. First
of all, we are most grateful to all speakers and chairpersons at our confer-
ence that was held at the University of Zurich in July 2009 (“Das Epyllion—
Gattung ohne Geschichte?”) for their discussions as well as their advice
and contributions during the process of revising all the papers. Generous
funding for the conference was provided by the “Schweizerischer NationalÂ�
fonds” (SNF), the “Hochschulstiftung der Universität Zürich” and the
“Zürcher Universitätsverein”; to all three donors we express our deepest
gratitude. Before and during the conference, Nicola Dümmler and Avani
Flück assisted us in many administrative and practical matters; without
their help and providence, nothing would have run as smoothly as it
did. Further, Nicola Dümmler, Fabian Zogg and Dominique Stehli kindly
assisted us in taking minutes of the discussions at the conference. Finally,
we are most grateful to our publisher for accepting this book in its series
of Brill’s Companions; in particular, we are indebted to Brill’s publishing
manager Michiel Klein Swormink for encouraging us to go ahead with
the publication, and to the editors Irene van Rossum, Caroline van Erp,
Charles Huff and Marjolein Schaake for their competence and friendly
support during the process of publication. It is only thanks to all these
people that publishing this companion was a true pleasure for us.
M.B., S.B.
Zurich, May 2012
Contributors
Prof. Dr. Benjamin Acosta-Hughes (bacosta2008@gmail.com)

Benjamin Acosta-Hughes is Professor and Chair of the department of
Classics at The Ohio State University. He is the author of Polyeideia. The
Iambi of Callimachus and the Archaic Iambic Tradition (2002), of Arion’s
Lyre. Archaic Lyric into Hellenistic Poetry (2010), and, with Susan Stephens,
of Callimachus in Context. From Plato to Ovid (2011). He is co-editor, with
Manuel Baumbach and Elizabeth Kosmetatou, of Labored in Papyrus
Leaves. Perspectives on an Epigram Collection Attributed to Posidippus. He
is also co-editor, with Luigi Lehnus and Susan Stephens, of the forthcom-
ing Brill’s Companion to Callimachus.
Dr. Silvio Bär (silvio.f.baer@klphs.uzh.ch)

Silvio Bär (*1978) studied in Zurich and Oxford and obtained his doctor-
ate in 2008. His research interests encompass Greek (especially late) epic
poetry, Attic tragedy, the Greek novel, the Second Sophistic, mythogra-
phy, rhetoric, and intertextuality. He has published on Quintus of Smyrna
(doctoral thesis: Quintus Smyrnaeus. “Posthomerica” 1. Die Wiedergeburt
des Epos aus dem Geiste der Amazonomachie, Göttingen 2009) and is cur-
rently writing a book-length study on the Greek hero Herakles. He works
as a Wissenschaftlicher Assistent to the chair of Greek literature at the Uni-
versity of Zurich and teaches Greek and Latin at the University of Zurich
and in a local grammar school.
Prof. Dr. Manuel Baumbach (manuel.baumbach@rub.de)

Manuel Baumbach is Professor of Classics at Bochum University. His fields
of research are the ancient Greek Novel, Second Sophistic literature, Hel-
lenistic poetry and the history of reception. He is the author of Lukian
in Deutschland. Eine forschungs- und rezeptionsgeschichtliche Analyse vom
Humanismus bis zur Gegenwart (2002), and the co-editor of Labored in
Papyrus Leaves. Perspectives on an Epigram Collection Attributed to Posid-
ippus (2004), Quintus Smyrnaeus: Transforming Homer in Second Sophistic
Epic (2007), and Archaic and Classical Greek Epigram (2010).
Prof. Dr. Anton Bierl (a.bierl@unibas.ch)

Anton Bierl is Ordinarius for Greek Literature at the University of Basel
(Switzerland). He was member at the IAS in Princeton (2010/11) and served
xviii contributors
as Senior Fellow at Harvard’s CHS in Washington DC (2005–11). He is co-

director and co-editor (with Joachim Latacz) of the Gesamtkommentar
zu Homers Ilias and the series editor for MythosEikonPoiesis (de Gruyter).
His main research interests include Archaic and Classical Greek literature,
esp. drama, ritual and mythic poetics, song and performance culture. His
books include Dionysos und die griechische Tragödie (1991); Die Orestie des
Aischylos auf der modernen Bühne (1996); Der Chor in der Alten Komödie
(2001; updated English 2nd edition Ritual and Performativity, HUP 2009);
and the co-edited volumes Literatur und Religion. Wege zu einer mythisch-
rituellen Poetik bei den Griechen (2 vols., 2007); Gewalt und Opfer (2010). He
is currently working on a book with the title Youth in Fiction. Love, Myth,
and Literary Sophistication in the Ancient Novel.
Prof. Dr. Peter Bing (pbing@emory.edu)

Peter Bing is Samuel Candler Dobbs Professor and Chair of Classics at
Emory University in Atlanta. He loves verse of all kinds and theater. His
research has focused especially on the poetry of the Hellenistic era, in
books such as The Well-Read Muse. Present and Past in Callimachus and
the Hellenistic Poets (Göttingen 1988; 22008), Brill’s Companion to Hellenis-
tic Epigram (co-edited with Jon Bruss, Leiden 2007), and The Scroll and the
Marble. Studies in Reading and Reception in Hellenistic Poetry (Ann Arbor
2009).
Ewen Bowie (ewen.bowie@ccc.ox.ac.uk)

Ewen Bowie was Praelector in Classics at Corpus Christi College, Oxford,
from 1965 to 2007, and successively University Lecturer, Reader and Pro-
fessor of Classical Languages and Literature in the University of Oxford.
He has published articles on early Greek elegiac, iambic and lyric poetry;
on Aristophanes; on Hellenistic poetry; and on many aspects of Greek lit-
erature and culture from the first century BC to the third century AD,
including the Greek novels. He recently edited (jointly with Jaś Elsner) a
collection of papers on Philostratus (CUP 2009), and another (jointly with
Lucia Athanassaki) entitled Archaic and Classical Choral Song (de Gruyter
2011). He is currently completing a commentary on Longus, Daphnis and
Chloe for CUP.
Prof. Dr. Carmen Cardelle de Hartmann (Cardelle@access.uzh.ch)

Carmen Cardelle de Hartmann (*1963), Professor of Mediaeval Latin lan-
guage and literature at the University of Zurich. Major publications: Phi-
lologische Untersuchungen zur Chronik des Hydatius von Chaves (1994);
contributors xix
Victoris Tunnunensis Chronicon cum reliquiis ex Consularibus Caesarau-

gustanis et Iohannis Biclarensis Chronicon (CC SL 173A) (2001); LateiniÂ�
sche Dialoge 1200–1400. Literaturhistorische Studie und Repertorium (2007);
Sources latines de l’Espagne tardo-antique et médiévale (V e–XIV e s.). Réper-
toire bibliographique (2010, in collaboration with José Carlos Martín).
Papers on codicology and history of Latin literature from late antiquity to
the early modern period.
Nicola Dümmler (nicola.duemmler@klphs.uzh.ch)

Nicola Dümmler studied Greek, Latin and Egyptology in Zurich. She is
a research assistant at the Classics department and teaches Greek and
Latin at the University of Zurich and the Gymnasium. Her research inter-
ests include the ancient novel, epic, epyllion and the interactions between
Egyptian and Greek culture. She is currently working on her PhD-thesis
on Achilles Tatius, Leucippe and Clitophon.
Prof. Dr. Ulrich Eigler (ulrich.eigler@klphs.uzh.ch)

Ulrich Eigler studied between 1978 and 1984 Latin, history, mediaeval Latin
and ancient Greek in Freiburg i.Br., Kiel, Vienna, Pittsburgh and Rome. He
was Professor in Freiburg i.Br. (1995–1998) and Trier (1998–2005). Since
2005 he is ordinary Professor for Latin Literature at the University of Zur-
ich. His research interests include, amongst others, the transmission and
reception of ancient texts, the literature of the Augustan age, of the early
Roman Empire, and of the late antiquity. At the moment he is working on
a research project on slavery in Roman literature.
Prof. Dr. Marco Fantuzzi (mf2481@columbia.edu)

Marco Fantuzzi is Professor of Greek Literature at Columbia University,
NY, and at the University of Macerata (Italy). He is a member of the board
of Bryn Mawr Classical Review, Materiali e Discussioni, and Seminari Romani
di Cultura Greca, and the author of Bionis Smyrnaei Adonidis epitaphium
(Liverpool 1985); Ricerche su Apollonio Rodio (Rome, 1988); Tradition and
Innovation in Hellenistic Poetry (Cambridge 2004, with R. Hunter). He co-
edited (with R. Pretagostini) Struttura e storia dell’esametro greco (Rome
1995/96) and Brill’s Companion to Greek and Latin Pastoral (Leiden 2000,
with T. Papanghelis), and is now co-editing (with C. Tsagalis) A Compan-
ion to the Epic Cycle (under contract with CUP). He is currently completing
the monograph Achilles in Love (under contract with OUP), and a full scale
commentary on the Rhesus ascribed to Euripides.
xx contributors
Prof. Dr. Kathryn Gutzwiller (kathryn.gutzwiller@uc.edu)

Kathryn Gutzwiller is Professor of Classics at the University of Cincin-
nati. Her books include Poetic Garlands. Hellenistic Epigrams in Context,
awarded the American Philological Association’s Charles J. Goodwin
Award of Merit; The New Posidippus. A Hellenistic Poetry Book; and A Guide
to Hellenistic Literature. She is currently working on mosaics illustrating
Menander’s comedies from ancient Antioch (to appear in AJA) and a criti-
cal edition and commentary for the epigrams of Meleager (under contract
with OUP), for which she has won grants from the National Endowment
for the Humanities, Institute for Advanced Studies at Princeton, American
Council of Learned Societies, Loeb Classical Library Foundation, and All
Souls College, Oxford.
Prof. Dr. Regina Höschele (regina.hoschele@utoronto.ca)

Regina Höschele (PhD University of Munich 2007) is Associate Professor
of Classics at the University of Toronto. Her research interests include Hel-
lenistic and Roman poetry, in particular ancient epigram books and erotic
literature. She has published two monographs (Verrückt nach Frauen. Der
Epigrammatiker Rufin, Tübingen 2006 and Die blütenlesende Muse. Poetik
und Textualität antiker Epigrammsammlungen, Tübingen 2010) and is cur-
rently working on a comprehensive study of imperial Greek epigrams,
with a special focus on the interaction of Hellenic writers with Roman
society and culture.
Prof. Dr. Richard Hunter (rlh10@cam.ac.uk)

Richard Hunter is Regius Professor of Greek at the University of Cam-
bridge and a Fellow of Trinity College. His research interests include Hel-
lenistic poetry and its reception in Rome, ancient literary criticism, and
the ancient novel. His most recent books are The Shadow of Callimachus
(Cambridge 2006), (with Ian Rutherford) Wandering Poets in Ancient
Greek Culture (Cambridge 2009), Critical Moments in Classical Literature
(Cambridge 2009), (with Donald Russell) Plutarch. How to study poetry (De
audiendis poetis) (Cambridge 2011), and Plato and the Traditions of Ancient
Literature (Cambridge 2012). Many of his essays have been collected in On
Coming After. Studies in Post-Classical Greek Literature and its Reception
(Berlin 2008).
Dr. Jacqueline Klooster (J.J.H.Klooster@uva.nl)

Jacqueline Klooster (PhD in Classics, Amsterdam 2009) is author of the
monograph Poetry as Window and Mirror. Positioning the Poet in Hellenis-
contributors xxi
tic Poetry (Brill, Leiden 2011). She is researcher and lecturer at the Uni-
versity of Amsterdam, with a special interest in Hellenistic Poetry. At the
moment, she forms part of a research-project focusing on representation
of space in ancient narrative texts. Her publications include various arti-
cles on Hellenistic poetry, and narratological analyses of space and time
in Theocritus and Apollonius in the series “Studies in Ancient Greek Nar-
rative” (edited by I.J.F. de Jong and R. Nünlist, Brill, Leiden, 2007–2012).
Prof. Dr. Martin Korenjak (martin.korenjak@uibk.ac.at)

Martin Korenjak was born in 1971 in Wels (Austria). He studied Classical
Philology and Linguistics at the universities of Innsbruck and Heidelberg
(1990–1996), worked as a research assistant at Innsbruck (1997–2003), and
was professor of Classical Philology at the university of Bern (2003–2009),
before returning to Innsbruck in 2009. His research areas include Greek
and Latin poetry, rhetoric, the reception of classical antiquity and NeoÂ�
latin literature.
Prof. Dr. Peter Kuhlmann (Peter.Kuhlmann@phil.uni-goettingen.de)

Peter Kuhlmann studied Classics, Romance philology and Indo-European
linguistics at Kiel University; PhD at Giessen University on Greek liter-
ary papyri (published 1994). Then he worked as a teacher in a secondary
school and collaborated in the preparation of the Corpus Augustinianum
Gissense (electronic edition of St. Augustine). 1997–2000 he was a research
assistant at the Giessen research cluster “Erinnerungskulturen” (memory
cultures) and wrote his habilitation book on the emperor Hadrian’s reli-
gious policy (published 2002: Religion und Erinnerung). Then he was a
teaching assistant at the University of Düsseldorf. Since 2004 he has been
professor of Classics at the University of Göttingen.
Dr. Christine Luz (christineluz@bluewin.ch)

Christine Luz completed her PhD at the University of Berne, Switzerland,
in 2009, where she had the position of a researcher and lecturer (Assisten-
tin) from 2003–2009. From there she moved as a research scholar of the
Swiss National Science Foundation to Oxford and is presently a Honorary
Research Fellow at the University of Nottingham. Her research interests
include literary form, Hellenistic poetry, the Greek Anthology, history of
classical scholarship, rhetoric and prose rhythm. She is the author of the
monograph Technopaignia. Formspiele in der griechischen Dichtung (Brill
2010).
xxii contributors
PD Dr. Virgilio Masciadri (virgilio.masciadri@klphs.uzh.ch)

Virgilio Masciadri (*1963) studied Classics and Mediaeval Latin at the
University of Zurich and earned his doctorate in 1993. After completing
a Diplôme post-doctoral at the École pratique des hautes études (Sciences
religieuses) in Paris (1998–2001), he qualified as a professor (Habilita-
tion) in Zurich in 2004, where he had also worked as a research assistant,
grammar school teacher, and expert for projects relating to the history of
the environment at the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology (ETH). His
books include Die antike Verwechslungskomödie (Stuttgart 1996); Eine Insel
im Meer der Geschichten. Untersuchungen zu Mythen aus Lemnos (Stutt-
gart 2008); Der Streit um das kopernikanische Weltsystem im 17. Jahrhun-
dert (Bern 2007, together with Hans Bieri).
Dr. Ivana Petrovic (ivana.petrovic@durham.ac.uk)

Ivana Petrovic is Senior lecturer in Greek literature at Durham Univer-
sity. She has published articles on Hellenistic poetry, Augustan poetry,
and Greek religion, and is a co-editor with Andrej Petrovic and Manuel
Baumbach of Archaic and Classical Greek Epigram (Cambridge 2010). With
Dennis Pausch and Helmut Krasser, she has co-edited Triplici Invectus Tri-
umpho. Der römische Triumph in augusteischer Zeit (Stuttgart 2008). Her
PhD thesis from the universities of Heidelberg and Giessen Von den Toren
des Hades zu den Hallen des Olymp. Artemiskult bei Theokrit und Kallima-
chos appeared in 2007.
Prof. Dr. Thomas A. Schmitz (thomas.schmitz@uni-bonn.de)

Thomas A. Schmitz teaches ancient Greek literature at Bonn University
(Germany). His main research interests are Greek literature in the Roman
Empire, the reception of ancient literature, especially in France, and mod-
ern literary theory and its application to ancient texts. He is the author
of Pindar in der französischen Renaissance. Studien zu seiner Rezeption in
Philologie, Dichtungstheorie und Dichtung (1993), Bildung und Macht. Zur
sozialen und politischen Funktion der zweiten Sophistik in der griechischen
Welt der Kaiserzeit (1997), Modern Literary Theory and Ancient Texts. An
Introduction (2002, English translation 2007) as well as of articles on many
authors and genres of Greek literature from Homer to late antiquity.
Prof. Dr. Peter Stotz (peter.stotz@bluewin.ch)

Peter Stotz (*1942), Professor emeritus of Mediaeval Latin language and
literature, University of Zurich, member of the Directory Board of Mon-
umenta Germaniae Historica, corresponding member of the Bavarian
Academy of Sciences and Humanities, president of the Directory Board
contributors xxiii
of Mittellateinisches Wörterbuch. Major publications: Ardua spes mundi

(1972); Sonderformen der sapphischen Dichtung (1982); Heinrich Bullinger,
Studiorum ratio (edition, translation, commentary, 2 vols., 1987); Hand-
buch zur lateinischen Sprache des Mittelalters (5 vols., 1996–2004); “LateiniÂ�
sche Sprache und Literatur des Mittelalters” (series editor). Seventy papers
(including text editions), main topics: history of Latin language in the
Middle Ages, Christian Latin poetry, mediaeval commentaries, history of
metrics.
PD Dr. Stefan Tilg (stefan.tilg@klphs.uzh.ch)

Stefan Tilg did his studies in Classics in Innsbruck (PhD 2003) and Siena.
He was Assistent at the chair of Latin of the University of Bern (2003–
2006). Scholarships brought him to Corpus Christi College, Oxford,
the Center for Hellenic Studies in Washington DC, and the Klassisch-
Philologisches Seminar of the University of Zurich (2006–2010). Currently
he is the director of the Ludwig Boltzmann Institute for Neo-Latin Litera-
ture in Innsbruck. His main research topics have been the ancient novel
and Neo-Latin drama.
Dr. Vincent Tomasso (tomassov@gmail.com)

Vincent Tomasso is the Associated Colleges of the Midwest Mellon post-
doctoral fellow in the Classics. He received his PhD from Stanford Univer-
sity with a dissertation on the third-century AD Greek epic poet Quintus
of Smyrna and his interaction with Homer. His primary interest is the
relationships the present constructs with the past. He has presented and
written about reception in a variety of times and places, including the
modern United States—his article on Thermopylae and Frank Miller’s
work appeared in Classics and Comics (OUP 2010).
Dr. Gail Trimble (gail.trimble@trinity.ox.ac.uk)

Gail Trimble is Brown Fellow and Tutor in Classics at Trinity College,
Oxford, and was previously a Junior Research Fellow at Trinity College,
Cambridge. She is writing a commentary on Catullus 64, with newly edited
text, for the CUP series Cambridge Classical Texts and Commentaries. Her
other publications include “Thesea fide: heroic faith and faithlessness in
Ovid’s exile poetry,” in: Lydia Langerwerf and Cressida Ryan (eds.), Zero
to Hero, Hero to Zero: In Search of the Classical Hero (Cambridge Schol-
ars Publishing, 2010) and “Catullus 64 and the prophetic voice in Virgil’s
fourth Eclogue,” in: Joseph Farrell and Damien Nelis (eds.), The Roman
Republic in Augustan Poetry (OUP, in progress).
Abbreviations
ADB Allgemeine Deutsche Biographie, 56 vols., Munich/Leipzig

1875–1912 [repr. Berlin 1967–1971].
ANRW Hildegard Temporini et al. (eds.), Aufstieg und Niedergang der
römischen Welt. Geschichte und Kultur Roms im Spiegel der
neueren Forschung, BerlinÂ€/Â€New York 1972–1996.
CA Johannes U. Powell (ed.), Collectanea Alexandrina. Reliquiae
minores Poetarum Graecorum Aetatis Ptolemaicae 323–146 A.C.,
Oxford 1925.
CEG Peter A. Hansen (ed.), Carmina epigraphica Graeca, 2 vols.,
BerlinÂ€/Â€New York 1983; 1989.
CPG Ernst L. von LeutschÂ€/Â€Friedrich W. Schneidewin (eds.), Corpus
Paroemiographorum Graecorum, 2 vols., Göttingen 1839; 1851.
DNP Hubert CancikÂ€/Â€Helmuth Schneider (eds.), Der Neue Pauly.
Enzyklopädie der Antike. Altertum, Stuttgart/Weimar 1996–
2002.
FGrHist Felix Jacoby et al. (eds.), Die Fragmente der griechischen Histo-
riker, Berlin et al. 1923–1999.
FPL Edward Courtney (ed., comm.), The Fragmentary Latin Poets,
Oxford 1993.
HE Andrew S.F. GowÂ€/Â€Denys L. Page (eds., comms.), The Greek
Anthology. Hellenistic Epigrams, 2 vols., Cambridge 1965.
LfgrE Bruno Snell et al. (eds.), Lexikon des frühgriechischen Epos,
Göttingen 1955–.
LGPN Peter M. FraserÂ€/Â€Elaine Matthews (eds.), A Lexicon of Greek
Personal Names, 5 vols., Oxford 1987–2005.
LIMC Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae, 20 vols., Zurich/
Munich 1981–2009.
LSJ Henry George LiddellÂ€/Â€Robert ScottÂ€/Â€Sir Henry Stuart Jones, A
Greek-English Lexicon, Oxford 101996.
MW Reinhold MerkelbachÂ€/Â€Martin L. West (eds.), Fragmenta Hesio-
dea, Oxford 1967.
OCD2 Nicholas G.L. HammondÂ€/Â€Howard H. Scullard (eds.), The
Oxford Classical Dictionary, Oxford 1970.
OCD Simon HornblowerÂ€/Â€Antony Spawforth (eds.), The Oxford Clas-
3
sical Dictionary, OxfordÂ€/Â€New York 1996.

PEG Albert Bernabé (ed.), Poetae epici Graeci. Testimonia et frag-
menta, 2 vols., Stuttgart/Leipzig/Munich 21996; 2004.
xxvi abbreviations
Pf. Rudolf Pfeiffer (ed.), Callimachus, 2 vols., Oxford 1949; 1953.

PMG Denys L. Page (ed.), Poetae Melici Graeci, Oxford 1962.
RE Georg Wissowa et al. (eds.), Paulys Real-Encyklopädie der clas-
sischen Altertumswissenschaft. Neue Bearbeitung, Stuttgart et al.
1894–1980.
SH Hugh Lloyd-JonesÂ€/Â€Peter Parsons (eds.), Supplementum Hellenis-
ticum, BerlinÂ€/Â€New York 1983.
TrGF Bruno SnellÂ€/Â€Stefan RadtÂ€/Â€Richard Kannicht (eds.), Tragicorum
Graecorum Fragmenta, 6 vols., Göttingen 1971–2004.
part i
History and Development of the Term and Concept

of the Epyllion
Before the Epyllion: Concepts and Texts*
Virgilio Masciadri
Monsieur Jourdain: Quoi? quand je dis: “Nicole,

apportez-moi les pantoufles, et me donnez mon bon-
net de nuit,” c’est de la prose?
Maître de philosophie: Oui, Monsieur.
Monsieur Jourdain: Par ma foi! il y a plus de quarante
ans que je dis de la prose sans que j’en susse rien, et je
vous suis le plus obligé de m’avoir appris cela.
Jean-Baptiste Molière,
Le bourgeois gentilhomme, II.5
1. Research Question, Methods, Material
The facts that the word “epyllion” in the surviving texts from antiquity
never denotes any kind of verse narrative which we today tend to call an
epyllion, and that this term does not even occur in the poetic theory of
the humanists, but rather that it is an invention of nineteenth-century
philology, are commonplaces in the relevant research literature. Accord-
ing to the current state of knowledge, the term first came into usage
around 1820, and Friedrich August Wolf is regarded as the first to have
used it, although this cannot be confirmed on the basis of contemporary
documents. In this way, we have identified a famous “father” for a con-
cept which has had a successful scholarly career, and can attribute to him
a not entirely disinterested motive: the great scholar of Homer applied
the term in a pejorative sense in order to distinguish the minor poetry of
Homer’s successors from the period of the classic epic.1 In the same way
as other terms pertaining to style, such as “Baroque” or “Gothic,” so also
“epyllion” was originally denigrating. In the course of almost two centuries
of continued usage, it has lost the odours associated with humble origins,
* Translated from German into English by Dr. Stephen Lake.

1 Cf. the seminal study by Most (1982). However, Tilg (this volume) has now shown
that the term had been used by other scholars as early as around 1800. Further, Tilg is the
first to provide unambiguous evidence that the term “epyllion” was in fact used by Wolf
(cf. Tilg in this volume, pp. 34–42).
4 virgilio masciadri
been rendered pure and sleek by repeated application in handbooks

and monographs, and been ennobled as the subject of entire academic
conferences.
If we consider the history of this concept from this perspective, there
emerges a yawning gulf between the composition of the classical texts and
their modern interpretation which spans one and a half millennia, and it
was the inspired insight of one great scholar which has moulded the con-
cept and given it the light of day, while generations of readers have blindly
overlooked it. The new word created a new reality all by itself. Perhaps it
is not by coincidence that a discipline specialising in words, as philology
does, imagines its own history in this way. Admittedly, doubts about the
usefulness of this model are more than justified. A new word acquires
its place in the vocabulary of the people only when it satisfies the needs
of more than one speaker. Thus, the designation of a genre like epyllion
could perhaps only find acceptance because it denoted what had hith-
erto been conceived of under other names. Therefore, if the poetry which
we classify under this term constitutes a genre neither in the transmitted
corpus nor in the poetry theory of the ancients, and the epyllion is thus
in a certain sense a text which does not exist and which only appears as
an apparent unity2 to the eye of the modern reader, then the problem for
the history of research is less a question of at what point this terminus
was coined, than of when scholars began to consider the works included
in this categorisation as texts which belonged together, and which criteria
and hermeneutical models were decisive for this approach.
In such a case, we should not allow ourselves to be blinded by the
apparent naturalness of views about such texts. Even if we recognise a
common element in the fact that epyllion poems are all short texts, we
still judge them arbitrarily; and this only occurs to us when we recall that
the Venetian philosopher and humanist Francesco Patrizi da Cherso, in
his influential book Della Poetica from 1586, groups the poem about Troy
by Tryphiodorus together with Homer, Quintus of Smyrna, and Apollo-
nius of Rhodes, in the genre of poema lungo or poema prolisso.3
The establishment of such reading habits is probably due less to the
achievement of a few individuals than to the gradual drift of school tra-
ditions and philological habits. In a discipline such as Classics, in which
2 On “the text which does not exist” as a problem of literature studies, see Masciadri
(1996) 41–44.
3 Patrizi (1969–71) 3; 159.
before the epyllion: concepts and texts 5
the mediation of texts and their interpretation by means of oral teach-

ing has always played a decisive role, we can understand but a fraction
of this orality by means of the available printed texts. In the following
pages, it can therefore hardly be demonstrated conclusively when, where,
and by whom this or any other concept was “invented”; at best I can
only pursue the traces which the wandering interest of readers, and the
gradual transitions of perspectives and interpretations in manuals, school-
commentaries, and other literature of that kind, have left behind.
My discussion is based on a survey of text editions, commentaries,
translations, and studies which have been published between the begin-
ning of printing and 1800. The focus will be on those texts which have
been transmitted under the name of Theocritus,4 including the poems of
Moschus and Bion,5 on the three late antique short epics by Colluthus,
Musaios, and Tryphiodorus, and the Peleus epyllion of Catullus.6 I have
been primarily dependent on the holdings of the university libraries of
Zurich and Basle.7
This consideration of materials of course remains limited, including
only a selection which is so incomplete that a comprehensive history of
the scientific and cultural threads of the pre-history of the concept “epyl-
lion” certainly cannot be based on it. If we also consider the way in which
our collections of old printed books have been formed, that is, through
the combining of community and school libraries as well as bequeathed
private collections, then the limitations of such a survey are telling from
such a perspective as well, and they reflect the limits of what would have
been available to a reader of the period.8 We thus acquire a notion of how,
often through works at second and third hand, the various ways of reading
found their ways into the heads of school masters and other audiences. At
4 The following poems are particularly regarded as epyllia: Theoc. 13 (Hylas), 22 (The
Dioscuri), 24 (The Little Heracles), 25 (Heracles at Augeias), 26 (Pentheus), and often also
Theoc. 18 (Epithalamium for Menelaus and Helen). See further the list in Fantuzzi (1998a)
31–32.
5 In particular, Moschus 2 (Europa) and 4 (Megara) are considered as epyllia.
6 Catullus 64.—On the ready availability of all of these texts since the beginning of
printing, see Korenjak in this volume, pp. 519–520.
7 As only the most relevant works are cited in the following pages, I include here a sta-
tistical overview of the material consulted: 84 titles derive from the Zurich central library,
3 from the library of the ETH Zurich, 1 from the Classics department library, and 53 from
the university library in Basle. I would like here to thank the librarians of the special col-
lections for old printed books at these universities for their generous assistance.
8 Substantial parts of the Zurich collection, for example, were obtained from the pri-
vate libraries of Johann Caspar Hagenbuch and Johann Caspar von Orelli, two local Clas-
sics scholars of the 18th and 19th centuries.
best, then, it is possible to make several soundings of the material, which

will convey to us some insight into the layers of the tradition.
2. The Question of the Coherence of the Corpus Theocriteum
Already in the humanist period it had been observed that the text cor-
pus transmitted under the name of Theocritus includes very diverse types
of poems from the perspective of genre.9 Already in a Paris manuscript
of the fourteenth century which contains texts and scholia largely in a
version stemming from the late Byzantine scholar Demetrios Triklinios,
notices are included at the head of some poems which classify them in lit-
erary sub-genres on the basis of rhetorical terms.10 In this way, some texts
which we consider epyllia (e.g. Theoc. 13 and 25) are explicitly ascribed
the character of “narratives” (διηγηματικόν). This term probably derives
from the prolegomena of the older scholia, which also discuss the relation-
ship of idyll poetry to other genres,11 although it is not applied exclusively
to poems considered by us as epyllia but rather also to texts such as the
Pharmakeutriai (Theoc. 2). On the other hand, a poem such as that on the
Dioscuri (Theoc. 22), which is today often read as an epyllion, is ascribed
the character of “praising” (ἐγκωμιαστικόν); the scholiast therefore under-
stood it as a hymn—a view with which modern interpreters meanwhile
agree.12
Because these comments on genre were included by Zacharias Kal-
lierges in the first printed edition of the idylls, which included scholia of
1516, and placed beside the titles of the individual poems as far as these
existed,13 we often encounter them in sixteenth-century editions of The-
ocritus, irrespective of whether or not these also include the scholia or
confine themselves to reproducing these expanded titles.14
9 On the problem of the genre concept of “bucolic” in Theocritus from a modern per-
spective, see Nauta (1990).
10 Paris, Bib. Nat. gr. 3832; cf. Wendel (1920) 31–37; 192–193. The texts are printed in the
scholia editions of Dübner (1847) and Ahrens (1859).
11 The relevant passages from the ancient scholiasts and commentators can be found in
Wendel (1914) IV, 11–13; V, 18–19; XI, 11–18; XV, 25–XVI, 13; XIX, 4–10; XXI, 20–26; cf. Wendel
(1920) 56–58.
12 On the interpretation of Theoc. 22 as a hymn, see Hunter (1996) 46–47.
13 Theoc. (1516); the general importance of Theocritus in the Renaissance is discussed
briefly by Halperin (1983) 2–3.
14 In the editions of Theocritus with scholia (1541), (1558), and without scholia, for
example, (1539).
Particularly illuminating is an edition of the Latin translation of The-

ocritus’ verses by Eoban Hesse, which appeared in 1531.15 This included
with the text a seven-page long excerpt from the scholia. Several of the
notices reproduced there are commentaries on particular passages, but
the majority of the excerpt consists of Triclinius’ classification of genres,
which is given almost entire in the Greek original.
The extent to which Hesse was interested in the coherence of the The-
ocritus corpus in terms of poetic genre is illustrated by his introductory
dedication poem addressed to the Nuremburg councillor Hieronymus
Ebner, which attempts to give the addressee an appreciation of the the-
matic diversity, which in the opinion of the translator distinguishes the
bucolic of Theocritus from that of Vergil:16
Accipe Simichidae lusus Hieronyme uatis,
Quo uarium quicquam uix magis esse potest.
Pastores, armenta, greges ouiumque boumque
Concinit, & uitulos, caprigenumque pecus.
Nunc teneras, Veneris gratißima regna, puellas:
Dicere me pueros, quos canit ille, pudet.
Nunc ita Cyclopi Nereida scribit amatam,
Vt Venerem nostrae cedere cogat opi.
Heroum celebrat laudes, Heroidas ornat
Carmine, pastorem quod decuisse queat.
Receive, Hieronymus, the games of Simichos’ son, the poet: there can scarcely
be anything more diverse than these. He sings of shepherds, cattle, flocks of
sheep and herds of cows, and calves and the spawn of goats; and then of
mellow girls and the charming servitude of Venus—I would be ashamed to
mention the youths whom he praises; and then he describes the Nereid with
whom the Cyclops fell in love and thus compels even Venus to surrender to
our power; he praises the fame of the heroes and showers the heroines with
song, which is only appropriate to a shepherd.
The final lines quoted here obviously refer to the mythological type of
poem, which today we designate as an epyllion. In the reference to the
praise of heroes, we can easily recognise the characteristic of “praise,”
already applied by Triclinius to the Dioscuri poem. Yet not only do Hesse’s
15 Theocritus (1531). In the same year in Hagenau, the first edition was printed by
Johannes Secer, which, unlike this reprint, included not only the Latin translation by
Hesse but also the Greek text in an edition by Joachim Camerarius; cf. Camerarius (2003)
106–109; Hesse (2004) 66–67 with n. 102; and briefly on the preparation and inclusion of
this translation, see also Gräßer-Eberbach (1993) 119.
16 Theocritus (1531) 8–9.
verses frame such rhetorical qualifications with considerations of content,

they also deliver an explanation as to why these texts could find a place
in the bucolic genre: the shepherd is not the theme, that is, the object
of the text, but rather its subject, that is, he who sings the praise of the
heroes. Apparently, a seam between mythological and bucolic poetry was
clearly seen here, which at the same time was concealed by means of a
hermeneutical trick.
The influence of these old genre criteria on interpretation is also evident
in the Theocritus lecture of the Wittenberg Melanchthon student, physi-
cian, and Greek scholar, Veit Winsheim, which was published in 1558. In
his introduction, he also recognises the diversity of subjects treated by
the poet, but he then identifies the same phenomenon in other authors
and perceives precisely in this diversity a general characteristic of bucolic
as a genre. However, he observes—without mentioning the mythologi-
cal poems in particular—that even themes which are not really bucolic
are depicted in a style which is appropriate to shepherds and the “simple
people.”17
In his treatment, which offers a systematic commentary on the texts,
Winsheim places a short summary of the contents of the individual idylls
at the head of each poem. The scholia had already provided similar inter-
pretations, and earlier editions had sometimes printed these without the
rest of the older commentaries18 or, like Eoban Hesse, translated them
17 Winsemius (1558) 2: Porrò Bucolicum carmen id uocarunt, quod argumenta de re rus

tica, & cantiones pastoribus conuenientes ut plurimum contineret. Etsi aliae quoque graui
ores & sublimiores res his numeris saepe inclusae, atque Bucolico carmine descriptae fuerunt:
et uariae cùm rerum, tum uerò et personarum imagines hoc simplici atque humili genere
carminis expressae, quale est Ptolemaei encomion in his Eidylliis, & querela de contemptu
doctrinae atque hominum doctorum in Charitibus, et Genethliacon Salonini, atque Epicedion
de morte Iulij Caesaris in Eclogis Virgilianis: tamen ea ipsa argumenta Bucolico orationis filo,
& numeris huic carmini conuenientibus ita tractantur, ut pastorum aut uulgi aut cantilenae
uel sermones esse uideantur. (“Moreover, they also call that bucolic which usually includes
subjects taken from rural life, and songs appropriate to shepherds, even when these verses
often address certain more serious and noble themes depicted in bucolic song. Diverse
pictures and people are also represented in this simple and lower form of poetry, such as
the hymn of praise to Ptolemy in these idylls, the elegy over contempt towards learning
and scholars in the Charites, the birthday song for Saloninus, and the dirge for the death of
Julius Caesar in Vergil’s Eclogues. Nonetheless, even these subjects are treated in a bucolic
language and an appropriate metre, so that they appear to be songs or speeches sung or
spoken by shepherds or the common people.”) On Winsheim (in fact, Vitus Oertel von
Windsheim), see Bursian (1883) 178; ADB 43 (1898) 462–463, s.v. “Winsheim, Veit” [Karl
Hartfelder].
18 Theocritus (1530), (1539).
into Latin.19 Winsheim goes further in that he includes his own expan-
sions and especially by including a summary of content for each of the
idylls for which there are none in the medieval manuscripts. Winsheim’s
interpretations were often reprinted.20 The very nature of these additions
also resulted in Triclinius’ classifications, which Winsheim also discussed
in his introduction,21 being more systematically applied, and a number
of our epyllia, which hitherto had not been categorised according to a
genre, were now attributed to the narrative genre—not only texts by The-
ocritus but also the Europa poem by Moschus (ascribed by Winsheim to
Theocritus):22
Hoc Eidyllion totum διηγηματικόν est, continet enim narrationem, seu exposi
tionem fabulae Europae.
This idyll is almost entirely a narrative, as it contains the story or account
of the myth of Europa.
Winsheim also emphasized the nature of the Dioscuri text as hymnic
praise poetry more clearly than had been done in earlier editions:23
Hoc Eidyllion est penè iustum poemation et est hymnus de laudibus Castoris ac
Pollucis, in genere demonstratiuo Encomiastico.
This is scarcely a genuine idyll,24 but rather a hymn of praise of Castor and
Pollux in representational encomium style.
Nonetheless, the attempt to systematise the classification of genres does
not seem to have resulted in as firm a grasp of the particular character of
mythological poetry as that demonstrated by Eoban Hesse in his dedica-
tory poem. This limitation of Winsheim’s work seems typical for its day.
Again, in Isaac Casaubon’s commentary on Theocritus, for example, it
19 Theocritus (1531), and see also Theocritus (1554).

20 The inclusion of material from Winsheim in Theocritus (1569) and (1596), for exam-
ple, is typical.
21 Winsemius (1558) 3–4: Sunt autem quędam Eidyllia διηγηματικὰ, quę continent tantum
narrationes, siue expositiones historicas. Quaedam μιμητικὰ, siue δραματικὰ, quae imitan
tur colloquia, & dialogos: quaedam mixta ex utroque genere, in quibus narrationes insertis
colloquiis sunt. (“Certain idylls are narratives; these consist of simple stories or historical
accounts. A few are mimetic or dramatic; in these, conversations and dialogues are imi-
tated. Several are mixtures from the two genres; in these, stories contain conversations.”)
This passage of course paraphrases material from the scholia: see above, n. 11.
22 Winsemius (1558) 171; very similarly at 250 on Heracliscus; see also 284 on the Pen-
theus poem.
23 Winsemius (1558) 213–214.
24 On the meaning of poematium here, see below, p. 10 and n. 26.
was noted that Moschus’ Europa poem was different from the remaining
texts:25
In omnibus antiquis editionibus, atque etiam in recentioribus nonnullis, inter
Theocriti idyllia locum habet elegantissimum illud poematium quod est de
EVropa scriptum.
In all the old editions, as well as in many more recent ones, this extremely
tasteful poem which speaks of Europa has been included among the idylls
of Theocritus.
Yet this observation does not address the question as to which genre this
poem properly belongs. The fact that he designated the works of Theocri-
tus as idyllia while referring to the Europa poem with the general term
poematium might sound to modern ears like a differentiation, but it was
probably not so intended. In the introductions to the humanists’ editions,
following the scholia tradition, the term eidyllion is repeatedly defined as
parvum poëma (or parvum carmen), that is, as a “small poem,” which is
the Latin translation of the Greek poemation.26
The treatment of the Theocritus corpus by Daniel Heinsius goes
beyond these hesitant humanist rhetorical attempts at classification. In
the introduction to his commentary of 1604, the important Dutch phi-
lologist assumed three different original ancient editions of this author’s
works.27 In the first, only the genuinely bucolic poems were included; the
second contained all of the poems which are ascribed to him; and the
third constituted a collection of bucolic poetry by various authors, and
therefore also works by Moschus and Bion. The non-bucolic texts bore the
title Idyllia and addressed diverse subjects, so that a hymn such as that
to the Dioscuri could also be included.28 We can see here how, on the
25 Scaliger/Casaubonus (1596) 142; on Casaubon and his commentaries, see Pfeiffer

(1982) 151–154.
26 So already in the title of Theocritus (1530), or in Eoban Hesse’s introduction (TheoÂ�
critus [1531] 5): Eidyllion dicitur, quòd εἶδος, hoc est, forma quaedam, ac uelut idea sermonis
sit: & diminutiuè εἰδύλλιον, quasi paruum carmen appellatur. (“It is called eidyllion because
it is an eidos, that is, a kind of form or class of speech, in diminutive eidyllion, as if it were
called a ‘small song’.”) The basis for such statements is ultimately Schol. Theoc. Proleg. E.
a.–c. Wendel.
27 Heinsius (1604) 291–292. For the modern view of this problem, see Gutzwiller (1996),
whose presentation of the history of research unfortunately does not proceed further
back than the classic study of Wilamowitz (1906); on Heinsius generally, Sandys (1908)
313–315.
28 Heinsius (1604) 292: Multa etiam quae potius quiduis quam Bucolica sunt, inserta
fuisse; siue a collectoribus, siue ab iis qui Theocriti relliquias hac ratione superesse vole
bant. Primae editionis inscriptionem necesse est fuisse, Θεοκρίτου βουκολικά: quae nihil quam
one hand, the older classification continued to be influential, but on the

other hand, it could become part of a new solution to the problem. The
incoherence of the corpus was explained “historically” for the first time,
by depicting the stages of its composition chronologically so that in each
phase an apparently non-contradictory picture emerged. The problem of
poetic genre receded thereby into the background.
Heinsius’ solution was as foundational for a tradition as the rhetorical
terminology of Triclinius; at least, the editions of the subsequent genera-
tions largely follow these two lines of approach. Even Reiske’s edition of
1765, for example, in the Latin interpretations placed before each of the
poems, draws on Triclinius and Winsheim29 while the display edition of
Theocritus issued by Luca Antonio Pagnini in Parma in 1780 cites Heinsius
as the authority who solved all the problems.30 Yet these two editions
appeared at a time when poetic genre questions were being re-addressed
by others under different stars.
3. The Position of Catullus’ Peleus Epyllion
The fact that the hexametric Peleus poem of Catullus is significantly dif-
ferent from his other poetry had already become a matter for comment
among humanist readers.31 The early editions of Catullus included sub-
titles to the individual poems, so that the problem posed by this text was
initially reflected purely on the level of content, in terms of uncertainty
Bucolica huius poëtae habebat. Reliqua Idyllia dicta fuerunt & inscripta: quorum argumen
tum erat non vniforme . . . Hymnorum specimen est in Castoris & Pollucis: Heroïnarum in
Βερενίκηι: quae ab Athenaeo adducitur. (“There was also included much that was anything
but bucolic, whether by collectors, or by people who wanted to ensure that in this way the
remains of Theocritus’ works would be preserved. The title of the first edition must inevita-
bly have been The Bucolics of Theocritus; this collection contained nothing else apart from
the bucolic poems of this author. The other collection was called and entitled Idylls; its
contents were not homogeneous . . . An example of hymns is found with Castor and Pollux,
to a Heroine in Berenike, which is cited by Athenaeus.”)
29 Theocritus (1765), e.g. 246 on Heracliscus: Hoc Idyllion totum est διηγηματικόν. (“This
idyll is entirely narrative.”) On Reiske and his scholarly importance, see Pfeiffer (1982)
212–213.
30 Theocritus (1780) ix; the editor appears under the pseudonym Eritisco Pileneio. On
the Carmelite and philologist Pagnini (1737–1814), see de Tipaldo (1840) 176–182.
31 On the editions of, and commentaries on, Catullus in the modern period, see Gaisser
(1992) and (1993); more briefly, Thomson (1997) 43–60; Gaisser (2007) 445–457; and on his
influence on Neo-Latin short epic, see also Korenjak in this volume, pp. 520+531. Further,
Tilg (this volume, p. 45) finds some evidence that Catullus 64 also played a particular role
in establishing the modern concept of “epyllion” in the second half of the 19th century.
about what title it should be given. While the editions of the first half
of the sixteenth century usually entitled it Argonautica,32 from the mid-
century, following the polemic of Realini and Muret against this title, it
tended increasingly to be designated as De nuptiis Pelei et Thetidos (“The
Marriage of Peleus and Thetis”), as it had also earlier been called on
occasion.33 The poetic technique of this work, which weaves various
stories into one another, is reflected in the uncertainty about its real
subject.
At the same time, scholars began to study the text in its own right,
apart from the way in which the Catullus corpus was approached as a
whole. Thus, in 1514 in Vienna, the Peleus epyllion was printed separately;
at least one copy, which contains inter-linear and marginal handwritten
notes that obviously represent a student’s lecture notes, has survived. An
epigram by Joachim Vadian is placed at the beginning of the text, though
it remains unclear whether this is evidence for a hitherto unknown lec-
ture by the Saint Gall humanist, or whether he had merely done a poetic
favour for a colleague.34
Scarcely four decades later, the young Bernardino Realini published his
special commentary on this poem.35 While exclusively mythological and
exegetical explanations are preserved in the Vienna lecture notes, without
any suggestion of discussion of the question of the poetic genre, the dis-
proportionate length of the Ariadne excursus in the poem represented a
problem for Realini. In examining it, he appealed to his friend Sebastiano
Corradi:36 one criticises Catullus, he wrote, because this excursus is so
32 For example, the variously reprinted Aldina Catullus (1502), or in Catullus (1530),
(1537), (1546), etc.
33 The text appears already as Exametrum Pelei et Thetidos Nuptiae (“Hexameter Poem
on the Marriage of Peleus and Thetis”) in the Catullus edition (1493) which was based on
the commentary of Antonio Partenio (1485); on Partenio’s commentary, see Gaisser (1992)
223–230 and (1993) 78–96. The arguments against the title Argonautica appear in Realini
(1551), f. 1r and Muretus (1554), f. 97v; on Muretus, see Gaisser (1992) 260–264 and (1993)
151–168.
34 The annotated copy of Catullus (1514) is preserved in the central library in Zurich (Ry
318) in a still largely unexamined compilation whose provenance is the Rheinau cloister;
other copies of this printing exist in the university library in Tübingen and in the Stiftsbib-
liothek Kremsmünster. A Catullus lecture by Vadian is attested neither in the collection
of Vadian’s Vienna lectures in Näf (1945) 27–43, nor in the recent overviews of Catullus in
the Renaissance by Gaisser (1992) and (1993). For helpful advice about this Catullus edition
and Vadian, I would like to thank Rudolf Gamper, Saint Gall.
35 Realini (1551). Realini, a Jesuit, lived from 1530 to 1616; see Gaisser (1992) 286–288.
36 Corradi (1510–1556) taught primarily in Reggio Emilia, Bologna, and Padua; see Dizio
nario Biografico degli Italiani 29 (1983) 322–323, s.v. “Corradi, Sebastiano” [F.R. de Angelis].
Realini cited him without giving any exact reference to Corradi’s writings (Corradus uir
magni nominis, & mei amantissimus, in suis scriptis [“Corradi, a famous man and very close
long that the poet seems to forget his real theme, and such a procedure
can only be justified by one means:37
Nisi dicat aliquis illum poetas Lyricos esse imitatum, qui quum nequé grauia,
nequé magna sed amores, caenas, & alia id genus, profiteantur, longius eua
gari possunt: ut Pindarus non saepe modo sed semper ferè facit.
Unless one wishes to say that he has imitated the lyric poets, who have
treated of neither serious nor significant subjects, but rather of love-stories,
banquets, and other similar things, and who are capable of indulging in long
detours, as Pindar not merely often but almost always does.
The distinctive unfolding of the Ariadne excursus, which contradicts the
rules of rhetoric, is thus justified with a consideration of poetic genre,
namely, that the poet has employed here a customary lyric technique
which is found, for example, in Pindar. In this way, the Peleus poem
appears to assume a unique position, yet this position is determined not
by its resemblance to epic, but rather by reference to a composition tech-
nique which is considered to be lyrical. This argument, developed by Cor-
radi and Realini, is also sometimes cited by later commentators.38
Another attempt to define the particular position of the Peleus epyllion
is found in the Portuguese humanist Achilles Statius.39 He classified the
text in the tradition of wedding poetry, the epithalamium, and instanced
a number of classical poets who had apparently also written epithalamia
for Peleus and Thetis, in particular, Hesiod. At the same time, he referred
to a discussion as to whether one could even speak of an epithalamium in
this case, insofar as at no point in the poem do choruses of boys and girls
appear, which were held to be constitutive for this genre.40 This position
friend of mine, in his writings”], Realini, f. 12v); to date, I have been unable to verify his
claim.
37 Realini (1551), f. 12v. In Partenio’s older commentary on the entire corpus, it is written
at the beginning of the Ariadne excursus without any hesitation (Catullus [1493], on Catul-
lus 64.52): Namque fluentisono. Digressio poetica. Ecbasis apparitionis seu ornatus causa . . .
(“Then from the sound of the waves: A poetic divergence, an excursus for the sake of
appearance or decoration . . .”)
38 For example, in the lavish Paris edition of Catullus in usum Delphini (1685) 106, or in
the period beyond that considered here—and probably following Catullus (1685)—in the
introduction to the verse translation by Ginguené, Catullus (1812) 53 n. 1.
39 Achilles d’Estaço (1524–1591) lived and worked primarily in Rome; his Catullus
commentary appeared for the first time in 1566; see Gaisser (1992) 265–267 and (1993)
168–178.
40 Catullus (1604) 253: Epithalamium in Pelei ac Thetidis nuptiis Agamestora Pharsalium
primùm scripsisse, tradit Lycophronis interpres. Quod etiam fecisse constat Hesiodum, cuius
ex epithalamio Thetidos, ac Pelei versus citantur, quos suo loco ponemus . . . Sunt, qui Epitha
lamium hoc esse nolint, quod abest puerorum puellarumque canentium chorus. (“The fact
is sharpened by Joseph Justus Scaliger in the next generation of scholars,

who assumed that Catullus drew here on a lost epithalamium for the
heroic couple by Hesiod.41 A century later, however, the Dutch scholar
Isaac Vossius preferred to see a wedding poem by Sappho as the model
for Catullus.42 These suggestions remained familiar to readers well into
the eighteenth century through the late-Baroque variorum commentar-
ies and other compilations.43 These views to some extent find a pendant
in treatments of the eighteenth poem of Theocritus, the wedding song
for Menelaus and Helen, which is today sometimes also regarded as an
epyllion because of its mythological content, and which is discussed in
humanist commentaries in terms of the genre of epithalamium.44
The humanists have certainly recognised and discussed the exceptional
place of the Peleus epyllion within the Catullan corpus, though they have
that Agamestor of Pharsalus was the first to have written an epithalamium on the wedding
of Peleus and Thetis is reported in the commentary to Lycophron [cf. Tzetz. Schol. Lyk.
Introd. 103–105]. It is certain that Hesiod had done the same, from whose epithalamium
for Peleus and Thetis verses will be cited which I will include in the appropriate place . . .
Some claim that this is not an epithalamium, because there is no chorus of singing boys
and girls.”)
41 Catullus (1607) 80–81: Epithalamium Pelei et Thetis scripsit exemplo Hesiodi τοῦ
ἐπιθαλάμια εἰς Πιλέα καὶ Θέτιν γράψαντος, inquiunt Gręcorum magistri. (“He wrote an epitha-
lamium for Peleus and Thetis, following the model of Hesiod who, as the teachers among
the Greeks say, wrote an epithalamium for Peleus and Thetis.”) On Scaliger’s work on
Catullus, which first appeared in 1577, see Grafton (1983) 161–179; Gaisser (1992) 267–271
and (1993) 178–192.
42 Catullus (1684) 189: Recte viri docti mutarunt inscriptionem. Sed quod iidem putant
Catullum in hoc carmine imitatum esse Hesiodum, aut Agamestora Pharsalium, qui utrique
Epithalamium Thetidis & Pelei scripserunt, id mihi non fit verisimile. Ut alibi passim, ita
quoque in hoc Epithalamiorum libello, credo imitatum esse Sapphonem . . . Scripsisse autem
Sapphonem epithalamiorum libellum, docet nos praeter Servium & Dionysius Halicarnas
sensis, ubi de epithalamiis agit. (“Scholars have rightly changed the title. But that in this
poem, Catullus has imitated an epithalamium by Hesiod or Agamestor of Pharsalus, both
of whom wrote an epithalamium for Peleus and Thetis, as these scholars have believed,
seems to me to be unlikely. I think that, as everywhere else in this little book of epitha-
lamia, he imitated Sappho . . . Apart from Servius, Dionysius of Halicarnassus also informs
us that Sappho wrote a book with epithalamia in his discussion of epithalamia.”) Isaac
Vossius (1618–1689) taught Greek to Queen Christina of Sweden, and was later active in
England; see Sandys (1908) 322–323; on his edition of Catullus, cf. Thomson (1997) 55.
43 The formulation in Catullus (1685) 101 is typical: Nonnulli sunt etiam, qui hoc carmen
Epithalamium dici velint; sed alii repugnant, quòd a virginum choro, quae hîc non compar
ent, cani soleret Epithalamium. (“Some prefer to call this poem an epithalamium, but oth-
ers disagree, because an epithalamium is normally sung by a girls’ choir, which is here
absent.”) Or, in a bilingual Latin-French Catullus edition (1653), aimed at a wider audi-
ence (323–324): Catulle a composé cette piece des Nopces de Pelée & de Thetis à l’exemple
d’Hesiode, & l’exprime en des termes fort Poëtiques. See further below, pp. 21–22; for the
influence of this discussion in modern commentaries, see Thomson (1997) 386.
44 Thus, for example, in Winsemius (1558) 155–156; Heinsius (1604), p. 140 in the edition.
attempted to address the problem in terms differing from those which

we employ today, that is, not by addressing a specific application of epic
technique, but rather by means of an analogy with lyric form on the one
hand, and on the other, through the tradition of the epithalamium, which
likewise points to the category of lyric.
4. The Short Epic in the Eighteenth Century
While individual texts are considered apart from their extensive corpora
in the cases of Theocritus and Catullus, a different problem emerges with
late antique short epics when we attempt to define epyllia. These texts
are too short on their own to make the printing of a book worthwhile,
and for this reason they were often included with other pieces in col-
lected editions. Initially, the medieval tradition of transmission shaped
these collections: for example, Colluthus’ poem on the abduction of Helen
was discovered by Bessarion in a codex which also contained the Troy
epic by Quintus of Smyrna, and was thus sometimes included with it in
sixteenth-century editions.45 The extent to which this reflected a desire
simply to include a comprehensive collection of material on the story of
Troy becomes evident from the fact that Tryphiodorus’ epyllion about the
fall of Troy was also included;46 and this primary interest in the subject
is still more obvious from the verse translation of Tryphiodorus and the
Troy books of Dictys and Dares which were used to fill the lacuna between
Books 5 and 10 in a Latin version of Diodorus.47
Beside such collections, there are also editions which include only Col-
luthus and Tryphiodorus,48 or which combine them with other authors.
When these collections also include texts which were considered as mor-
ally edifying, such as Theognis and the Gnomai of Phocylides, as in the
case of a commentated edition by the Ilfeld school rector and Melanch-
thon student, Michael Neander, which was repeatedly reprinted, their use
for teaching purposes is evident. These short epics were obviously read in
preparation for studying Homer.49
45 Thus, for example, Quintus (1569). On the transmission, see briefly Schönberger
(1993) 20–21.
46 As in Quintus (1504).
47 Diodorus (1578).
48 Thus, Colluthus (1570), a reprint of excerpts from Neander (1559).
49 Neander (1559), who clearly emphasizes that his intended audience consists of young
students in his introduction to the two epyllia (14–15): Eum Paridis raptum Coluthus poeta
Musaios also sometimes appears in a similar context, for example, in

Froben’s Basle edition of 1518, which was reprinted more than a dozen
times into the eighteenth century.50 There, the poem about Hero and
Leander is included as a supplement to the Fables of Aesop and of Babrias
and to the Batrachomyomachy, which are typical beginner’s texts, whereby
the intended youthful audience is particularly emphasized in a foreword
which from the second edition of 1524 was repeatedly reprinted.51 When,
however, Musaios was included together with the Orphic hymns and the
Argonautica of Orpheus, as in the Aldina of 1517,52 this reflects the belief
of the first editor that the author of these poems was Musaios, the famous
mythical singer who, like Orpheus, had lived long before Homer. Already
Aldus Manutius calls him “Musaios the oldest poet” in his preface to the
first edition of the text in 1494.53
It is only the discussions of the eighteenth century which begin to
move beyond such humanist combinations of texts which, however, had
failed to demonstrate any real relationship between them. This shift is
first recognisable in the case of Theocritus. The revival of Arcadian shep-
herd poetry in the Rococo resulted in translations of that author aimed
at the growing readership of the period appearing on the book market,
which merely consisted in a selection of texts with a bucolic character,
excluding, however, epyllia. The same tendency towards exclusion can
sometimes be observed in editions with Greek texts and commentaries
graeco carmine descripsit: quem nos conuertimus ac exposuimus, & graecolatinum adoles
centibus dare uoluimus. Discent ex eo authore adolescentes, tum linguam graecam, tum alia
etiam, quae de multis rebus utiliter ac sapienter eos monere in omni uita poterunt. (“This
abduction by Paris has been described in a Greek poem by the poet Coluthus; I have
translated and explained this poem, and now wish to make it familiar to boys in a Greek-
Latin version. From this author, the boys will learn the Greek language, on the one hand,
and on the other, many things which will be useful to them all of their lives and which
may also wisely teach them.”) Similarly on Tryphiodorus (15–16). On Neander, see Bursian
(1883) 212–215; Sandys (1908) 269. However, Brodaeus’ (1552) combination of the two Troy
epics with the Cynegetica of Oppian seems rather arbitrary.
50 Musaios (1518); on the Musaios editions in general, see Kost (1971) 58–60; 592–595.
51 Musaios (1524) 3: Iterum exhibemus uobis Aesopi fabellas cum aliquot alijs libellis
Graece & Latine, quod proximam aeditionem, quae tota Graeca fuit, ijs, qui adhuc tirones
sunt in Graecanica literatura, minus gratam fuisse cognouerimus, quibus hoc Enchiridium
praecipue paratur. (“I also offer you the Fables of Aesop together with several other little
works in Greek and Latin, because I have learned that the previous edition, which was
exclusively in Greek, was less welcome to those who were but beginners in Greek litera-
ture, and it is especially for them that this little textbook has been prepared.”)
52 Musaios (1517).
53 Μουσαῖον τὸν παλαιότατον ποιητὴν. The text was frequently reprinted, among others,
in Malcovati (1947) xxvii; see further Kost (1971) 59 with n. 143.
aimed at an “educated readership.”54 The extent to which the classifica-

tions canonised by the humanists continued to influence such editions
can be seen in the Versuch über das bukolische Gedicht (“Essay on bucolic
poetry”) which Friedrich von Finkenstein placed at the beginning of his
translation of selected bucolic poems in 1789; there, the Theocritus corpus
was arranged faithfully according to the notions of Heinsius:55
Die Idyllen des Theokritus sind offenbar nicht alle bukolisch. Sie machen
mit den Epigrammen die Überbleibsel seiner sämmtlichen Werke aus; wie
unter diesen die sechs ersten kleine Hirtengedichte in elegischem Metro
sind, findet man unter jenen kleine Heldengeschichten, eine Hymne, ein
Liebesgedicht in Jamben, und andere, die wenig oder nichts bukolisches an
sich haben. Unter dreyssig Idyllen werden sich etwa sechzehn oder acht-
zehn bukolische Stücke in dem oben festgestellten Sinne befinden.
The idylls of Theocritus are obviously not all bucolic. Together with the epi-
grams, they constitute only a fraction of his entire work. The first six idylls
are short shepherd poems in elegiac metre, while among the others we find
short heroic stories, a hymn, a love poem in iambics, and others which have
little or nothing bucolic about them. Of thirty idylls, there are only sixteen
or eighteen which are bucolic in the sense established above.
The expression “kleine Heldengeschichten” (“short heroic stories”) is strik-
ing here, as it sounds like a tentative anticipation of what the term “epyl-
lion” would later encompass.
Only rarely, however, do we find the opposite of this differentiation, that
is, an association of late antique epic poetry with Theocritus, on the basis
that a certain affinity between the two genres can be seen. Thus, in 1772,
Karl August Küttner compiled a selection of translations of Theocritus,
Moschus and Bion and a version of Colluthus, and justified this in his
preface:56
Der vierte, der sich hier noch an die Reihe der griechischen Idyllensänger
anschliesst, ist Koluthus, ein Dichter aus dem neuesten, witzelnden Zeitalter
der griechischen Dichtkunst. Sein Raub der Helena, das einzige, was von
ihm noch übrig ist, verdient, deucht mich, mit eben dem Rechte hier eine
54 Thus, in two editions of Theocritus (1773) and (1779) by Valckenaer.

55 Theocritus (1789), note on p. 14. Von Finkenstein (1745–1818) was a Prussian land-
owner and politician who later acted as patron to Ludwig Tieck and other artists; see
ADB 7 (1877) 21–22, s.v. “Finkenstein, Friedrich Ludwig Karl Graf Fink v. F.” [Schwarze].
56 Theocritus (1772) viii–ix. Küttner (1749–1800) lived in Mitau (today Jelgava) in Kur-
land (Latvia) as a school rector and writer; his published translations include versions of
Musaios and the Argonautica of Orpheus; see ADB 17 (1883) 442–443, s.v. “Küttner, Karl
August” [Diederichs].
Stelle, als die entführte Europa des Moschus, oder als die Grazien, die Bac-
chantinnen und das Lob des Ptolemäus vom Theokrit. Zudem hat er auch
wirklich viele simple Schildereyen, glückliche Gleichnisse, und eine so bil-
derreiche Sprache, daß kein Dichter vor ihm sich ihrer schämen dürfte.
The fourth who joins the group of Greek idyll singers is Coluthus, a poet
from the latest, wisecracking age of Greek poetry. His Abduction of Helen,
the only poem which survives from him, in my opinion rightfully deserves
a place here together with Moschus’ Seduction of Europa, or the Graces, the
Bacchantes, and the Praise of Ptolemy by Theocritus. Moreover, he offers
many simple descriptions, effective comparisons, and a language rich in
images, so much so that no previous poet would have considered it beneath
his dignity.
Küttner therefore justifies the combination in terms of the poetic style
of the work, though among the texts for comparison which he does not
consider to be authentically bucolic but which he nonetheless regards as
belonging to the same genre, are poems which today we would count as
epyllia; these include the Europa by Moschus and the Bacchantes, that is,
the Pentheus poem from the Theocritus corpus (Theoc. 26).
The young Iohann Caspar Manso argues with greater differentiation
in his commentated Greek-German edition of Bion and Moschus from
1784, in which he classifies the Theocritus poems. He, too, assumes Hein-
sius’ canonised understanding of how the corpus was composed, but
he attempts to distinguish the authentic Theocritus from the two other
authors on the basis of differences in poetic style. In his view, all three
poets are quite similar in those poems which are, strictly speaking, bucolic,
that is, they are characterised by “nature” and “truth.” A more obvious dif-
ference, however, emerges in the other texts:57
Auffallender ist die Verschiedenheit bey Gedichten, die der Mythologie
ihren Ursprung verdanken. Gewöhnlich ist Theokrit auch noch dann, wenn
er ein Sujet aus der Götterwelt wählt, der sanfte gefällige Dichter, dem man’s
anmerkt, dass er am liebsten im schmelzenden Flötenton die Freuden des
Landes und die Liebe der Hirten singt. Weder in seinem Hylas, einem Stück,
das in Ansehung des Innhalts, mit Moschus Europa viel Aehnlichkeit hat,
noch selbst in dem Lobliede auf Adon wird er erhabener. Sein Gesang ist
einmal wie das andremal sanft, die Harmonie seiner Verse die Musik eines
57 Moschus (1784) lxxiii–lxxv. Manso (1760–1824) taught at the Gymnasium in Gotha and
in his leisure time wrote poetry, translated the classics, and studied history; he achieved a
certain measure of lasting fame through his literary polemics with Schiller (documented,
for example, in the Xenien); see Bursian (1883) 644; ADB 20 (1884) 246–248, s.v. “Manso,
Joh. Kaspar Friedrich” [Grünhagen].
ebenfliessenden Bachs. Nicht also Moschus, wenn er sich aus den Hütten
der Hirten in die Gebiete der Götter wagt. Dann verändert er seinen Ton,
dann verschwendet er alle Schätze der Dichtkunst, dann sucht er den
Leser, dessen Lob er durch keine neue Erfindung verdienen kann, wenigsÂ�
tens durch die neue Einkleidung der bekannten Geschichte und durch
die Darstellung derselben zu überraschen. Was ich hier in Absicht auf die
EuroÂ�pa gesagt habe, gilt grösstenteils auch vom Grabliede Bions auf den
Adon, weniger aber von der Megara des Moschus. Es scheint, Moschus
habe durch dieses Gedicht einen Beweis ablegen wollen, dass er nicht blos
in bukolischen, sondern auch in mythologischen Stücken Theokrits Simpli-
cität nachahmen und so sanft, wie dieser in seinem Herkuliskus und Her-
kules, sein könne.
Still more striking is the diversity in poems which treat a mythological sub-
ject. Theocritus remains ordinary even when he takes a subject about the
gods, the gentle, pleasing poet, who one senses finds his greatest pleasure
in depicting the delights of the countryside and the love of shepherds in lilt-
ing flute tones. Neither in his Hylas—a piece which, when we consider its
content, appears to have considerable resemblance to Moschus’ Europa—
nor even in the song of praise for Adon, is he more sublime. His song is
everywhere gentle, the harmony of his verses the music of a steadily flow-
ing stream. Moschus is not like this when he comes out of the huts of the
shepherds and dares to approach the sphere of the gods. Then he changes
his tone, he wastes all of the skill of his poetic art, he seeks to surprise the
reader whose praise he cannot earn by any new invention, at least by adorn-
ing familiar stories anew and by his representation of them. What I have
said here with reference to the Europa also applies substantially to Bion’s
grave song for Adon, though less to the Megara of Moschus. It would seem
that Moschus wanted to demonstrate with this poem that not merely in
bucolic but also in mythological pieces he could imitate Theocritus’ simplic-
ity and could be just as gentle as he in his Herculiscus and Hercules.
For the first time since Eoban Hesse, a group of texts among the non-bucolic
poems of the corpus is characterised by a positive element, namely, the
“mythological pieces.” With the exception of the two hymns to Adonis,
Manso cites as examples only poems which today are held to be epyllia:
the Europa and the Megara of Moschus, the Hylas and the Heracles epyl-
lia of Theocritus. The combination of these texts was determined purely
by their subject matter, and it is only with the poems by Moschus that
the author attempted to distinguish a specific poetic character in these
pieces—admittedly without indicating with his designation any relation-
ship to epic.
The question whether bucolic poetry can be generally classified under
the epic genre was nonetheless discussed in the first half of the century by
Nicolaus Schwebel in the introduction to his edition of Moschus and Bion.
Closely following earlier notions, he did not employ criteria of content

but rather considered the level of style of the texts, so that Vergil’s first
eclogue with its praise of Augustus appeared to him a persuasive proof of
the “epic” potential of bucolic, on the basis of the nobility of its subject.58
However, he, too, recognised that a number of texts in the Theocritus cor-
pus in no way conform to the model of bucolic, and as examples of this,
he named three epyllia:59
Equidem nescio, quomodo ad bucolica carmina referri possint, quae de hoc
charactere carmini bucolico proprio sunt destituta, cuius rei exemplo esse pos
sunt Theocriti Heracliscus, Hercules Λεοντοφόνος, Moschi Megara; in quibus
carminis pastoralis formam atque ideam vix reperiemus.
I do not know how one can classify among the bucolic poems those which
lack any real bucolic character. Examples of this could be the Heracliscus of
Theocritus, Hercules the Lion-Killer, [and] the Megara of Moschus; in these,
there is scarcely anything of the form and content of the shepherd’s poem
to be found.
Surprisingly, however, Schwebel did not then concern himself with identi-
fying a positive trait which these three poems have in common, but rather
limited himself, in the tradition of Heinsius, to ascribing them to an ill-
defined bundle of non-bucolic poems.
All of these interpretations remain purely intuitive, and there is still
no terminological attempt to define the distinctive nature of these texts
as varieties of epic poetry. We take a step in this direction when epyllia
are seen as fragments of a lost epic. Thus, in various commentaries from
the later eighteenth century we find the hypothesis first formulated by
Johann Jakob Reiske that Theocritus’ Heracles poems—in particular, the
Heracliscus, the Augeas and the Megara poems—, are fragments of an
epic by Peisandros which depicted the entire life of the hero.60
58 Theocritus (1746) xxxix: Nullum est dubium, quin carmen Bucolicum quoque ad Epi
cum referri possit. Luculentum sane exemplum nobis exhibet Ecloga prima Virgilii, in qua
poëta sub Tityri persona pro agrorum recuperatione gratias agit Augusto. (“The bucolic
can without doubt be classified under ‘epic.’ A very clear example of this is offered us by
the first eclogue of Vergil, in which the poet in the mask of Tityrus thanks Augustus for
the return of his farming land.”) Nicolaus Schwebel (1713–1773) was director of grammar
schools (Gymnasien) in Nuremberg and Ansbach; see ADB 33 (1891) 317–318 s.v. “Schwebel,
Nicolaus” [R. Hoche].
59 Theocritus (1746) xliv.
60 Unfortunately, I have been unable to confirm this statement from the writings of
Reiske which were available to me. Fritzsche (1869) 167 gives as his source “animadv. 309,”
but this reference is clearly incorrect, and does not indicate the passage sought in either
Reiske (1754) or (1757–66). The idea was taken up, for example, by Pagnini in TheoÂ�critus
The application of such a fragmentary reading is even more daring

when applied to Moschus’ Europa, an approach which Johann Jakob Bod-
mer suggested in the introduction to his German verse translation:61
Wenn die geraubte Europa des Moschus wegen ihrer kyrze den namen
eines epischen gedichtes verschuldet hat, ob es ihr gleich an den schoensten
eigenschaften dieser erzaehlenden art von gedichten nicht mangelt, so muss
man sie doch fyr ein Styk eines solchen gelten lassen, welches zu seiner
absonderlichen vollkommenheit kein anderes Styk vonnoethen hat.
If the Europa of Moschus forfeits the name of an epic poem because of its
brevity, even though it does not lack the most beautiful qualities of this
story-telling art of poetry, so, nonetheless, we must regard it as a piece of
epic which requires no additional piece to its peculiar perfection.
The paradox of a “self-contained fragment” as introduced here already
seems to anticipate the new concept of “fragment” which would unfold
within the aesthetics of the second half of the eighteenth century, as well
as becoming one of the favourite terms of Lavater and Herder, while in
the early Romantic period the “fragment” would come to be fully con-
sidered as an independent literary form. As one of the spokesmen of the
contemporary discussions of literary theory, Bodmer made fruitful use of
categories taken from contemporary literature for the interpretation of
the classics.
The considerations presented by Johannes Gurlitt in 1787 in his com-
mentated edition of Catullus’ Peleus poem are intellectually less innova-
tive. At the same time, however, they came closer to a positive definition
of the term “epyllion” than any of the earlier treatments. The view, which
was apparently still widespread at the time, that this poem should be
understood as an epithalamium, provided his starting point.62 In his opin-
ion, this view led to an irreconcilable contradiction in the relationship
between the author and the poetic “I.” Thus, he suggested that while the
beginning of the text alone perhaps gives the impression of a wedding
poem, the remainder of the poem was fundamentally different:63
(1780) 126 (on Theoc. 24) and 133 (on Theoc. 26), and by Manso in Moschus (1784) lxxiv;
224.
61 Moschus (1753) 2. In the same year, Bodmer had published a verse translation of
Colluthus, without, however, explicitly associating the two works in a poetic genre in his
prefaces; cf. Colluthus (1753).
62 On the humanist discussion of this question, see above, pp. 13–14.
63 Catullus (1787) 7–8.—Gurlitt (1754–1827) was a Gymnasium and university teacher in
Bergen and Hamburg, and in addition to translations of Pindar, Tibullus and Catullus, he
Aber ich lese weiter und finde, daß Katull nachher durchaus den erzälen-
den Dichter macht, daß nirgends der Chor der das Epithalamium singenden
Jungfrauen, sondern der spätere Dichter spricht. Deutlich erhellet das aus
der Darstellung des Gesanges der Parzen und aus dem Schluße, wo er die
Ursache von der ehemals gewöhnlichen Erscheinung der Götter unter Men-
schen angiebt, um seiner Erzälung von Nazionalmythen Volksglauben zu
verschaffen. Wie kann man diesen Schluss lesen, und nun noch das Gedicht:
Epithalamium auf Peleus und Thetis, überschreiben? Es ist vielmehr offen-
bar ein Epos oder eine kleine Epopee d.h. eine dichterische, malerische
und pragmatische Darstellung einer wunderbaren Begebenheit oder eines
Nazionalmythus mit Veranlaßung, Ursachen, Folgen Nebenumständen
u.Â€s.Â€w., und zwar eine Erzälung mit Begeisterung, und folglich in der voll-
kommensten, erhabensten, schwungvollesten Sprache: also eine kleine Epo-
pee, wie das Gedicht des vermeintlichen Musäus von Hero und Leander,
und wie fast alle Oßianischen Gedichte. Fasset man nun den Gesichtspunkt
des Gedichtes so, so erscheinen die angebrachten Episoden gar nicht mehr
in der Tadelnswürdigkeit, als in jenem Falle: nun gehören sie mehr zur voll-
ständigen Darstellung des Ganzen, nun beleben, verschönern, schattiren sie
die Erzälung.
But I read on and find that Catullus is subsequently absolutely the narrat-
ing poet, that the chorus of singing virgins which speaks the epithalamium
nowhere appears, but rather the poet. This is particularly evident in the
representation of the song of the Parcae, and at the end, where he gives
the causes of the erstwhile ordinary manifestations of the gods among men,
in order to inspire popular belief in national myths. How could one read
this conclusion, and then still entitle the poem Epithalamium for Peleus and
Thetis? It is much more obviously an epic or a short epopee, that is, a poetic,
artistic and pragmatic representation of a wonderful event or a national
myth with occasion, causes, consequences, secondary elements etc., and
as such a narration marked by enjoyment, and therefore in the most per-
fect, sublime, rhythmic language: in other words, a short epopee, like the
poem of the alleged Musaios on Hero and Leander, and resembling almost
all Ossianic poems. We can summarise the principal aspects of the poem
thus, and the episodes depicted no longer appear deserving of criticism, as
in the other case: now, they belong rather to a complete representation of
the whole, now enlivening, now beautifying, lending textures to the story.
The problem which constitutes the starting point here remains the same
as in humanist discussions of the text: the inter-weaving narrative tech-
nique with exceptionally long excurses. However, Gurlitt no longer sought
a solution, as Realini had done in the sixteenth century, by comparing the
lyrical technique, but rather by invoking an understanding of epic accord-
produced a series of archaeological and art-historical writings in the tradition of Winckel-

mann; see ADB 10 (1879) 182–185, s.v. “Gurlitt, Johannes Gottfried” [H. Kämmel].
ing to which the lengthy, far-reaching excurses also constitute an integral

part of the genre.64 In this connection, the author twice deployed the term
“short epopee,” whereby he included in this new category the epyllion of
Musaios as a second classical text and—strikingly enough—the Ossianic
poems. From this last point, we can infer to what extent, as in the case
of Bodmer, the interpretation of classical texts was conditioned by an
acquaintance with contemporary literature, an influence which prepared
the way for a new definition of the genre of “short epic.”
5. Modes and Fashions of Reading
I see no reason to conceal how incomplete the material is which I have

presented in the foregoing discussion. It would also have been illuminat-
ing if, for example, we could have examined the way in which the human-
ists engaged with Callimachus and his lost Hecale, among other things.
Nonetheless, that which we have sketched above affords a comprehensive
picture the coherence of which would be little affected were additional
evidence (as welcome as this would be) to be provided. The texts which
today we designate as epyllia were not regarded as belonging to one and
the same genre between the humanist period and the mid-eighteenth
century. The parameters within which these texts were situated varied
from case to case—sometimes in terms of content and theme, sometimes
in terms of didactic-pedagogical intent, sometimes in terms of poetic-
stylistic interest. Scholars were certainly willing to consider separating
individual pieces from the corpora in which they had been transmitted
(as with the epyllia of Catullus and Theocritus), yet none seems to have
felt the need to regard these poems as constituting a distinct literary
family and to consider them apart from other genres.
In the second half of the eighteenth century, this picture changed. From
that time onward, we can see how these texts were increasingly associ-
ated with one another, despite their dispersed transmission in the textual
corpora. A new, though still tentative attempt can be discerned to grasp
their common elements terminologically. Here, it was not merely the new
definition of their relationship to epic that played a role, but (and it is
precisely this which seems so characteristic) there was also a transference
64 Gurlitt’s train of thought seems strikingly similar to that of Karl David Ilgen who in
1796, and thus not much later than Gurlitt, explicitly applies the term “epyllion” to the
narrative part of the Homeric Hymn to Hermes; cf. Tilg in this volume, pp. 34–36.
of method from contemporary literary discussions. This process is evident

when Bodmer applies a specific concept of “fragment” to the short work of
Musaios—a concept which was to have a great future—and when Gurlitt
uses Ossian in order to better interpret the character of Catullus’ Peleus
poem. This development, which with Gurlitt even led to the use of the
term “short epopee,” which in turn anticipated the later meaning of “epyl-
lion,” did not emerge from within the study of Classics, but rather from a
projection of a “modern” conception of literature onto classical texts. It is
striking that in the same period, a new kind of short epic in hexameters
developed in German-language literature which showed a close relation
to the tradition of idyll poetry, but which forewent the establishment of
a specific generic term for these texts. Both tendencies moved surpris-
ingly parallel to the movement which had already given rise to the Greek
epyllion.
Nothing could caution us more effectively against an inclination to
substantialise the definition of a literary genre, precisely in the case of
the retrospective construction of the genre epyllion, to which classical
philology—with its desire for clearly differentiated classifications—is so
vulnerable. It is well known that Homer was not familiar with the genre
“epic,” and he had not the slightest notion of what distinguished epic from
tragedy; yet this did not prevent him from writing magnificent poetry.
Marcel Reich-Ranicki apparently once observed that “most authors
understand nothing more about literature than birds understand about
ornithology.” It is the texts that are read by authors and which in free
variations are imitatively created by them which are more influential than
any genre definition.65 Literary genre designations, on the other hand, are
usually introduced to the text only by “learned” readers; they are school-
like advice for reading, which serve to organise the transmitted texts, and
from time to time conceal as much as they purport to illuminate. It is
the temptation of scholarly investigations not only to trace the origins
of such categorisations, but at the same time to recover hermeneutical
approaches which have been forgotten—sometimes movingly simple,
sometimes surprisingly clever—by means of which the readers of earlier
generations sought to make the texts of the classical past present and
meaningful. Perhaps we will also acquire the courage to employ current
terminology with less self-confidence in our own cleverness and with a
greater measure of playful creativity.
65 See the conclusions on humanist reception of the epyllion by Korenjak in this

volume, p. 535.
Historical Texts
Brodaeus (1552): Ioannis Brodaei Turonensis Annotationes in Oppiani Cynegeticon libros

IIII. Quinti Calabri Paralipomenon Homeri lib. XIIII. Coluthi Thebani de Helenae raptu
lib. unum. Quae nunc primum in lucem eduntur, cum locuplete rerum & uerborum in his
memorabilium Indice, Basileae, Per Ioannem Hervagium, [1552].
Camerarius (2003): Joachim Camerarius, Narratio de Helio Eobano Hesso. Das Leben des
Dichters Helius Eobanus Hessus. Lateinisch und deutsch herausgegeben und erläutert von
G. Burkard und W. Kühlmann, Heidelberg: Manutius-Verlag 2003.
Catullus (1493): Tibullus Catullus & Propertius cum comento. [. . .] Impressum Venetiis per
Symonem Bevilaqua Papiensem, M.cccc.lxxxxiii. die. xxvi. mensis Iunii.
—— (1502): Catullus Tibullus Propertius, Venetiae in aedibus Aldi mense Ianuario 1502.
—— (1514): Valerii Catvulli Veronensis poetae clarissimi Nuptiae Pelei, & Thetidis, Quibus
inter caetera Ariadnes amor, & Achillis laus singulari eruditione descripta continen
tur, [Viennae] Hieronymus Vietor. et Ioannes Singrenius Imprimebant Kalendis Iulii.
Anno.1514.
—— (1530): C. Valerii Catulli Veronensis liber I. Alb. Tibulli Equitis Romani libri IIII. Sex.
Aurelii Propertii Vmbri libri IIII. Cn. Cornelii Galli fragmenta, Basileae excudebat Henri-
cus Petrus, mense Martio, Anno 1530.
—— (1537): Catullus, Tibullus, Propertius. His accesserunt Corn. Galli fragmenta, Apud Seb.
Gryphium Lugduni, 1537.
—— (1546): Catullus. Tibullus. Propertius. His accesserunt Corn. Galli fragmenta, Basileae
per Nicolaum Brylingerum 1546.
—— (1604): C. Val. Catvlli, Albii Tibvlli, Sex. Avr. Propertii, opera omnia qvae exstant.
Cvm variorvm doctorvm virorvm commentariis, notis, observationibvs, Emendationibus,
& Paraphrasibus: vnum in corpus magno studio congestis: quorum Catalogus pagina ab
hinc octava exhibetur. Cum Indice Rerum & Verborum copiosissimo, Lutetiae, Ex officina
Typographica Clavdii Morelli 1604.
—— (1607): Catulli, Tibulli, Properti nova editio. Iosephus Scaliger Iul. Caesar fil recensuit.
Eiusdem in eosdem Castigationum Liber auctus & recognitus ab ipso auctore, Excudebat
Iacobus Stoer [Geneva] 1507 [misprint for: 1607].
—— (1653): Les poésies de Catvlle de Verone. En latin et en François. De la Traduction de M.
de M. [Marolles], A Paris chez Gvillavme de Lvine 1653.
—— (1684): Caius Valerius Catullus Et in eum Isaaci Vossii observationes. Prostant apud
Isaacum Littleburii Bibliopolam Londinensem, London 1684.
—— (1685): C. Valerii Catulli, Albii Tibulli et Sexti Aurelii Propertii opera: C. Valerii Catulli
opera interpretatione et notis illustravit Philippus Silvius T. E. C. P. jussu Christianissimi
Regis in usum Serenissimi Delphini, Parisiis, Ex Typographia Frederici Leonard Regis,
Serenissimi Delphini, & Cleri Gallicani Typographi, viâ Jacobaeâ 1685.
—— (1787): Katulls epischer Gesang von der Vermälung des Peleus und der Thetis metrisch
übersezt und mit einigen Anhängen begleitet von J. Gurlitt, Oberlehrer der alten Littera
tur und Philosophie am Pädagogium zu Kloster Berge, Konventual des Stifts und Klosters
Berge, Mitglied der Lateinischen Gesellschaft zu Jena, Leipzig, Im Verlag der J.G. Mül-
lerschen Buchhandlung 1787.
—— (1812): Les noces de Thétis et de Pélée, poème de Catulle, traduit en vers français, par
M. P. L. Ginguené, membre de l’institut impérial de France, etc., Paris chez Michaud frères
1812.
Colluthus (1570): Κολουθου Λυκοπολιτου Θηβαιου Ελενης αρπαγη. Τρυφιοδωρου Ποιητου Αιγυπτιου,
Ιλιου αλωσις. Coluthi Thebaei, Helenae raptus. Tryphiodori Aeyp. Ilij excidium. Omnia ver
sione Latina & expositione M. Neandri illustrata, Geneva 1570.
—— (1753): Die geraubte Helena von Coluthus. [Übersetzt von Johann Jakob Bodmer],
Zyrich, bei Conr. Orel und Compagnie 1753.
Diodorus (1578): Diodori Siculi bibliothecae historicae libri XV. hoc est quotquot Graecè extant
de quadraginta. quorum quinque nunc iterum Latinè diligenter recogniti, & chronologia
illustrati eduntur. interiecta vero est, Dictys Cretensis & Daretis Phrygii de bello Troiano
historia, & Tryphiodori Aegyptij, Ilij excidium, Gulielmo Xylandro interprete, ad supplen
dam lacunam quinque librorum, qui inter quintum & undecimum desiderantur. In calce
operis acessere fragmenta historica eiusdem Diodori Latinè uersa, [Basileae, ex officina
Henricpetrina, anno post recuperatam salutem nostram 1578 mense martio].
Heinsius (1604): “Danielis Heinsii Σχολαι Θεοκριτικαι, sive Lectionum Theocriticarum
Liber vnvs. Item Idyllia aliquot eiusdem poëtae & epigrammata omnia, partim ab
eodem Daniele Heinsio, partim ab Hvgone Grotio Latine reddita,” in: Θεοκριτου,
Μοσχου, Βιωνος, Σιμμιου τὰ ευρισκόμενα. Theocriti, Moschi, Bionis, Simmii quae extant:
Cum Graecis in Theocritum Scholiis et Indice copioso: Omnia studio et opera Danielis
Heinsii. Accedunt Iosephi Scaligeri, Isaaci Casauboni, & eiusdem Danielis Heinsii Notae &
Lectiones, [Heidelberg:] Ex Bibliopolio Commeliniano 1604.
Hesse (2004): The Poetic Works of Helius Eobanus Hessus. Edited, translated, and annotated
by Harry Vredeveld, vol. 1, Tempe (Arizona): Renaissance Society of America 2004.
Moschus (1753): Die geraubte Europa, von Moschus. Dieselbe von Nonnus. [Translated by
Johann Jakob Bodmer, Zurich: Orelli 1753].
—— (1784): Βιων και Μοσχος / Bion und Moschus von I[ohann] C[aspar] F[riedrich] Manso,
Gotha, bey Karl Wilhelm Ettinger 1784.
Muretus (1554): Catullus et in eum commentarius M. Antonii Mureti, Venetiis, apud Paulum
Manutium, Aldi filium. 1554.
Musaios (1517): Μουσαίου ποιημάτιον τὰ καθ’ Ηρὼ καὶ Λέανδρον. Ορφέως ἀργοναυτικά. Τοῦ αὐτοῦ
ὕμνοι· Ορφέως περὶ λίθων. Musaei opusculum de Herone & Leandro. Orphei argonautica.
Eiusdem hymni. Orpheus de lapidibus, [Venetiis in aedibus Aldi et Andreae Soceri mense
Novembri 1517].
—— (1518): Musaeus poeta vetustissimus De Ero & Leandro. Graece & Latine. Apud
inclytam Germaniae Basileam. [Johannes Froben, 1518].
—— (1524): Aesopi Phrygis fabellae Graece & Latine, cum alijs opusculis, quorum index
proxima refertur pagella, Basileae, in officina Ioannis Frobenij, An. 1524.
Neander (1559): En lector, librum damus uerè aureum, planéque scholasticum, quo conti
nentur haec: τα χρυσα καλουμενα Πυθαγορου επη. Φωκυλίδου ποίημα νουθετικὸν. Θεογνιδος
Μεγαρέως Σικελιώτου ποιητοῦ γνῶμαι ἐλεγιακαὶ. Κολούθου λυκοπολίτου Θηβαίου, ἑλένης ἁρπάγη.
Τρυφιοδώρου ποιητοῦ Αἰγυπτίου, Ιλίου ἁλωσις. Id est, Pythagorae carmina aurea. Phocylidae
poema admonitorium. Theognidis Megarensis poetae Siculi gnomologia. Coluthi Lycopoli
tae Thebaei Helenae raptus. Tryphiodori poetae Aegyptij de Troiae excidio. Omnia graeco
latina, conversa simul & exposita à Michaele Neandro Soraviense, Basileae: per Ioannem
Oporinum. [1559].
Patrizi (1969–71): Francesco Patrizi da Cherso. Della Poetica. Edizione critica a cura di
Danilo Aguzzi Barbagli, 3 vols, Florence: Istituto nazionale di studi sul rinascimento
1969–1971.
Quintus (1504): Κοιντου Καλαβρου παραλειπομενων Ομηρου, Βιβλια Τεσσαρεσκαιδεκα. Quinti
Calabri derelictorum ab Homero libri quatuordecim, [Venice] Aldus [1504].
—— (1569): Κοιντου Καλαβρου αρχαιοτάτου καὶ σοφωτάτου ποιητοῦ παραλειπομένων ὁμήρου
βιβλία τεσσαρεσκαίδεκα· Quinti Calabri antiquissimi et sapientissimi Poëtae Praetermisso
rum ab Homero libri quatuordecim: quibus Troianam historiam ab Homero derelictam
grauiter & splendidè prosecutus est, Basileae. Per Sixtum Henricpetri. [1569].
Realini (1551): Bernardini Realini Carpensis in Nuptias Pelei et Thetidis Catullianas commen
tarius. Eiusdem aliquot in varia scriptorum loca annotationes, Bononiae apud Anselmum
Giaccarellum 1551.
Reiske (1754): Johann Jacob Reiske, Ad Euripidem et Aristophanem animadversiones,
Leipzig: Gleditsch 1754.
—— (1757–66): Animadversionum ad Graecos auctores volumina V, Leipzig 1757–1766.
Scaliger/Casaubonus (1596): Iosephi Scaligeri Ivli Caesaris f. Emendationes ad Theocriti,
Moschi & Bionis Idyllia. Isaaci Casauboni Theocriticarum lectionum libellus, [Heidelberg:]
Typis Hieronymi Commelini 1596.
Theocritus (1516): Ταδε ενεστιν, εντη παρουση βιβλω. Θεοκρίτου εἰδύλλια, ἓξ καὶ τριάκοντα· Τοῦ αὐτοῦ
ἐπιγράμματα ἐννεακαίδεκα· Τοῦ αὐτοῦ πελεκυς, καὶ πτερύγιον· Σχόλια τὰ εἰς αὐτὰ εὑρισκόμενα· εκ
διαφόρων ἀντιγράφων, εἰς ἓν συλλεχθέντα, [Rome: Zacharias Κallierges, 1516].
—— (1530): Θεοκριτου ειδυλλια, τουτεστι μικρα ποιηματα εξ και τριακοντα. τοῦ αὐτοῦ Επιγράμματα
ἐννεακαίδεκα. Τοῦ αὐτοῦ Πέλεκυς καὶ Πτερύγιον. Theocriti idyllia, hoc est parva poemata XXXVI.
Εiusdem Εpigrammata XIX. Εiusdem Βipennis, & Αla. [. . .] ᾿Ετυπώθη ἐν διασημοτάτηι τῆι
῾Ραυρακῶν Βασιλεία, παρὰ ᾿Ανδραία Κρατάνδρωι, μηνὶ Σκιῤῥοφοριῶνι, ἔτει δὲ ἀπὸ τῆς τοῦ
Χριστοῦ γεννήσεως, χιλιοστῶι πεντακοσιοστῶι τραικοστῶι.
—— (1531): Theocriti Syracusani Eidyllia trigintasex, Latino carmine reddita, Helio Eobano
Hesso interprete. Accesserunt recens Theocriti genus, ac vita. De inventione, ac discrim
ine Bucolicorum carminum. Item Singulis Eidylliis singula argumenta. A quodam Graecè,
Latinéque erudito latinitate donata, Excudebat Basileae And. Cratander, An. 1531.
—— (1539): Θεοκριτου Ειδυλλια, τουτεστι μικρα ποιηματα εξ και τριακοντα. τοῦ αυτοῦ ἐπιγράμματα
σὐνεκκαιδεκα. τοῦ αὐτοῦ πέλεκυς καὶ πτερύγιον. Theocriti Idyllia, hoc est parva poemata
XXXVI. Eiusdem epigrammata XIX. Eiusdem Bipennis et Ala, Venetiis apud Salamandram
[= in aedibus Bartholomaei de Zanettis à Casterzago] 1539.
—— (1541): Θεοκριτου ειδυλλια, τουτεστι μίκρα ποιήματα ἓξ καὶ τριάκοντα. Τοῦ αὐτοῦ ᾿Επιγράμματα
ἐννεακαίδεκα. Τοῦ αὐτοῦ Πελεκυς καὶ Πτερύγιον. Theocriti Idyllia, Hoc est, parva Poëmata
XXXVI. Eiusdem Epigrammata. XIX. Eiusdem Bipennis, & Ala. Praeter haec, accessere
Scholia utilißima Zachariae Calliergi, hactenus paucis uisa. Basileae [Per Haeredes
Andreae Cratandri] 1541.
—— (1554): Theocriti Syracusani poetae clarissimi idyllia trigintasex, recens è graeco in
latinum, ad verbum translata, Andrea Diuo Iustinopolitano interprete. Eiusdem Epigram
mata, bipennis, ala, et ara, latinitate donata, eodem Andrea Diuo interprete, Bernae in
Hevetiis per Samuelem Apiarium 1554.
—— (1558): Θεοκριτου ειδυλλια εξ και τριακοντα, μετὰ σχολίων εἰς ικ τὰ πρότομα, Ζαχαρίου τοῦ
Καλλιέργου πάνυ ὠφελίμων· καὶ εἰς τὴν σύριγγα, Ιωάννου τοῦ Πεδασίμου· ἀποσημειώσεών τε εἰς τὰ
λοιπὰ, Ιλόμμου τοῦ Ξυλάνδρου. Του αυτου Θεοκριτου επιγράμματα, Πέλεκυς, καὶ Πτερύγιον. Theo
criti Idyllia sex et triginta, cum scholiis in octodecim priora Zachariae Calliergi perquàm
utilibus: & in fistulam, Joannis Pedasimi: Annotatiunculisqué in reliqua, Guilielmi Xylan
dri. Eiusdem Theocriti Epigrammata, Bipennis, & Ala, Francofurti: P. Brubach, 1558.
—— (1569): Βουκολικὰ. Θεοκριτου Συρακουσίου Εἰδύλλια καὶ ᾿Επιγρὰμματα τα σωζόμενα. Σιμμιου
Ροδιου, Μοσχου Συρακουσίου, Βιωνος Σμυρναίου. Theocriti, Simmiae, Moschi, & Bionis Εidyllia
& Εpigrammata quae supersunt omnia Graecolatina & exposita, [n.p.] 1569.
—— (1596): Θεoκριτου του Συρακουσιου ειδυλλια και ἐπιγράμματα. Μοσχου Συρακουσίου, Βιωνος
Σμυρναίου, Σιμμιου Ῥοδίου τὰ σωζόμενα. Theocriti Syracusii idyllia et epigrammata cum mss.
Palat. collata. Moschi, Bionis, Simmii opera quae exstant. Iosephi Scaligeri & Isaaci Casau
boni Emendationes seorsim dabuntur, [Heidelberg] E Typographio Hieronymi Comme-
lini Anno 1596.
—— (1746): Βιωνοσ και Μοσχου ειδυλλια Bionis et Moschi Idyllia, Ex recensione Nicolai Schwe
belii Norimbergensis, Cum Eiusdem animadversionibus. Accedunt Ursini, Vulcanii, Steph
ani, Scaligeri, Casauboni, Heinsii, Xylandri, Palmerii, Longapetraei notae. Ut & Versiones
Metricae, Gallica Longapetraei, & Latina Whitfordi. Cum duobus indicibus. Uno Vocabulo
rum omnium, quae in hisce Idylliis occurrunt; altero Rerum, quae in annotationibus expli
cantur, Venetiis, Typis & Sumptibus Jo: Baptistae Paschalii 1746.
—— (1765): Theocriti reliquiae vtroque sermone cum scholiis Graecis et commentariis inte
gris Henrici Stephani, Iosephi Scaligeri et Isaci Casauboni cvravit hanc editionem Graeca
ad optimos codices emendavit libros tres animadversionvm indicesque verborvm Theocri
teorvm addidit Io. Jacobus Reiske, Viennae et Lipsiae: svmtvs Io. Fid. Iahn typos locavit
G.A.F. Loepfer 1765.
—— (1772): Idyllen des Theokrit, Bion, Moschus und Koluthus, aus dem Griechischen von
Karl August Küttner, Mietau und Leipzig bey Jakob Friedrich Hinz 1772.
—— (1773): Theocriti decem eidyllia, Latinis pleraque numeris a C. A. Wettstenio reddita, in

usum Auditorum cum notis edidit, eiusdemque Adoniazusas uberioribus adnotationibus
instruxit L. C. Valckenaer, Lugduni Batavorum Apud Ioann. Le Mair 1773.
—— (1779): Theocriti Bionis et Moschi Carmina Bucolica. Graece et Latine. Latino carmine
pleraque reddita ab Eobano Hesso, nonnulla a G. E. Hightio subiecit, Graeca ex Edd.
primis, Codd. & aliunde emendavit, variisque lectionibus instruxit L. C. Valckenaer, Lug-
duni Batavorum et Campis, Apud Ioannem le Mair, et I.A. de Chalmot, 1779.
—— (1780): Teocrito, Mosco, Bione, Simmia greco-latini con la Buccolica di Virgilio latino-
greca, volgarizzati, e forniti d’annotazioni da Eritisco Pilenejo P.A. Tomo primo/secondo,
Parma, dalla stamperia reale 1780.
—— (1789): Friedrich Ludwig Carl Finck Graf von Finckelstein: Arethusa oder die bukolis
chen Dichter des Alterthums. Erster Theil. Theocritus, Berlin, gedruckt und verlegt von
Johann Friedrich Unger. 1789.
Winsemius (1558): Interpretatio Eidylliorum Theocriti, dictata in Academia vvitebergensi, à
Vito Vuinsemio. Adiecta sunt & scholia, quibus loca difficiliora explicantur. Accessit etiam
rerum & uerborum memorabilium copiosus index, Francoforti per Petrum Brubachium
s.d. [preface dated: Aprili Anno 1558].
On the Origins of the Modern Term “Epyllion”:
Some Revisions to a Chapter in the History of
Classical Scholarship
Stefan Tilg
1. Introduction
In this paper I revisit the question of when and how the term “epyllion”
rose in modern classical scholarship. As is well known, “epyllion” was not
a category of literary criticism in antiquity, and a fortiori it did not refer
to a particular class of short, narrative, and hexametric (or elegiac) poems.
Although there are some passages in which Greek and Latin authors use
the word ἐπύλλιον/epyllion in literary contexts,1 the generic diversity of the
pieces referred to is considerable, from Euripides’ verse in Aristophanes
(Ach. 398; Pax 531; Ran. 942) to Plato’s alleged love poems in Ausonius’
letter to Paul at the end of the Cento Nuptialis. The single reference to
epic poetry, in Athenaeus, is to the lost ps.-Homeric Epikichlides, which
according to the testimonies was of a comic and erotic nature.2 While this
characteristic is reminiscent of modern ideas of epyllion, Athenaeus’ use
of the term for the Epikichlides appears to be accidental in the range of
ancient attestations. The only constant in this range is the notion of a cer-
tain smallness, which can be interpreted either in a pejorative sense (as
in Aristophanes’ deriding Euripides) or in a sense of appealing accessibil-
ity (as in Ausonius’ reference to Plato’s erotic epigrams). Apart from this
notion, no consensus on what an “epyllion” is emerges from the ancient
material. The question of the origins of our modern idea of epyllion is
therefore legitimate and relevant to the history of scholarship. Beyond this
historical interest, my study might also raise awareness of the problems
surrounding the modern definition of “epyllion”; for a neat definition of
this genre seems impossible, and its usefulness in conceptualizing ancient
1 For a discussion of the ancient evidence cf. Wolff (1988) 299–301.

2 Cf. Athen. 65a: τὸ εἰς ῞Ομηρον ἀναφερόμενον ἐπύλλιον, ἐπιγραφόμενον δὲ ᾿Επικιχλίδες. Fur-
ther testimonies are Athen. 639a; Ps.-Hdt. Vita Homeri 24; Hesychius Milesius, Vita Homeri 6;
perhaps also Plat. Phdr. 252b.
30 stefan tilg
literary history has been doubted a number of times.3 Much of the trouble
derives from the notions that on the one hand some short hexametric (or
elegiac) narratives, which are “epyllia,” should be separated from others,
which are not; and that on the other hand it should only be the Hellenistic
period in which the epyllion sprung into life. In this manner, for instance,
the long Homeric hymns are excluded from the genre, although some of
them bear a striking resemblance to Hellenistic epyllia in length, narra-
tive technique, motifs, and other respects.4 Of course, an enquiry into the
historical conception(s) of the term “epyllion” cannot, strictly speaking,
give an answer to the question whether or not this term is useful in our
present critical idiom. But my study may still provide some challenge to
the latter by recovering a neglected historical dimension and by tracing
an early history of the term “epyllion” which conflicts with our present,
narrower idea of the genre.
The question of the origin of the modern term “epyllion” has been dis-
cussed before, especially in dedicated studies by John F. Reilly, Glenn W.
Most, and Étienne Wolff.5 Of these contributions, Most’s is the most sig-
nificant in our context as it points to what is now generally regarded as
the earliest attestation of the term “epyllion” in classical scholarship. This
attestation can be found in Friedrich August Wolf ’s (1759–1824) edition of
the pseudo-Hesiodic Scutum, published posthumously by Karl Ferdinand
Ranke (1802–1876) in 1840.6 The word “epyllion” occurs on page 67, in the
chapter title Friderici Augusti Wolfii ad Scutum Herculis epyllion Hesiodo
subditum animadversiones. Judging exclusively from this title, there is cer-
tainly a chance that “epyllion” was in actual fact not a term used by Wolf
himself but a later addition by Ranke. Most’s argument that Ranke did
not use the word “epyllion” otherwise has little value since—in Most’s
account—Wolf himself would have used the word in this passage only
(I shall say more on this topic below—for the time being I add that Most’s
reasoning seems weak but his conjecture is right). Most goes on to argue
that according to a manuscript note Wolf started working on the Scutum
edition as early as 1817 and that his coinage of the term “epyllion” would
consequently fall sometime between 1817 and his death in 1824. The coin-
age would have occurred to Wolf on a whim and in a pejorative sense, as
3 Cf. e.g. Allen (1940) and (1958); for a recent discussion of issues relating to the genre
epyllion see e.g. Bartels (2004) 3–16.
4 Cf. the contributions of Petrovic and Baumbach in this volume.
5 Cf. Reilly (1953/54); Most (1982); Wolff (1988).
6 Cf. Ranke (1840).
on the origins of the modern term “epyllion” 31
it emerges from his comments in the edition that he had a low opinion
of Ps.-Hesiod. Wolf might, therefore, have called the Scutum a “petty epic
poem” (a possible derogatory translation of “epyllion”) in implied contrast
with the admired large epic poems of Homer. Finally, after the publication
of Wolf’s Scutum by Ranke in 1840, Wolf’s authority would have led other
scholars to adopt the word “epyllion.” Thus it would have spread in Ger-
man Classics, and from there to classical studies all over the world.
It is difficult to say whether the substance of this account is more right
or more wrong. It is certainly wrong in some crucial points: the word
“epyllion” occurs in scholarship before 1817, and scholars other than Wolf
used it before 1840. Wolf could still have played a weighty role in spread-
ing the term “epyllion,” but other scenarios are possible. Moreover, in
Most’s account there remains a striking gap between the attestation in
Wolf with its Hesiodic context and its seemingly pejorative connotation
on the one hand, and on the other hand the second attestation known so
far, in a contribution by Moriz Haupt thirty years or so later.7 For Haupt
uses “epyllion” in a neutral sense for a much admired poem, Catullus’ Car-
men 64 about the wedding of Peleus and Thetis. Haupt’s implied concept
of “epyllion” as an elegant short narrative in the Hellenistic vein is much
closer to our modern idea of the genre. How should we make sense of this
apparent difference between Wolf’s and Haupt’s view of “epyllion”? Was
Wolf’s authority strong enough for the term to be adopted, but too weak
to define its sense?
Now, it is true that such questions would have been difficult to address
on the slim material basis hitherto available. Wolf ’s use of the word “epyl-
lion” in the Scutum edition has remained the only piece of evidence for
the first half of the nineteenth century. My argument is based on a con-
siderably larger number of texts, and it is an analysis of this new material
which will lead me to my conclusions. I should like to start, however, with
an—if trivial—methodological consideration on how I have increased the
material.
In an ideal world I would perhaps have sifted through hundreds of
thousands of pages in editions, commentaries, monographs, papers, liter-
ary histories, and reviews. I could not have afforded a narrow focus, but
would have had to pay close attention to all manifestations of smaller
epic poetry from the Archaic period (with the Scutum being a known case
in point) through the Hellenistic period to late antiquity. This would no
7 Cf. Haupt (1855) 9–10 [= Haupt (1876) 75 and 77].

32 stefan tilg
doubt have cost me years of dedicated study just to identify a number

of—mostly passing—references to “epyllion.” From a scholarly point of
view, it would not matter so much that I would have gone mad over such
tedious and unrewarding work. The problem would rather be that my
approach would have been less than efficient. With so big a text corpus
and so little pointers as to where to look, the term “epyllion” hides like a
needle in a haystack. Surely if we wished to investigate its ancient uses
we would not go first to the library and start leafing in the classical texts.
We would use some form of scholarly aid, today typically a digital corpus
of texts. Is there a digital corpus of early scholarship as well? There is at
least something that can also be used as such, particularly for the period
in question. I am talking about Google’s large-scale project of digitizing
potentially all the world’s literary heritage, Google Books (<http://books.
google.com>). Most libraries participating in this project provide particu-
larly rich material from their nineteenth century—sometimes also eigh-
teenth century—collections because this material is out of copyright and
yet not old and valuable enough to forbid mass digitization. The fact that
prominent centres of classical studies such as Oxford, Harvard and Munich
are taking part in the digitization programme ensures a certain represen-
tativeness of the material. Google’s text recognition works very well even
with black-letter typefaces (a large part of the early literature relevant to
“epyllion” is in actual fact in black-letter). Clearly, searching Google Books8
cannot replace careful consideration of the material and other means of
research. It would have been impossible, for instance, to find on Google
Books what may be the first attestation of the word “epyllion,”9 written
in Greek letters (which so far escape electronic text recognition); and I
did not find any hint here at some self-declared “epyllia” from the Renais-
sance period (which I stumbled upon in various library catalogues). What
is more, Google Books is not a specialized academic tool and there is no
published information as to exactly which stocks have been digitized and
put online. New material could become available as the digitization progÂ�
resses, and this could of course change the picture painted in this paper
8 Two technical remarks might be helpful: 1) for efficiency one should use the advanced
search and set the time span desired, e.g. 1750–1850; 2) for various legal issues not settled to
date, users outside the U.S.A. may sometimes not be shown the actual text; in most cases,
however, the texts concerned have made their way into the Internet Archive (<http://
www.archive.org/index.php>), where they are accessible and searchable.
9 My attention was drawn to this passage by a later review; cf. the discussion below,
section 2.b).
(finished in March 2010). But this implies only what is a matter of course:
just as the studies referred to above, my own will probably not remain the
last word on the subject.
After this methodological excursus, back to the epyllion. What does the
new material offer? If we look at the whole early modern and modern
period until 1855 (the date of the attestation in Haupt, after which the story
of “epyllion” is better known), I have found a total of forty-three attesta-
tions of the word “epyllion” in different places (that is not accounting for
multiple uses of the word in the same publication).10 These attestations
fall into two distinct chronological groups, one from 1568–1604, another
from 1796–1855, with 1855 of course being just the chronological bound-
ary of my investigation, not the attestations. There would be no point in
running down the resulting list item for item—for readers interested in
the references not discussed at length I append a catalogue of attestations.
Rather, I arrange my material in five sections: a) the titles from the Renais-
sance; b) the first attestation in modern classical scholarship, dating from
1796; c) a German narrative poem published in 1818 called “epyllion”;
d) new evidence for Wolf’s concept of “epyllion”; e) a brief survey of the
bulk of the attestations from 1825–1855.
2. Analysis of the Material
2.a The Titles from the Renaissance

This group of attestations does not properly belong to an investigation
of the scholarly use of the term “epyllion.” The word is here employed by
poets to refer to their own work, not by literary critics to describe the sub-
ject of their study. In principle, such self-references could provide valu-
able hints at an implied idea of “epyllion.” It will become clear, however,
that the idea in this case is almost as ill-defined as that behind the various
uses of the word in antiquity. More than that, because of the ephemeral
nature of the texts in question, it is unlikely that they inspired the term
“epyllion” in later classical scholarship. For these reasons I restrict my dis-
cussion in this section to some basic observations.
We are dealing with a number of short occasional Latin poems from
the Renaissance which call themselves “epyllion” or—where a collection
10 Occurrences in ancient texts and glosses on these are omitted from this investigation.
34 stefan tilg
of poems is referred to—“epyllia” in their title.11 They are written in hex-

ameters or elegiac couplets, and range in length from a few lines to a few
pages. Out of eight examples found so far, seven clearly mark particular
events in real life: death (Finckelthauß 1568), conferment of academic
degrees (Strasburg 1590), public acknowledgment of allegiance (Alard
1593), Christmas festivities (Nymphae Bethlemides 1597), and marriage
(Maier 1589; Zuber 1599; Εὐκτικὰ ἐπύλλια 1604). Only one example, Bal-
thasar Crusius’ ᾿Επύλλιον ἑκατοντάστιχον of 1596, does not have an obvious
origin in real life. This poem is nevertheless a casual composition, consist-
ing of exactly 100 (as the title says) hexameters which amusingly describe
a magic and apparently allegorical mill. The non-narrative, laudatory,
and/or occasional character of all these poems separates them from later
ideas of “epyllion” as literary narrative. They seem to pick up loosely on
the use of the word in antiquity for a variety of shorter poems and add the
idea of spontaneous composition.
2.b The First Attestation in Classical Scholarship: K.D. Ilgen’s Edition of

the Homeric Hymns (1796)
On current evidence, the coinage of the term “epyllion” in classical schol-
arship does not stem from Friedrich August Wolf but from his contempo-
rary Karl David Ilgen (1763–1834).12 While Ilgen is mostly known as an Old
Testament scholar, his edition of the Homeric Hymns, published in Halle
in 1796, also earned him a reputation as a classical philologist. At the time
concerned, Ilgen was Professor of Oriental Languages at the University of
Jena—a fact which, incidentally, explains the dedication of his edition to
Goethe: Goethe was an official advisor in matters concerning the Univer-
sity of Jena, the state university of the Duchy of Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach,
where the poet was in residence. The relevant passage occurs in Ilgen’s
annotations to this edition. Just as Wolf does not refer to Hesiod’s poems
in general but to the Scutum in particular, Ilgen does not call all Homeric
hymns “epyllion” but only one, namely the long Hymn to Hermes. After a
summary of the hymn, Ilgen goes on to designate it as “epyllion” (in Greek
letters) and to compare it to Homer’s Iliad (p. 355):
11 Cf. the catalogue in the appendix. As my search was focussed on the German speak-
ing countries I expect that a number of further titles from other areas could be found.
12 On Ilgen cf. e.g. Kraft (1837); Naumann (1853); Kämmel (1881); Heyer (1954); Seidel
(1993).
Haec sunt fere, quae in hoc hymno pertractantur. Est verum ᾿Επύλλιον. Sicut
auctor Iliadis Mῆνιν ᾿Αχιλλῆος per carmen deducit, ita hymni auctor Δόλον
αἰπὺν (v. 66) ῾Ερμέω.
This is by and large what is dealt with in this hymn. It is, however, an “epyl-
lion.” Just as the author of the Iliad spins out the “wrath of Achilles” in his
song, the author of the hymn [spins out] the “sheer trickery” of Hermes.
Ilgen’s phrasing does not necessarily imply that this is indeed the first use
of the term in classical scholarship, but one could make an—admittedly
precarious and provisional—argument for this. First, the Greek letters in
which “epyllion” is written may indicate object language (as if the term
is in scare quotes) and/or an unfamiliar term, not yet adopted into the
critical idiom of Classics. It is true that Ilgen uses more Greek phrases in
this paragraph, but these are (free) quotations. And although the Renais-
sance titles often write “epyllion” in Greek letters,13 it is doubtful that
Ilgen read any of them. Second, the verum in Ilgen’s phrase could mean
‘but/however’ and thus contrast ᾿Επύλλιον with the preceding hymno (as
in the translation given above). In this reading, Ilgen could have coined
the term “epyllion” in an ad hoc contrast with the hymns genre, which
would involve at least some implied generic awareness of what an “epyl-
lion” is and would separate it from normal hymns—surely the Hymn to
Hermes with its lighthearted narrative and subversion of “epic” grandeur
would qualify fairly well for an “epyllion” even from our contemporary
perspective.14 This reading of verum is, however, not the only one pos-
sible. In fact it is difficult to decide on any particular translation of Ilgen’s
simple sentence Est verum ᾿Επύλλιον. Ilgen himself does not seem to use
the phrase est verum in any other place of his edition, and I have not been
able to find a single passage in classical Latin where est verum begins a
sentence. Another option is to read verum in the sense of ‘true’ (“it is a
true epyllion”), which would equally seem to take a notion of what an
“epyllion” is for granted. Finally there is a possibility that Ilgen’s verum
does neither contrast nor affirm anything in particular, but is just a weak
conjunction introducing a new idea.
Be this as it may, in the following sentences Ilgen accounts for the
choice of the term “epyllion” by a comparison of the Homeric hymn with
Homer’s epics. It emerges from these passages that Ilgen has a favourable
13 See catalogue nos. I. 1, 4, 5, 7, 8.

14 Cf. Crump’s (1931) 7–8 account of the Hymn to Hermes as a “romantic” piece. Note also
that this hymn comprising 580 lines is the longest in the corpus of the Homeric Hymns.
36 stefan tilg
idea of “epyllion,” far from the scorn suggested by Most for Wolf ’s view
of Hesiod’s “petty epic.” Ilgen rather asserts that the Hymn to Hermes is
in all significant respects as good as Homer’s epic poems. In particular
Ilgen compares Hermes’ ruse as the dominant motif of the narrative to
Achilles’ wrath as well as the graphic representation and the vivid char-
acter portrayals in both the author of the hymn and Homer. After that he
concludes by way of a summary (pp. 355–356):
Satis esto monere, omnia quae in carmine epico requiruntur, et quibus hoc
poeseos genus ab aliis distinguitur, in nostro hymno deprehendi.
Suffice it to say that everything which is required in an epic poem and by
which this genre of poetry is distinguished from others can also be found
in our hymn.
Ilgen, then, chooses the term “epyllion” not because of any differences
of the Hymn to Hermes from Homer’s epics, but precisely because of its
parallels with them—because it is itself a small epic. In addition, it can
be reasonably suspected that the cheerful tone of the Hymn to Hermes
played some part in Ilgen’s labelling it “epyllion.” While this issue is not
directly addressed in his annotations to the hymn, it is suggested by
another use of the term in Ilgen’s “index” (which is in fact a concordance
to the various editions of Homeric texts consulted by him): here we find
a division of the various Homeric poems into Hymni, Varia poematia and
Epyllium (p. 671), with the latter category being filled by a single item,
the Batrachomyomachia (whereas the Hymn to Hermes is here subsumed
under Hymni). Surely the lighthearted subject matter in both the Hymn
to Hermes and the Batrachomyomachia is the most striking characteristic
shared by these pieces. If Ilgen, however, deemed a certain comic trait
constitutive of “epyllion,” his idea of the form seems reminiscent of AtheÂ�
naeus’ use of “epyllion” for the ps.-Homeric Epikichlides (see introduction
above), and this ancient reference, despite being nowhere cited in Ilgen’s
edition, could therefore be seen as the fountainhead of modern thinking
about the genre “epyllion.”
So much for Ilgen’s edition of the Homeric Hymns. It remains to touch
on another attestation of the word “epyllion” closely related to Ilgen’s.
The term is picked up one year later by an anonymous reviewer of Ilgen’s
edition in the Neue Bibliothek der schönen Wissenschaften und der freyen
Künste 59 (1797). The fact that this happens exactly in the report of Ilgen’s
comparison of the Hymn to Hermes with Homer’s epics seems to suggest
that the reviewer did not know the term “epyllion” before and now only
employs it because it occurred in Ilgen’s discussion (p. 126):
In einer gelehrten Einleitung wird gezeigt, daß der Hymne15 alle Eigenschaf-
ten einer Epopöe, wie die Ilias, an sich trage, und der Inhalt dieses Epyllion
so angegeben.
In a learned introduction it is shown that the hymn has all the characteris-
tics of an epopee, and the content of this epyllion is thus indicated.
Then the reviewer turns to another point of Ilgen’s remarks, namely,
the linguistic difference between Homer and the author of the Hymn
to Hermes—according to Ilgen the only issue which forbids attributing
the hymn to Homer. I quote this passage from the review because it adds
further material to the characterization of the Hymn to Hermes as com-
edy, which seems relevant for a prehistory of the generic idea of “epyllion”
(pp. 126–127):
Der Verf[asser] . . . zieht auch das Resultat, daß der Hymne des Homer wür-
dig, ihm wenigstens nicht weit nachstehen würde, wenn sich nicht die Spra-
che so gar weit von der Homerischen entfernte . . . Indeß dächten wir, daß
das ganze Gedicht, auch außer der augenscheinlichen Verschiedenheit der
Sprache, einen Charakter und Anstrich habe, der nicht in das homerische
Zeitalter passe. Nicht allein ist in der Hauptfabel, die zum Grunde liegt,
etwas Komisches, sondern in der ganzen Ausführung sind so viele komi-
sche Züge angebracht, die kaum der Würde und dem Ernst der homerischen
Muse anstehen würden und eher auf ein Zeitalter hinweisen, wo das Komi-
sche ein Gegenstand der Dichtung wurde.
The author . . . also draws the conclusion that the hymn is worthy of Homer
or at least not much behind him, if the language were not so far away from
the Homeric one . . . However, we would like to think that the whole poem,
even apart from the obvious difference in language, has a character and
touch which does not conform to the Homeric age. Not only is there some-
thing comic in the underlying plot, but also in the whole execution there are
so many comic traits added which hardly suit the dignity and seriousness of
the Homeric Muse and rather point to an age in which comedy had become
a subject of poetry.
Both the identification of comic traits and the link with a post-Homeric
age are at least reminiscent of our idea of epyllion as playful subversion
of epic poetry. At the same time the reviewer does not appear to have a
particular generic idea of “epyllion” in mind. It remains unclear, therefore,
if this passage has really influenced the later generic concept in any way.
15 This is the word consistently used by the reviewer for the usual “Hymnos.”
38 stefan tilg
2.c A. Wagner’s Аppraisal of E. Schulze’s Die Bezauberte Rose (1817)

The gap of twenty years between the review of Ilgen’s edition of the
Homeric Hymns in 1797 and the next attestation of the word “epyllion” in
1817 may be filled sometime with further references. Even if it should turn
out, however, that the piece of evidence dealt with here is not in fact only
the third (or the second independent) occurrence of “epyllion” in mod-
ern scholarship, it is worthwhile looking into it since it provides us with
another way of conceptualizing “epyllion” in the early nineteenth century.
The text in question does not belong to classical but to German literature,
which would not have prevented it (as we shall see) from influencing the
discussion among classicists in the decades to come.
In April 1816 the publisher Friedrich Arnold Brockhaus, best known for
his encyclopaedic work, announced a prize competition in his yearbook
for literature, Urania.16 The participants were encouraged to write works
of middling length which were said to be underrepresented in German
literature. More specifically, the contributions should range in length
“between the long epic and dramatic representations and the small lyric
genres” (“zwischen den größern epischen und dramatischen Darstellungen
und den kleinen lyrischen Gattungen die Mitte haltend”). Three genres
were specifically suggested: the poetic narrative (“poetische Erzählung”),
the idyll (“Idylle”) and the poetic epistle (“poetische Epistel”). To give a
sense of orientation, Brockhaus referred to the model of Alexander Pope’s
The Rape of the Lock (1712) and An Essay on Man (1734). The former title, at
least, is regularly associated with “epyllion” in English literature studies,17
and with hindsight one could generally say that the terms of Brockhaus’
competition implicitly sketch an idea of epyllion not unfamiliar today.
Eventually the competition was won not by a poem in the enlightened
spirit of Alexander Pope but by a sentimental romance in verse, Ernst
Schulze’s (1789–1817) Die Bezauberte Rose (“The Enchanted Rose”), which
was submitted in the category of poetic narrative. The content of this
poem in 255 stanzas is not particularly relevant here: a fairy transforms
the heroine into a rose to protect her against various suitors; thanks to
the love and the literary art of the hero she is transformed back into a
human being and they live happily ever after. More important is the suc-
cess of Schulze’s work: not least because of the untimely deaths of himself
16 Printed in the preface to the 1817 issue.

17 Cf. e.g. Broich (1990) 6, 55, 137; Erlebach/Reitz/Stein (2004) 107.
and his heroine in real life, Die Bezauberte Rose became a bestseller in
Germany and at least for some decades a point of reference of literary
culture tout court.18 It seems very likely, therefore, that also classicists of
the time knew Die Bezauberte Rose.
Regarding our topic, it matters that one of the judges of the prize
competition, Adolph Wagner, described Schulze’s poem in an extended
appraisal, as, among other things, an “epyllion.”19 Wagner’s appraisal of
Die Bezauberte Rose appeared first in the Leipziger Kunstblatt für gebil-
dete Kunstfreunde 1817 (nos. 29–32; 11–18 November) and was reprinted as
afterword in all early book editions of Schulze’s poem. After a brief sum-
mary of the content, Wagner continues (no. 29, p. 12):
. . . so stellt sich das Gedicht als Epyllion oder Idyllion, oder, um gleich den
modernen Charakter der hervortretenden Subjectivität und der Fügung des
Schicksals in dieselbe, auszudrücken, als Mährchen dar.
It is difficult to ascertain how current the term “epyllion” really was at
this time. That it was unfamiliar to at least a larger reading audience is
suggested by two reviews of Wagner’s appraisal which refer to exactly
this passage and find particular interest in Wagner’s generic definition—
the reviewer of the Allgemeine Literatur-Zeitung 1819 even puts Wagner’s
“epyllion” in inverted commas.20 On the other hand, even today the word
“epyllion” would probably be in need of a definition if it occurred in a
publication aimed at non-classicists.
Another question is raised by Wagner’s association of “epyllion” with
“idyllion.” The context with its remarks on subjectivity and fairy-tales as
well as the ultimate reference to Schulze’s romantic poem make it unlikely
that “idyllion” in this passage only, or even primarily, relates to Theocri-
tus’ Idylls. Rather, Wagner thinks first and foremost of the recent Ger-
man tradition of idyllic bucolics in the idealizing vein of Salomon Geßner
(1730–1788). At the same time it must be kept in mind that Geßner him-
self and his contemporaries traced the modern idyll back to Theocritus
18 Ricklefs/Ricklefs (1991) 429 call it the “favourite book of the Biedermeier” (“LieblingsÂ�
buch des Biedermeier”). Die Bezauberte Rose was first printed in the 1818 issue of Urania,
pp. 1–91. The first separate edition came out in the same year, followed by numerous fur-
ther editions.
19 The Adolph Wagner concerned is most probably the uncle of Richard Wagner (whose
literary education owed a great deal to Adolph). Trained as a classicist—he published e.g.
studies on Euripides’ Alcestis—he mostly concerned himself with Italian and German lit-
erature later in his life. Cf. on Adolph Wagner e.g. Pökel (1882) 294; Langemeyer (1992).
20 Cf. catalogue nos. II. 4 and 5.
40 stefan tilg
and that they were not usually aware of any ruptures in the generic
tradition.21 In the phrase “Epyllion oder Idyllion,” then, Theocritus’ Idylls
was probably at least present to the mind of Wagner and his readers. This
granted, it is striking to see that Friedrich August Wolf gave a lecture on
Theocritus’ “idyllia et epyllia” (cf. below, section 4) in 1821, only four years
after Wagner’s appraisal. It is tempting to imagine Wolf as a reader of Die
Bezauberte Rose, adapting the young and still unstable term “epyllion” for
Theocritus studies. Similar juxtapositions of the “idyllic” and the “epyllic”
occur more often in subsequent scholarship on Hellenistic poetry.22
More generally, it is noteworthy that a certain generic overlap between
idyllic and epic poetry had emerged in German literature before and
struck readers particularly in Goethe’s hexameter narrative Hermann
und Dorothea of 1797. Goethe himself refers to this work in a letter as
“idyllisch-episches Gedicht,” and a number of literary critics of the early
eighteenth century devised similar generic descriptions.23 It may have
been this general uncertainty of form between idyll and epic which at
some point (perhaps as late as Wagner’s appraisal) prompted a use of
“epyllion” on the model of “eidyllion.”
To conclude my discussion of Wagner, it should be kept in mind that
he ultimately associates both “epyllion” and “idyllion” with fairy tales, the
latter term being used in a rather general sense. It here evokes a romantic
view of the world in which “subjectivity” (to pick up on Wagner’s expres-
sion) prevails. Classicists of the following decades, however, tended to
identify the Hellenistic period as an ancient equivalent to contemporary
romantic movements.24 It might be argued, therefore, that the idea of
an idyllic (and perhaps emphatically “Hellenistic”) epyllion in Classics is
generally indebted to Romanticism and that notions like the “epyllion” as
“subjective epic”25 owe something to Wagner’s appraisal. In any case it
21 Cf. e.g. Hentschel (1999); comparisons of Geßner with Theocritus can even be found
in dedicated discussions of the latter poet, e.g. Eichstädt (1794) 15.
22 Cf. catalogue nos. II. 20, 24 and 28.
23 See Goethe’s letter to Christian Körner on 20.7.1797, Weimarer Ausgabe IV, 12, 198; for
a piece of literary criticism cf. e.g. G.W.F. Hegel’s Vorlesungen über die Ästhetik (held 1817–
1829, published posthumously in 1835–1838), quoted after Vorlesungen über die Ästhetik 3,
Frankfurt a.M. 1970, 414: “Als naheliegendes Beispiel eines idyllischen Epos will ich nur
an die Luise von Voss sowie vor allem an Goethes Meisterwerk, Hermann und Dorothea,
erinnern.” I owe these references to Klaus Weimar’s paper read at the Zurich conference,
which will appear in a different place.
24 Cf. e.g. Pfeiffer (1955) 70–71; in fact, the idea of Alexandrianism as ancient Romanti-
cism comes up every now and then in Classics, cf. e.g. Ogle (1943).
25 Cf. catalogue no. II. 26.
seems to me that a romantic strain of thinking about “epyllion” has even-

tually contributed a great deal to our present idea of the genre, character-
ized as it is by a focus on sentiment and psychology.26
2.d New Εvidence for Wolf’s Concept of “Εpyllion” and His Role in

Spreading the Term
In my introduction I have expressed some reservations concerning the
idea that—on the sole basis of the Scutum edition posthumously edited
in 1840 by K.F. Ranke—the term “epyllion” in the title of Wolf ’s Adnota-
tiones comes from Wolf himself. This doubt can now be dispelled by an
examination of the manuscript of the Adnotationes in the State Library of
Berlin, where Wolf’s unpublished literary materials are preserved. Here
we read the title (no. VII.6 of the Wolf collection): Ad Scutum Herculis
epyllion Hesiodo subditum, Animadversiones, which turns out to have been
faithfully reproduced by Ranke in his edition of 1840. However, there is
another, so far completely neglected, piece of evidence for Wolf ’s familiar-
ity with the term “epyllion.” It can be found in the Index lectionum of the
University of Berlin for the summer semester 1821, in which Wolf gave a
lecture on Theocriti idyllia et epyllia.27 Unfortunately we do not get a fuller
idea of this lecture since no dedicated notes seem to be extant among
Wolf’s manuscripts. No. XI includes various papers regarding Theocritus,
Moschus, and Bion, which may have been used in the lecture, but I have
found no trace there of either term or concept of “epyllion.” Even so, it
is clear now that Wolf was not only familiar with the term around 1820
(when he was presumably also working on his Scutum edition), but that
he applied it to both the Archaic and the Hellenistic period. While the
lecture qua lecture supports Most’s claim that Wolf played a considerable
part in spreading the term “epyllion,” its content weakens his idea—based
on the ps.-Hesiodic context of the Scutum—of a pejorative notion behind
the coinage of this term. Rather, Wolf’s use of it for both Theocritus and
Ps.-Hesiod suggests that “epyllion” was by his time applicable to a broad
26 Cf. a related, if not identical, view of “epyllion” as “soft” in Sudhaus (1907) 476: “den
Epylliendichter, den Vertreter des weichen epischen Genres”; 503: “weichen Epyllienstil”;
504: “Vertreter der weichen epischen Stilart.”
27 Index lectionum (1821) 14: “F. A. Wolf . . . Privatim Theocriti idyllia et epyllia hor. II–
III. interpretabitur.” In the separately published German equivalent, the Verzeichniß der
Vorlesungen (1821), “epyllia” is paraphrased as “übrige Gedichte”: “Theokrits Idyllen und
übrige Gedichte erklärt Hr. Dr. Wolf, Ehrenmitglied der Akademie der Wissenschaften
privatim von 2–3 Uhr.” The quotation is under the heading “Philologie” of the unpaged
Verzeichniß.
42 stefan tilg
range of narrative poems without necessarily implying a value judgment.

Finally, it may be interesting to know that among Wolf ’s materials pre-
served in the Berlin State Library there is also a copy of Ilgen’s edition of
the Homeric Hymns, containing marginal notes by Wolf (no. VIII. 64).
These notes do not refer to “epyllion,” but they demonstrate that Wolf
studied Ilgen’s edition carefully and that he could easily have picked up
the term “epyllion” there.28
2.e Variety in the Attestations from 1825–1855 and K.O. Müller’s

Account of “Epyllien”
In 1825 Karl Otfried Müller (1797–1840) casually refers in a review of a Col-
luthus edition to the Rape of Helen as “epyllion,” as if everybody knew by
and large what was meant by that term.29 By this time, “epyllion” seems
to have been established in German classical studies, if not restricted to a
certain period of literary history or a very specific subgenre of shorter nar-
rative poems. In the following decades we see a considerable increase in
attestations: so far I have collected twenty-seven occurrences of “epyllion”
in different publications from 1825–1855. The range of the respective refer-
ences is surprising in view of our narrow, modern idea of “epyllion.” From
pre-Homeric songs to Colluthus’ late antique poem just about everything
which is relatively short, narrative and in hexameters (sometimes also in
elegiac couplets) is called “epyllion.” The variety of the references becomes
clear from some numbers. Fifteen attestations refer to the Archaic period,
that is to the smaller epic poetry of or attributed to Homer and Hesiod—
with Hesiod, however, entering the scene only from 1841 onwards (a point
which I discuss further at the end of this paragraph).30 Nine attestations
refer to the Hellenistic period, with Callimachus’ Hecale being the most
cited poem.31 Two attestations belong to late antiquity (Colluthus), one
to German literature (Goethe’s vampire story in stanzas, Die Braut von
Korinth of 1797) and another one to a Neo-Latin narrative about Martin
28 The two main pieces of evidence discussed in this section, the manuscript title of
Wolf ’s Adnotationes and his lecture on Theocritus, are referred to—albeit without indica-
tion of sources—in Wilhelm Körte’s biography of Wolf, published in 1833; cf. Körte (1833)
vol. 2, 270 for the Adnotationes; ibid. 218 for the lecture.
29 Müller (1825) 1545: “Das Epyllion des Koluthos.”
30 Catalogue nos. II. 8, 10, 14, 15, 16, 17, 23, 24, 25, 27, 29, 31, 32, 33, 35.
31 Catalogue nos. II. 12, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 24, 26, 28; cf. II, 13 (“epidia”).
Luther (1853). The exact period of the remaining reference is unclear, with
the options being the Archaic and the Hellenistic time.32
From a modern perspective it is remarkable not only that the references
to the Archaic period outnumber the Hellenistic references, but also that
it is this category of attestations into which falls the longest and most
elaborate definition of “epyllion” up to 1855 (and probably well beyond
this chronological limit of my investigation). The passages concerned
occur in Karl Otfried Müller’s Geschichte der griechischen Literatur, which
was published posthumously in 1841 and is easily the most successful his-
tory of ancient Greek literature in the nineteenth century.33 At the end of
the century it had appeared in four editions (4th edition 1882/83) and was
praised as late as 1921 by Wilamowitz as “not only the most readable, but
the only real history”—as opposed to the clumsy or too selective books of
Bernhardy (who also refers a number of times to “epyllion”) and Bergk.34
The significance of Müller’s account for the early history of “epyllion” and
the fact that it has escaped modern students of the genre calls for a longer
quotation. I take it from the English translation (1840), which was in fact
published a year before the posthumous German edition of 1841. Although
the term “epyllion” seems to have been fairly common in Germany at the
time, it was not yet adopted in English, which is why we read “smaller
epics” instead of the original “Epyllien” in the translation:35
An interesting kind [“Gattung” in the German text] of composition attrib-
uted to Hesiod are the smaller epics [“Epyllien”], in which not a whole series
of legends or a complicated story was described, but some separate event of
the Heroic Mythology, which usually consisted more in bright and cheerful
descriptions than in actions of a more elevated cast. Of this kind was the
marriage of Ceyx, the well-known Prince of Trachin, who was also allied
in close amity with Hercules; and a kindred subject, The Epithalamium of
Peleus and Thetis. We might also mention here the Descent of Theseus and
32 Catalogue nos. II. 7, 24 (late antiquity), 9 (German literature), 30 (Neo-Latin litera-

ture), 11 (unclear).
33 Cf. on Müller’s literary history Calder (1998); generally on Müller esp. Nickau (1989),
Unte/Rohlfing (1997) and Calder/Schlesier (1998).
34 Cf. Wilamowitz (1921) 57: “zuletzt die Literaturgeschichte . . ., die nicht nur die les-
barste, sondern allein eine wirkliche Geschichte ist.” For Bernhardy’s literary history see
catalogue no. II. 24.
35 Müller (1840) 98–99 and 102 (the corresponding passages in the original German
text of the 1841 edition are at 173–175 and 180). Müller produced his book first for the
British market, at the invitation of Sir George Cornewall Lewis (1806–1863), Chancellor of
the Exchequer and translator of August Boeckh. Lewis himself, aided by J.W. Donaldson,
undertook the translation of Müller’s literary history.
44 stefan tilg
Pirithous into the Infernal Regions, if this adventure of the two heroes was
not merely introductory, and a description of Hades in a religious spirit the
principal object of the poem. We shall best illustrate this kind of small epic
poems [“Epyllien”] by describing the one which has been preserved, viz., the
Shield of Hercules. This poem contains merely one adventure of Hercules, his
combat with the son of Ares, Cycnus, in the Temple of Apollo at Pagasae . . .
The entire class of these short epics [“Epyllien”] appears to be a remnant of
the style of the primitive bards, that of choosing separate points of heroic
history, in order to enliven an hour of the banquet, before longer composi-
tions had been formed from them.
. . . [I]t was usual to compose short epic poems [“kleinere Gedichte, Epyl-
lien”] from single adventures of the wandering hero [sc. Hercules]; and of
this kind, probably, was the “Taking of Oechalia,” which Homer, according
to a well-known tradition, is supposed to have left as a present to a person
joined to him by ties of hospitality, Creophylus of Samos, who appears to
have been the head of a Samian family of rhapsodists.
According to Müller’s definition, the epyllion deals with a single event
taken from heroic mythology and consists “more in bright and cheerful
descriptions than in actions of a more elevated cast”—the hexametric
form seems to be taken for granted and becomes obvious from the exam-
ples given. Such a definition is not a far cry from our modern idea of epyl-
lion as playful small epic narrative, and yet Müller refers exclusively to
Hesiodic and Homeric apocrypha. This does not necessarily mean, how-
ever, that he reserved the term “epyllion” for Archaic epic poetry. Müller
did not live to continue his literary history to the Hellenistic period and
beyond, but if he had, he would probably have applied “epyllion” to short
hexameter poems of later times, too—witness his reference to Colluthus’
Rape of Helen, cited above. The point is rather that “epyllion” was capa-
cious enough a term for Müller and his contemporaries to refer to a con-
tinuing tradition of small, especially “bright and cheerful,” epic poetry
from the beginning of Greek literature to its end in late antiquity. We can
observe the same inclusive use of “epyllion,” for instance, in Wolf, who
refers to both Ps.-Hesiod and Theocritus, and in Bernhardy, who employs
it for Hesiod, Ps.-Hesiod, Eratosthenes, and the late antique Soterichus.
The idea that the form “epyllion” would have only risen in the Hellenistic
period had not taken root yet, if it was existent at all. As far as the origin
of this form is concerned, it seems to have been natural to Müller and
many other scholars of his time to locate it in the smaller epic poetry of
the Archaic period.
As a concluding remark to this section I would like to add that it is
Müller’s extended account of “Epyllien” rather than Wolf ’s matter-of-fact
use of the term “epyllion” in the Scutum edition of 1840 which inspired a
number of further references of the term to Hesiod in subsequent schol-
arship. Both Müller and Wolf may have drawn on earlier discussions of
“epyllion” in a Hesiodic context, and there is a chance that Müller is actu-
ally indebted to his—however despised—teacher Wolf, whom he heard
during his studies in Berlin from 1816 to 1818.36 But this is all speculation,
not to be followed up here.
3. Conclusion
As it appears on present evidence, the original idea of “epyllion” in classi-

cal studies from the late eighteenth to the mid-nineteenth centuries was
more inclusive than our narrow definition today, based in large part on the
notion of a quintessentially “Hellenistic” form. Indeed, while Hellenistic
“epyllia” were well known, the origin of the genre was rather seen in small,
particularly lighthearted hexameter narratives of the Archaic period. This
is suggested on the one hand by what seems to be the first attestation
of the term “epyllion” in classical scholarship, K.D. Ilgen’s 1796 edition of
the Homeric Hymns, where it refers to the Hymn to Hermes as well as to
the Batrachomyomachia (which was then not dated as late as it is today),
and on the other hand by a comparatively large number of references to
Archaic epic poetry in the following decades, including the extended and
substantial definition of “epyllion” in the most read Greek literary history
of the nineteenth century, K.O. Müller’s Geschichte der griechischen LiteÂ�
ratur of 1841. References to Hellenistic “epyllia,” which occur somewhat
less frequently, may be indebted to a particular strain of Romantic literary
criticism, which promoted the ideas of the “idyllic” and of the subjective
perception of the world. This is at least hinted at by A. Wagner’s appraisal
of Die Bezauberte Rose and later references to “epyllion” in a similar vein.
It would need another study to show in detail how the restriction of
“epyllion” to the Hellenistic and later periods came about, but the out-
lines seem clear. A cursory look at the—better known—material from the
second half of the nineteenth century suggests that the term was more
and more used by Latinists, and especially to refer to Catullus 64.37 While
36 For Müller’s aversion to Wolf cf. the former’s letter of the period, printed in Reiter
(1950), I, 3; II, 1–2.
37 Cf. e.g. Reilly (1953/54) 111–112; Vessey (1970) 40; Wolff (1988) 301–303; Trimble in this
volume. Haupt (1855) seems to be the turning point in this development.
46 stefan tilg
there does not seem to be a single attestation for Latin “epyllia” up to

1855, the discussion in the second half of the nineteenth century brings
“neoteric” poems centre stage. This involves a focus on the Hellenistic
period in which the models of the Roman “neoterics” were produced;38 in
turn, the Archaic period more and more disappears from sight. Johannes
Heumann, who published the first monograph on the “epyllion” in 1904,
remarked even then that the use of the term was confusing because each
scholar gave it a different meaning.39 At the same time, Heumann’s own
definition of the genre (with the exclusion e.g. of hymns) and his sole
focus on the Alexandrian period led later scholars to believe—although
Heumann never stated this apodictically—that the epyllion was essen-
tially a Hellenistic phenomenon.40
To return to my initial thoughts on the present uncertainty as to the
genre “epyllion”: the history of scholarship cannot, of course, settle the
question whether the narrow concept of “epyllion” current today is use-
ful to contemporary literary criticism. The fact that the term was more
inclusive in its early history does not necessarily mean that the original
use is more correct than our modern definitions. On the other hand, the
fact that there seems to be little historical authority behind our restrictive
concept of “epyllion” invites us to rethink the seeming “Hellenistic” nature
of the genre and consider a more or less unbroken tradition of small epic
narrative in ancient Greece and Rome. Whether such a genre should have
a name like “epyllion” at all—which implies derivation from “epos”—is a
different question which would require more attention than these brief
remarks.41
38 Cf. Wilamowitz (1924) vol. 1, 117 n. 2: “Wie gewöhnlich ist auf die Griechen übertra-
gen, was man sich nach Ciris und Zmyrna als Epyllion zurechtmachte.”
39 Cf. Heumann (1904) 7: “Quodsi viri docti recentes verbo epyllii utuntur nullo exem-
plo antiquo nixi, apparet usum apud eos ancipitem esse, quia vim, quae e notione deduci
potest, i. e. quodlibet parvum carmen hexametris scriptum, contrahere solent suo quisque
iure.”
40 Cf. Allen (1940) 4.
41 Historically, it appears that small hexameter poems outnumbered large ones at all
times. Perhaps it would therefore be more correct to speak of “epics” and “large epics”
instead of “epyllia” and “epics”; cf. for this objection to the term “epyllion” already Wilam-
owitz (1924) vol. 1, 117 n. 2: “Mit dem [sc. the idea of a small epic] hätte auch ein Grieche
nie etwas anfangen können, sintemal das was die Modernen Einzellied nennen zu allen
Zeiten vorgeherrscht hatte . . .”; cf. also Petrovic in this volume.
Appendix: Catalogue of Attestations of the Word “Epyllion” (1568–1855)
I Titles of Poems from the Renaissance

1. Wolfgang Finckelthauß, ᾿Επύλλιον ἐπιτάφιον, hoc est, carmen sepulchrale
in obitum immaturum illustris ac generosi domini, D. Adolphi, comitis a
Nassau . . . in conflictu Brabantico fortiter occumbentis, Strasbourg 1568.
2. Augustin Maier, In nuptias Christophori Fuccari . . . Augustae Vindeli-
corum celebratas . . . epithalamium, et epyllia varia, Augsburg 1589.
3. Philipp Strasburg, Epyllia honori iuvenum quindecim, virtute, eruditione,
pietate, et morum elegantia ornatissimorum quibus una cum aliis decem
summus in artibus gradus publice decernebatur, Leipzig 1590.
4. Wilhelm Alard, Illustrissimo principi ac domino D. Ernesto duci Brunsve-
censium ac Luneburgensium, solennitate publica urbem ingredienti, cum
senatus populusque Luneburgicus in clientelam illius se conferret . . . debi-
tae summissionis & gratitudinis ergo scriptum ἐπύλλιον, Hamburg 1593.
5. Balthasar Crusius, ᾿Επύλλιον ἑκατοντάστιχον ἀινιγματῶδες, continens
ἔκφρασιν moletrinae ptisanariae antiquissimae, utilis & artificiosissimae
atque haereditariae, Wittenberg 1596.
6. Various authors, Nymphae Bethlemides Christo infantulo ob felix novi
anni auspicium ad praesepe genethlia epyllia modulantes, Olomouc 1597.
7. Matthaeus Zuber, Θαλαμήιον ἐπύλλιον in solennem celebritatem nup-
tiarum . . . domini Ioannis Casimiri, Ducis Saxoniae, Landgravii Thurin-
giae, Marggravii Misniae, &c. δευτέροις ὁμιλοῦντος γάμοις, cum . . . domina
Sibylla . . . domini Guilielmi, iunioris, ducis Brunsvicensis et Lunaeburgen-
sis, patris, laudatissimaeque matris Dorotheae, filia &c. Coburgi . . . cele-
bratarum, Jena 1599.
8. Various authors, Εὐκτικὰ ἐπύλλια festivitati nuptiali sacra quam vir cla-
rissimimus, Dn. Joh. Gaspar Grynaeus . . . cum virgine lectissima Marga-
retha . . . celebrat, Amberg 1604.
II Attestations in Early Classical Scholarship

1. Karl David Ilgen, Hymni Homerici cum reliquis carminibus minoribus
Homero tribui solitis et Batrachomyomachia, Halle 1796, 355: “Haec
sunt fere, quae in hoc hymno pertractantur. Est verum ᾿Επύλλιον.
Sicut auctor Iliadis Mῆνιν ᾿Αχιλλῆος per carmen deducit, ita hymni
auctor Δόλον αἰπὺν (v. 66) ῾Ερμέω . . .” · ibid. 671 (index): “Epyllium:
Batrachomyomachia.”
48 stefan tilg
2. Anonymous review of 1) in Neue Bibliothek der schönen Wissenschaf-

ten und der freyen Künste 59 (1797) 99–132, at 126: “In einer gelehr-
ten Einleitung wird gezeigt, daß der Hymne alle Eigenschaften einer
Epopöe, wie die Ilias, an sich trage, und der Inhalt dieses Epyllion so
angegeben . . .”
3. Adolph Wagner on Ernst Schulze’s Die bezauberte Rose, in Leipziger
Kunstblatt für gebildete Kunstfreunde 1817 (no. 29, p. 12): “so stellt sich
das Gedicht als Epyllion oder Idyllion, oder, um gleich den moder-
nen Charakter der hervortretenden Subjectivität und der Fügung des
Schicksals in dieselbe, auszudrücken, als Mährchen dar . . .”
4. Anonymous review of 3) in Allgemeine Literatur-Zeitung 1819, vol. 4,
81–93, at 86: “[d]as Ausführlichste, Geist- und Phantasievollste, was bis
jetzt über dieses reizende ‘Epyllion’ gesagt worden ist.”
5. Anonymous review of the 1820 edition of Schulze’s Bezauberte Rose
(cf. no. 3) in Morgenblatt für gebildete Stände 14 (1820) 261–263, at 263:
“Im lobrednerischen Anhange . . . wird unter andern das Gedicht ein
Epyllion und ein Idyllion genannt . . .”
6. Index lectionum quae auspiciis regis augustissimi Friderici Guilelmi
Tertii in universitate litteraria Berolinensi per semestre aestivum
MDCCCXXI a die XXIV. Aprilis usque ad diem I. Septembris instituen-
tur, Berlin 1821, 14: “F. A. Wolf . . . Theocriti idyllia et epyllia hor. II–III.
interpretabitur.”
7. Karl Otfried Müller, “Κολούθου ῾Ελένης ἁρπαγή: traduit en Français etc.
par A. Stanislas Julien, Paris 1823” (review), in: GGA 87 (1825) 1545–
1549, at 1545: “Das Epyllion des Koluthos . . .”
8. Gregor Wilhelm Nitzsch, Quaestio Homerica IV, sive indagandae per
Homeri Odysseam interpolationis praeparatio, Hannover 1828, 20: “Ipse
Wolfius satis cavit, ne quis quod incredibile est, fingat, quasi rhapsodi
easdem particulas nunc his nunc illis assuendo nova usque epyllia
condere potuerint.”
9. Christian August Lobeck, Aglaophamus sive de theologiae mysticae
Graecorum causis libri tres, Königsberg (today Kaliningrad) 1829, vol. 1,
236 n. b): “Ejusdem poetae [sc. Goethe] epyllion Die Braut von Corinth
e Phlegetontis Tralliani Mirabilium C. 1. derivatum.”
10. Gregor Wilhelm Nitzsch, “Odyssee,” in: Ersch and Gruber’s Allgemeine
Encyclopädie der Wissenschaften und Künste, Dritte Section, 1. Theil,
Leipzig 1830, 384–409, at 400: “Längst hatten Sänger, dem Phemios
und Demodokos der Odyssee ähnlich, in Äolien, welches die Pieri-
sche Poesie erbte, und auf den Inseln einzelne Heldensagen in klei-
nern Epyllien gesungen, als ein Homeros (der Name bezeichnet die
Kunstübung) die Ilias, und ein Homeros die Odyssee durch ihre Acte
hindurch zur Einheit gestalteten.”
11. Friedrich Gottlieb Welcker, Der epische Cyclus oder die Homerischen
Dichter, Bonn 1835, 255 n. 403: “Auch hätte eine Fabel wie die von den
drey Minyerinnen nur in späteren Zeiten den Gegenstand eines Epyl-
lion, aber nicht den Hauptinhalt eines alten Epos abgeben können.”
12. Friedrich Gottlieb Welcker, “Über die Perser des Aeschylus,” in: RhM
5 (1836) 204–249, at 238 n. 66: “Alexander Aetolos in seinem Epyllion
der Fischer b. Athen VII p. 296 e.”
13. Rudolph Merkel, P. Ovidius Naso. Tristium libri V et Ibis, Berlin 1837,
346: “Hinc primum nata sunt epidia illa breviora singulorum heroum
vel heroinarum, qualia Euphorionis sunt Arius, Hyacinthus, Philoete-
tes, Hippomedon, Alexandri Circe, ῾Αλιεύς, Theocriti 24 et 25, Moschi
2, 4, Callimachi Cydippe, Hecale, Galatea, Glaucus, Semele, Eratosthe-
nis Erigone, Nicandri Europa et Hyacinthus, Parthenii Iphiclus et Her-
cules.” · I add this passage because “epidia” seems to refer to the same
concept as “epyllia” and may even be some misspelling or misprint.
If not, this would be the sole attestation for “epidion” or “epidium”
in both ancient and modern Latin; and would it make sense, then, to
speak of illa (“those well-known”) epidia?
14. Gregor Wilhelm Nitzsch, Historia Homeri maximeque de scriptorum
carminum aetate meletemata, fasciculus posterior, Hannover 1837,
XI: “Reputare autem hoc loco attinet, id quod largus gentilium fabu-
larum proventus ipse persuadet, eodem aevo occulto, quo in Aeolide
belli Trojani actus varii singulis carminibus ornarentur, in aliis graece
loquentium terris poetas gentiles Thamyrae similes ea finxisse epyllia,
quae posteriore aetate interierint nisi quod aliquando aut epopoeis
aut genealogicis carminibus materiam praebuissent.” · ibid. XII: “illi-
bata manet poetae laus praecipua et felicitas, verum habuit et a qui-
bus ipse proficeret, et qui eum aemularentur; neque solitudo ista est,
si quidem quum Homerus Iliadem composuit et mox Odysseam (alter
fortasse), omnis Graeciae gentes variae suos habuerunt cantores, sua-
que epyllia gentilia, et in ipsa Homeri patria antiquiora ferebantur
carmina, quae partim jam majoris et ambitus et artis essent.” • ibid.
64 n.: “hunc igitur Homerum et ipse amplexus Welckerus de cyclo
p. 125–131 poetam nomen illud (des Zusammenfügers) ex ipsa arte inve-
nisse, qua epyllia vel fabulas sparsim a prioribus celebratas in unius
operis congruentiam comseruisset [!], fortiter contendit efficere.”
50 stefan tilg
15. Wilhelm Marckscheffel, Hesiodi, Eumeli, Cinaethonis, Asii et Carminis

Naupactii Fragmenta, Leipzig 1840, 144: “Et priorem [sc. Scuti par-
tem] quidem . . . e diversis partibus conflatam iudicauit Thierschius de
Hes. p. 28, v. 79–95 epyllium quoddam ab antiqua carminis formula
alienum existimans . . .” • F. Thiersch writes “kleines Epos” (cf. “Über
die Gedichte des Hesiodus, ihren Ursprung und Zusammenhang mit
denen des Homer,” in: Denkschriften der königlichen Akademie der
Wissenschaften zu München für das Jahr 1813, Munich 1814, 1–46, at 28).
16. Friedrich August Wolf, Hesiodi quod fertur Scutum Herculis, ex recogÂ�
nitione et cum animadversionibus Fr. Aug. Wolfii, ed. by K.F. Ranke,
Quedlinburg and Leipzig 1840, 67: “Friderici Augusti Wolfii ad Scutum
Herculis epyllion Hesiodo subditum animadversiones.” • Cf. more or
less the same heading in Körte (1833) vol. 2, 270: “Ad scutum Herc.,
epyllion Hesiodo subditum, animadverss.”
17. Karl Otfried Müller, Geschichte der griechischen Literatur bis auf das
Zeitalter Alexanders, Breslau (today Wrocław) 1841, 173–175: “Eine
interessante Gattung von Werken, welche dem Hesiod beigelegt wur-
den, sind noch die kleinen Epopöen, die man Epyllien nennen kann,
in denen nicht ein ganzer Sagenkreis oder eine besonders verflochtene
Begebenheit, sondern ein einzelnes Faktum der heroischen Mytholo-
gie behandelt wurde, das gewöhnlich mehr zu heitern und gemüth-
vollen Schilderungen als zur Darstellung einer erhabenen Handlung
Anlaß gab . . . Am meisten können wir uns eine Vorstellung von die-
ser Art von Epyllien machen nach dem einen, welches sich erhalten
hat, dem sogenannten Schild des Herakles. Dies Gedicht beschäftigt
sich bloß mit einem Abenteuer des Herakles, seinem Kampfe mit
dem Sohne des Ares, Kyknos, bei dem Heiligthume des Apollon zu
Pagasä. Denn daß die ersten 56 Verse bloß deswegen aus den Eöen
genommen und vorgesetzt worden sind, weil das Gedicht selbst ohne
eine Einleitung überliefert war, ist jedem Leser des Gedichts von
selbst klar; es besteht keine weiterer Zusammenhang zwischen die-
sen Stücken, als daß das erste die Herkunft des Helden angibt, von
dem das Epyllion alsdann ein einzelnes Abenteuer erzählt. Man hätte
eben so gut und wohl noch zweckmäßiger einen kleinen Hymnus auf
den Herakles vorsetzen können . . . Die ganze Klasse dieser Epyllien
erscheint wie ein Rest der ältesten Manier der Aöden einzelne Punkte
der Heroen-Geschichte herauszugreifen, um eine Stunde des Mahls
damit zu erheitern, bevor daraus größere Compositionen geschaffen
wurden.” • ibid. 181: “Andere Abtheilungen der Herakles-Sage hatten
in den Hesiodischen größern Poemen, den Eöen und Katalogen, und
kleinern Epyllien ihre Stelle gefunden . . .” • ibid. 360–361: “Wir ken-

nen noch die epischen Gegenstände, welche der Dichter von Himera
[sc. Stesichorus] . . . behandelte; sie haben große Aehnlichkeit mit den
Argumenten jener Epyllien aus der Hesiodischen Schule, von denen
wir oben gesprochen haben.” • Cf. the discussion in 2e) above.
18. Friedrich Gottlieb Welcker, Die Griechischen Tragödien mit Rücksicht
auf den epischen Cyclus, Bonn 1841, 1278: “An beiden Festen der Chari-
tesien siegten Trompeter, Herold, epischer Dichter und Rhapsode (der
vermuthlich das neue Epyllion vortrug), Aulet und Aulöde, Kitharist
und Kithröde . . .”
19. Gottfried Bernhardy, “Eratosthenes,” in: Ersch and Gruber’s Allgemeine
Encyclopädie der Wissenschaften und Künste, Erste Section, 36. Theil,
Leipzig 1842, 221–233, at 231: “Daneben stand vereinzelt das malerische
Epyllium ᾿Ηριγόνη, in Distichen abgefaßt und vielleicht als Vorläufer
des späteren Hermes zu betrachten.”
20. Friedrich Wilhelm Schneidewin, “August Meineke, Analecta Alexan-
drina sive commentationes de Euphorione Chalcidensi, Rhiano Cre-
tensi, Alexandro Aetolo, Parthenio Nicaeno, Berlin 1843” (review); in:
Zeitschrift für die Alterthumswissenschaft 10 (1843) 905–933, at 907:
“Das eigentiche Alexandrinische Epos darf man das idyllische nennen.
Als Normalgedicht dieser Art gilt uns Kallimachos liebliche Hekale,
ein beschaulich gemüthliches Epos wie ein Genrebild der niederländi-
schen Schule. Dahin rechnen wir ferner die Epyllien unter den Theo-
kriteischen Gedichten und Moschos Europa und Megara.”
21. J. (Johann Christian Jahn?), “Alphonsus Hecker, Commentationum
Callimachearum capita duo, Groningen 1842” (review), in: Neue Jahrbü-
cher für Philologie und Pädagogik 13 (1843) 220–222, at 222: “Angehängt
sind zuletzt noch allgemeine Betrachtungen über das Epyllion [sc. the
aforementioned Hecale] und die Hymnen des Kallimachos . . .”
22. Benigne E.C. Miller / Joseph A. Aubenas, Revue de bibliographie ana-
lytique 5 (1844) 663–665, at 665: “Sous forme d’appendice se trouvent
enfin des observations générales sur l’Epyllion et les hymnes de Calli-
maque . . . ” • apparently copied from no. 21.
23. Friedrich Gottlieb Welcker, “Stesichori Himerensis fragmenta, collegit
O. Fr. Kleine, Berlin 1828” (review), in: Kleine Schriften zur griechischen
Litteraturgeschichte, Bonn 1844, 148–219, at 154 n.: “Daß Stesichoros
der vorzüglich aus dem Troischen und Thebischen Kreise schöpfte,
im einzigen Kyknos den Hesiodischen Kyknos vor Augen hatte und
nennt, bestimmt uns nicht dessen Lyrik zunächst an Hesiodische
Epyllien anzuschließen (die in der Hesiodischen Poesie nicht gar viel
52 stefan tilg
bedeuten).” • The review was originally published in Jahrbücher für

Philologie und Pädagogik 9 (1829) 131–168 and 251–308; the footnote in
question, however, is an addition for the reprint in Kleine Schriften.
24. Gottfried Bernhardy, Grundriß der Griechischen Litteratur; mit einem
vergleichenden Überblick der Römischen, Zweiter Theil: Geschichte der
Griechischen Poesie, Halle 1845, 182 (on Pandora narratives in both
Works and Days [42–105] and Theogony [535–593]): “So bietet die
Folgerung, dass ein ehemals vollständiges aber noch frei stehendes
Epyllion von Pandora durch Diaskeuasten des Dichters [sc. Hesiodus]
in zwei Bilder zerstüÂ�ckelt wurde, den einfachsten Ausweg.” • ibid.
201 (on Ps.-Hesiodus’ The Marriage of Ceyx): “dass aber die Wendung
Plutarch’s Qu. Symp. VIII, 8, wo er eine überraschende Phrase des
Gedichts anführt . . . auf den Katalog und die Stellung des Epyllion in
demselben hinweise . . . ist mehr als zweifelhaft.” • ibid. 241 (on Soteri-
chus, epic poet of the third/fourth century AD): “wichtig ist aber schon
die Wahrnehmung eines Aegyptischen Epikers . . . und der Bassariken,
denen das Epyllion von Ariadne füglich als Anhang diente” • ibid.
259: “Coluthus aus Lykopolis . . . Verfasser mythologischer und histori-
scher Epen, ist jetzt nur aus einem Epyllium zu beurtheilen, ῾Αρπαγὴ
῾Ελένης in 392 Hexametern.” • ibid. 392–393: “[M]it gutem Sinne ver-
flochten sie [sc. the Hellenistic Elegiac poets] den mythischen Stoff in
idyllische Schilderungen oder Stilleben, so dass er ein Spiegel inner-
licher Stimmungen wurde . . . Diese sinnige Methode der elegischen
Kunst . . . wandte dem Eratosthenes wegen seines Epyllion Erigone die
Gunst der Leser zu . . .” • Cf. review in no. 27 below.
25. Moritz Wilhelm Heffter, Die Religion der Griechen und Römer, nach
historischen und philosophischen Grundsätzen für Lehrer und Lernende
jeglicher Art, Brandenburg 1845, 305: “Schon die beiden homerischen
Epopöen lassen . . . errathen, daß man gewohnt war, aus einzelnen
Abenteuern des viel umhergetriebenen Helden [sc. Hercules] kleinere
Gedichte, Epyllien, zu machen . . . Andere Abtheilungen der Herakles-
Sage hatten außer in den größern Gedichten von Hesiodus in den
Eöen und Katalogen und in kleinern Epyllien ihre Stelle gefunden . . .”
• draws heavily on no. 17, 180–181.
26. Wilhelm Hertzberg, “Die Elegie der Alexandriner,” in: Literarhistori-
sches Taschenbuch 4 (1846) 125–188, at 162: “Nichts Rhapsodisches,
worin die Fäden unvermerkt und zur beliebigen Erneuerung verlau-
fen, noch weniger Episoden sind hier am Ort . . . Nun ist es aber ohne
Weiteres klar, daß für ein so gestaltetes Epyllion die metrische Fas-
sung des Hexameters, selbst wenn er in der Weise des bukolischen

geschwächt und gebrochen ist, immer noch zu reich und prächtig
erscheint. Das subjective Epos, das halb nur noch Epos ist, verlangt
einen subjectiven Vers . . . Unter den antiken Metren ist aber keines,
das die Verschmelzung des subjectiven und objectiven Elementes so
genau bezeichnete, so passend demnach für das neue Epos wäre, als
das elegische Distichon.” • ibid. 178: “[A]lle vier Arten [sc. of themes
in Callimachus’ Aetia] verwoben sich in dem epischen Fortschritt der
Sagen, gerade wie bei Properz, zu concreten und in sich geschlossenen
Epyllien.”
27. Karl Ludwig Kayser, “G. Bernhardy, Grundriß der griechischen Lite-
ratur mit einem vergleichenden Ueberblick der römischen; Zweiter
Theil: Geschichte der griechischen Poesie, Halle 1845” (review), in:
Jahrbücher der Literatur 117 (1847) 30–58; 118 (1847), 117–144, at 42: “B.
vermuthet, ein ehemals vollständiges, aber noch freistehendes EpylÂ�
lion des Inhalts sei durch Diaskeuasten in zwei Bilder, hier [sc. in
the Works and Days] und in der Theogonie, zerstückelt worden.” • on
no. 24 above.
28. F.W.S. (Friedrich Wilhelm Schneidewin?), “Carmina Valerii Catonis
cum Augusti Ferdinandi Naekii annotationibus, Bonn 1847” (review),
in: GGA 110 (1848) 1126: “Kallimachos idyllisches Epyllion Hekale . . .”
29. Friedrich Gottlieb Welcker, Der epische Cyclus oder die Homerischen
Dichter, Zweiter Theil: Die Gedichte nach Inhalt und Composition, Bonn
1849, 422: “Epyllien aber sind aus diesen Schulen [sc. of Homeric rhap-
sodes], außer scherzhaften, nicht bekannt.”
30. Anonymous author, “Schulnachrichten,” in: Jahresbericht über das
Königl. Joachimsthalsche Gymnasium, Berlin 1853, 32–46, at 42: “Die
deutsche Rede, über Luther’s Bibelübersetzung, wurde von dem Pri-
maner Buchholtz, von den lateinischen Reden die eine, über den Ein-
fluss der Wiederbelebung der Wissenschaften auf die Reformation,
von dem Primaner Dühring, die zweite, welche in einem Epyllion über
Luther vor dem Reichstage zu Worms handelte, von dem damaligen
Obersecundaner Lucian Müller gehalten.”
31. Adolf Holm, “Ad Caroli Lachmanni exemplar de aliquot Iliadis car-
minum compositione quaeritur,” in: Einladung zu den . . . öffentlichen
Prüfungen und Redeübungen der Schüler des Catharineums in Lübeck,
Lübeck 1853, 1–24, at 10: “Jam diu intellexerunt viri docti, decimum
Iliadis librum non arcte cohaerere cum reliquis carminibus, sed epylÂ�
lion, ut ita dicam, esse, summa arte factum elaboratumque.” • ibid. 22:
54 stefan tilg
“Sicut autem in Τ libro μήνιδος ἀπόρρησις, ita in Σ clypei descriptio

epyllion constituere videtur, quod inter praestantissimas Iliadis partes
jure numerari possit.”
32. Georg Curtius, Andeutungen über den gegenwärtigen Stand der home-
rischen Frage, Vienna 1854, 43 [also in: Zeitschrift für die österreichi-
schen Gymnasien 5 (1854) 1–23 and 89–115, at 109]: “Vortrefflich sind
die sprachlichen Bemerkungen über das Buch K, das ja in jeder Bezie-
hung eine isolierte Stellung einnimmt. Hr. H[olm] nennt es . . . treffend
epyllion summa arte factum elaboratumque.” • quotes no. 31, 10.
33. Otto Jahn, Beschreibung der Vasensammlung König Ludwigs in der
Pinakothek zu München, Munich 1854, CLVI: “Endlich läuft um den
Fuss eine lebendige Darstellung des Kampfes der Pygmaien mit den
Kranichen, gewissermassen eine Parodie jener Heldenkämpfe, ihnen
beigesellt, wie man dem Homer neben den grossen Epopöen auch
scherzhafte Epyllien wie die Batrachomyomachie zuschrieb.” • on
the François Vase, today in Florence (Museo Archeologico Nazionale,
no. 4209).
34. Moriz Haupt, “Universitatis litterariae Fridericae Guilelmae Rector et
Senatus,” in: Index lectionum quae auspiciis regis augustissimi Friderici
Guilelmi Quarti in universitate litteraria Friderica Guilelma per semestre
aestivum . . . habebuntur, Berlin 1855, 3–19 [= “De Q. Valerii Catulli car-
mine LXIV et de fraudibus S. Bosii disputatio,” in: Opuscula II, Leipzig
1876, 67–89], at 9 [75]: “prolixiori carmini, non huic epyllio, convenire
ait Merkelius versum illum (24) quo poeta heroes adloquitur, vos ego
saepe meo vos carmine conpellabo.” • ibid. 10 [77]: “Carmen igitur illud
Catulli et integrum poema esse contendimus et non conversum ex
Graeco, sed factum imitatione epylliorum Alexandrinorum.” • for the
reference to Merkel cf. no. 13 above.
35. Adolf Schöll, Des Herodots Geschichte, Dritter Band, Buch VII–IX, Stutt-
gart 1855, 412 (on Ps.-Herodotus’ Life of Homer): “Des Biographen eigne
Aeußerung über das Epyllion XV [Homeric epigram 15], Cap. 33 E.,
es sei dasselbe an Neumonden zu singen viele Jahre in Samos üblich
gewesen, läßt schließen daß dies nicht mehr üblich gewesen . . .”
• ibid. 413: “Für uns sind es ein Paar verhältnißmäßig ältere unter den
Epyllia [= epigrams], so wie einige wenige anderwärts nicht gegebene
kleine Momente aus den Lokalsagen über Homer, was diesem Büch-
lein Werth gibt.” • ibid. 435–436 n. 45: “Unter den Epyllien welche die
Grammatiker als homerisch zusammengestellt haben kommt dies
Räthsel [Homeric epigram 16] auch . . . vor.”
Catullus 64:
the Perfect Epyllion?
Gail Trimble
It is clear that most scholars have at great length described characteristics

for these poems which fit, usually, only the Ciris and Catullus LXIV and not
much of anything else.1
This paper has grown out of a sense of unease with the word “epyllion”
rather like the one captured in this quotation from Walter Allen’s famous
article; it is a feeling that is particularly niggling to someone who works
on Catullus 64.2 After all, modern scholarly debate about the existence
and nature of a genre called “epyllion” is based on a group of texts, some
fully extant, some fragmentary, some known to us only by their titles. On
the periphery of this group are poems that are sometimes included in
the category of epyllion, sometimes ruled out, such as certain hymns and
narrative elegies.3 But at its centre are a few privileged examples, poems
of which many scholars would say “if anything is an epyllion, this is.” Lists
of epyllia must, it seems, include these texts, and any definition advanced
must somehow account for them. And the most important of them are
Callimachus’ Hecale and Catullus 64.
But it is Catullus 64 and not the Hecale that most people read, or at
least read first. There are various reasons for this, some practical and
unavoidable, some more deeply implicated in our educational practices
and systems of canon formation. Catullus 64 is extant, in Latin, and by a
poet who is a hugely important (and unique) witness for the sort of poetry
being written in his generation; chronologically Catullus stands near the
1 Allen (1940) 24.

2 I am writing a large-scale literary-philological commentary on Catullus 64, the first
part of which formed my doctoral thesis.
3 Gutzwiller (1981) includes in her study “Hellenistic narrative hymns in hexameters”
(6), with a chapter on Callimachus’ Hymn to Demeter; Theoc. 22 often features in lists
of epyllia, perhaps because it is better known as “Theocritus 22” than as “Hymn to the
Dioscuri.” Fantuzzi (1998a) claims that modern usage of “epyllion” usually includes elegiac
narratives.
56 gail trimble
beginning of the century that has always been seen as the core of Latin
literary history, and he is read in syllabuses with Cicero and Virgil. The
Hecale is fragmentary, with new fragments discovered in the twentieth
century. It is in Greek, and difficult Greek, and it is only Hellenistic any-
way; it is seen as a text for specialists. Even the most popular of fully
extant Hellenistic “epyllia,” such as Moschus’ Europa and certain poems
by Theocritus, are likely to be read much later than Catullus by students
of Classics; and among other texts defined more or less often as “epyllia,”
the Ciris and Culex, let alone Dracontius and Lactantius or Colluthus and
Triphiodorus, may never be reached at all.
I have therefore written this paper to investigate my initial worry that
we might have invented the genre of epyllion in the image of one impor-
tant, widely read, and perplexing Latin poem. It is not intended to be
a comprehensive survey of scholarly use of the word “epyllion” over the
past 150 years, although I hope to identify some interesting strands, and
I believe that since, as we all happily admit, we know of no Greeks or
Romans who applied the label “epyllion” to our privileged group of texts,
any study of epyllion has to be a study of the modern use of the word. I
will not propose a definition of “epyllion,” nor produce a list of the poems
I would include. More importantly, although my anxiety to some extent
resembles Allen’s, I do not intend, as he does, to be prescriptive, demand-
ing that we should stop calling anything an epyllion. Allen’s acerbic, exas-
perated tones have resounded down the decades since the publication of
his initial article in 1940;4 the authors of books, articles, and dictionary
entries about epyllion all seem to feel that they should at least acknowl-
edge his critique.5 But his argument has many limitations: for instance, he
rather arbitrarily excludes at the outset the evidence of fragmentary texts
and attestations,6 he is enough of his time to feel that he has to account
for the quarrel between Callimachus and Apollonius,7 and many of his
readers would not accept (and have not accepted) his central contention
that since no single set of characteristics can be shown to characterise all
extant epyllia and nothing else, there is no group that it is legitimate to
4 See also the still more polemically titled Allen (1958): “The Non-Existent Classical
Epyllion.”
5 I will discuss some of these works in section VI.
6 Allen (1940) 1 n. 1: “I shall disregard the poems of which we have only the names or
small fragments.”
7 Allen (1940) 6–12; while dubious about the traditional accounts, Allen believes that
the Aetia prologue demonstrates that there was a real quarrel between Callimachus and
somebody.
catullus 64: the perfect epyllion? 57
call by the convenient name. However, Allen’s aim of increasing scholarly

self-awareness of the ways in which “epyllion” is used remains valid and
important, and is worth renewing.
In this paper, therefore, I will examine selected areas of scholarship in
order to trace how they are affected by the close relationship between
Catullus 64 and the pervasive general idea of the epyllion. This focus
comes partly, of course, from my own specialism, but I hope it is also jus-
tified by the fact that the shift in modern usage of the term “epyllion” from
Greek poems of all periods to the now prevalent “Hellenistic and Roman”
conception8 appears from the currently available evidence to have been
inaugurated by a piece by Haupt whose subject is Catullus 64.9 Wolff ’s
excellent account of the diffusion of the word through nineteenth-century
scholarship is organised by nationality, describing a spread from Germany
into Britain, France, Italy and beyond,10 but it also shows how certain
fields of ancient literature quickly became marked out as places where
“epyllion” could be a useful addition to scholarly vocabulary. Haupt had
already referred to 64 against its Hellenistic and “neoteric” background;11
Wolff cites further work on Hellenistic poetry, especially Theocritus, and
the “lost neoteric epyllia,” as well as cases where the word is used to dis-
cuss late-antique Latin, poems from the Appendix Vergiliana, and Ovid’s
Metamorphoses. But throughout Wolff’s survey, it is scholarship on Catul-
lus that keeps recurring.12 In what follows I will look at work from various
scholarly genres whose main focus is either Catullus (section II), Helle-
nistic poetry (section III), the “neoterics” (section IV), aspects of Virgil and
Ovid (section V), or “the epyllion” itself (section VI), and I will analyse par-
ticular examples from the nineteenth, twentieth and twenty-first centuries
8 See, in detail, Tilg in this volume.

9 Haupt (1855), labelled in the contents page to Haupt (1876) as “de Catulli carmine
LXIV; de fraudibus S. Bosii.” Before the publication of Most (1982), Haupt’s lecture was
often cited as the first attestation of the word “epyllion” in modern scholarship. (In this
tendency, Reilly [1953/54] 111 may have been influential: “[t]he earliest instance I have
been able to recover”; cf. e.g. Fordyce [1961] 272: “it was first used by Haupt in a lecture on
this poem, in 1855.”) Most (1982) pointed to a chapter title in Ranke’s 1840 edition of Wolf’s
animadversiones on the Hesiodic Scutum (Wolf/Ranke [1840] 67); Tilg in this volume finds
many more German attestations from the first half of the nineteenth century, especially
in the period after 1825. However, Tilg’s research suggests that Haupt may have been the
first to apply the term to a Latin poem (Tilg in this volume, p. 31).
10 Wolff (1988), improving on Reilly (1953/54) and covering the period from Haupt to
the dissertations of Heumann (1904) and May (1910), the first surveys of epyllion.
11 Haupt (1855) 75, 77; see below, section II.
12 Wolff mentions Müller (1861), Riese (1866), Ellis (1876), Munro (1878), Baehrens
(1885), Schmidt (1887), and Casasús (1904).
58 gail trimble
to see what assumptions about epyllion and about Catullus 64 they use
as they interpret, judge or reconstruct their ancient texts. I will be asking
whether it might ever be fair to say that our working definition of “epyl-
lion” is in fact “a poem that reminds its readers of Catullus 64.”
II
The word epyllion seems to have been brought into currency to describe
poem 64 of Catullus; but this remarkable work certainly cannot be
“explained” by the production of a label.13
Fantuzzi’s DNP article describes Haupt as the first to use “epyllion” in a
value-neutral sense, in contrast to the pejorative usage of ancient authors
and of Wolf.14 But the overall argument of Haupt’s article is anything but
value-neutral: it is passionately partisan. According to Haupt, 64 is the
most successful Roman imitation of Alexandrian poetry (“est sane carmen
illud Catulli praeclarum atque admirabile, neque ullum umquam poetam
Romanum Alexandrinam poesin felicius imitatum esse putamus”);15 logi-
cal slips, such as Theseus’ ship being visible in a tapestry belonging to
an Argonaut when the Argo itself has been said to be the first ship,16
are quickly forgotten by readers “dum dulcissimi carminis varietatem
secuntur.”17 The opening of the poem is “magnificos illos versus,” the epi-
logue is “praeclaris versibus,”18 and so on. One of Haupt’s explicit concerns
is to defend the “laus” of this glorious work against those such as Merkel,
who would see it as a translation of a Greek original, and perhaps also as
part of a longer poem,19 and it is in this connection that Haupt uses “epyl-
lion.” On p. 9 the force of the diminutive is felt as Haupt contrasts “huic
epyllio” with Merkel’s imagined “prolixiori carmini”; in the longer passage
on pp. 10–11 the word is used to evoke an Alexandrian genre and a neot-
eric one as Haupt argues that 64 is “et integrum poema . . . et non conver-
sum ex Graeco, sed factum imitatione epylliorum Alexandrinorum” and
that at the same time as Catullus “complures . . . poetae Alexandrinorum
13 Vessey (1970) 40.

14 Fantuzzi (1998a); cf. Most (1982).
15 Haupt (1855) 7.
16 Catullus 64.11, 53; for important recent assessments of this chronological inconsis-
tency see O’Hara (2007) 33–54 and Feeney (2007) 123–127.
17 Haupt (1855) 8.
18 Haupt (1855) 9.
19 Merkel (1837) 360.
rationem atque consuetudinem epylliis expresserunt.” Haupt mentions

Cinna’s Smyrna and Calvus’ Io, but gives no examples of the Alexandrian
epyllia that he claims Catullus was imitating. For Haupt, then, labelling
64 “epyllion” is a way of defending it and making it comprehensible by
declaring that it is comparable to contemporary neoteric poems—albeit
lost—and Hellenistic models—albeit unspecified.
The unity and originality which Haupt was concerned to defend have
continued to be important themes in the criticism of 64. They neces-
sarily have various points of contact with each other. The form of the
poem, with its two stories nested one inside the other, lack of obvious
thematic links between the two, and unexpected twists and turns of nar-
rative in both, invites on the one hand arguments for how less obvious
connections and parallelisms nevertheless make this one unified work of
art20 and therefore the original masterpiece of a great poet, and on the
other hand assertions that Catullus was translating either one Alexan-
drian poem (so that the responsibility for the perceived lack of unity is
shifted to a predecessor) or two (so that neither originality nor unity is to
be expected). The best-known contributions to this debate date from the
later nineteenth to the mid-twentieth century. Riese’s argument that the
reworking of Callim. fr. 732 Pf. in line 111 of 64 meant that the whole poem
was a translation of an unknown poem of Callimachus was so thoroughly
refuted by Schulze that Riese himself abandoned the idea in his 1884 edi-
tion of Catullus.21 However, in the 1920s and 1930s Wilamowitz and, at
greater length, Perrotta were still using much of the same evidence—
lines in 64 showing creative imitation of other Greek and Latin poets—to
argue against Reitzenstein’s contention that the “Greek original” was a
poem in honour of the marriage of a Hellenistic monarch, or Pasquali’s
argument that Catullus had used a Roman object, the puluinar, to unite
translations of two Greek poems, one on Peleus and Thetis and one on
the abandonment of Ariadne.22 More recently, Lefèvre has put forward
the suggestion that while it is not a translation, Catullus 64 does combine
imitations of two identifiable Alexandrian models, a “Peleus-Gedicht” and
a “Theseus-Gedicht.”23 In none of this scholarship, however, does the con-
cept of “epyllion” form as important a part of the argument as it did for
20 See esp. Klingner (1956).

21 Riese (1866), Schulze (1882) 208–214, Riese (1884); the original of line 111 seems likely
to come from the Hecale, as Haupt (1876) 81 had already proposed.
22 Wilamowitz (1924) 298–304; Perrotta (1931); Reitzenstein (1900); Pasquali (1920).
23 Lefèvre (2000).
60 gail trimble
Haupt. It is only Lafaye’s work on Catullus and his models that argues,
along Hauptian lines, that 64 is not a translation but an epyllion, yet not
a translation of an epyllion.24
On the other hand, the idea of “epyllion” has sometimes been used not
to defend 64 but to attack it. As might be expected, this is done in general
terms by critics to whom Catullus is an inspired writer of brief, simple,
and heartfelt lyrics, and for whom anything long, complex, or Alexandrian
is by definition a failure. Havelock’s The Lyric Genius of Catullus even uses
“epyllion” to excoriate poem 68:
Then there are the three versified epistles (65, 68a, 68b) addressed to friends.
Each of them considered as a whole is a complete failure, lacking unity
and even emotional direction, but each contains a few remarkable pas-
sages, either bursts of self-revelation written with direct sincerity or purple
patches of spasmodic beauty. The last of the three, the Epistle to Allius, tries
to impose on the epistolary style the structure of an epic romance and turn
the poem into a “little epic” (epyllion). Never was there such a dismal failure
of form to master matter . . . This brings us to his one whole-hearted essay
in the epic style—the famous Peleus and Thetis (64), an epyllion in what
is recognized as the Alexandrian manner . . . Again the epic construction
breaks down. The poem is read for the emotional episodes and semi-lyrical
passages that it contains . . . These are strung together with a minimum of
hasty narrative into an ill-assorted series.25
Whatever other terms scholars apply to 68, it is not usually called an epyl-
lion. Havelock’s words “epic romance” may mean that he is thinking of
Protesilaus and Laodamia; but the emphasis of the rest of the passage
implies that to Havelock an “epyllion” is “a long, complicated, failed poem
by Catullus, like 64.”
A more surprising way in which “epyllion” is used to attack 64 is found
in Cova’s approach to the composition or structure of the poem. Cova
identifies the episode of Ariadne in 64 as a complete epyllion in itself, to
be compared to the Smyrna, Io, Ciris, Dictynna and Catullus’ own Attis.26
My initial question in this paper therefore finds an unexpected answer
in Cova’s work: here is a scholar who uses general characterisations of
“epyllion,” themselves partly derived from 64,27 to show that Catullus 64
24 Lafaye (1894) 139–156.

25 Havelock (1939) 77.
26 Cova (1949) 715.
27 For instance, the words of Lafaye quoted by Cova (1949) 715 are used in Lafaye’s book
to characterise Hellenistic epyllia in order to show how Catullus 64 could be understood
as belonging to the same genre (Lafaye [1894] 140): “un épisode détaché d’un ancien cycle,
en le rajeunissant par des détails assemblés avec un art raffiné.”
as it stands is not an epyllion at all. This is also the opposite of Hauptian

arguments for unity: for Cova the Ariadne story is an epyllion and “il c. 64,
di conseguenza, non costituisce un canto unitario.”28
The type of scholarship on 64 where “epyllion” most frequently fea-
tures, however, is that which has to explain to a reader of Catullus how
this particular poem is to be approached and understood. I would like
to look briefly at two scholarly genres which face this task: commentar-
ies and introductory or survey studies. In both, by far the most common
approach is to situate the poem by calling it an epyllion and then by
mentioning two further things: that other poets known to Catullus were
writing similar poems, now lost, and that in doing so they were imitating
Hellenistic writers. This set of statements does not always come first—for
instance, Ellis’ commentary on 64, one of the first works to introduce the
word “epyllion” into English scholarship, begins with Peleus and Thetis
in other ancient poetry, while Hurley’s recent introduction begins with
modern critical reception of the poem—and it may be combined with
other introductory comments rather than standing alone.29 But it is
usually there, in surveys from Sellar’s high Victorian The Roman Poets
of the Republic to Hurley’s book,30 and in commentaries from Baehrens
to Thomson.31 Most authors of these accounts point out that the term
“epyllion” is modern,32 but many go on using it anyway, while those
who have had to mention it so that they can explicitly forswear it have
themselves perpetuated its use;33 even Syndikus, who manages not to say
“epyllion” at all, uses the term “Kleinepos” (notably not “kleines Epos”) to
give an otherwise conventional account, with the neoterics and Alexan-
drians both in place.34
28 Cova (1949) 717.

29 Ellis (1876) 278–283, Hurley (2004) 96–98.
30 Sellar’s first edition (1863) calls 64 “an epic ‘episode,’ or rather . . . an antique ‘idyll’ in
the true and original sense of that word” (370); by his second edition of 1881, in which “the
chapter on Catullus has been re-written and enlarged, and the views formerly expressed
in it have been modified” (preface, vii) he has read Ellis, and can declare (448): “The form
of art to which it belongs is the ‘Epyllion’ or heroic idyl.” Sellar is not mentioned by Wolff
(1988).
31 Baehrens (1885) 11, Thomson (1997) 387–388; cf. Godwin (1995) 132.
32 So most succinctly Kroll (1923) 140.
33 This is the effect, I think, of Fordyce (1961) 272, who in the main text calls the poem
“Catullus’ own experiment in the form which he admired in the Zmyrna of his friend
Cinna . . . a narrative poem in the ‘new’ style, strongly influenced by Alexandrian tech-
nique,” and puts into a footnote a fairly lengthy discussion of “the quasi-technical term
epyllion.”
34 Syndikus (1990) 100–103.
62 gail trimble
Essentially, then, in these two areas of scholarship on Catullus 64

“epyllion” is a word which does the same job as it did for Haupt, though
with a rather less defensive tone. I have found one interesting exception.
Martin’s introductory book points out that the name “epyllion” raises
expectations of epic as well as smallness: “If we look in it for what we
look for in epic—a fable of central importance to our culture, the actions
and passions of heroic or moral role models, or just a good, long read—
poem 64 will be a disappointment.”35 But, generally speaking, “epyllion”
is used to introduce 64 by anchoring it to two briefly characterised liter-
ary forms, “Hellenistic epyllion” and “neoteric epyllion.” The equivalent
note in Quinn’s commentary adds a third, “epyllia incorporated in larger
works,” notably Virgil’s fourth Georgic and Ovid’s Metamorphoses.36 I will
now turn to scholarship on these three kinds of “epyllia” to look for any
reciprocal traces of Catullus 64.
III
[O]n cherchait quelque chose qui pût caractériser ce poème, qui n’entre pas
dans les catégories alexandrines connues.37
An examination of the part played by Catullus 64 in work on Hellenis-
tic “epyllia” could of course form part of a larger study of how an aware-
ness of Roman poetry in general affects what is written about Hellenistic
“predecessors,” particularly where genre is at stake. Not all scholars are as
upfront about their own interests and intellectual histories as Couat, who
writes in the first sentence of the preface to his book on Hellenistic poetry:
“It was while reading Catullus that I conceived the idea of writing this
book; from the Latin poetry of the age of Caesar and Augustus I found my
way back to the Greek poetry of the age of the Ptolemies.”38 But there is
35 Martin (1992) 152. There is plenty of work on 64 which emphasises its links with epic
(e.g. Thomas [1982], Zetzel [1983] and Grilli [1994] on Ennius, Stoevesandt [1994/95] on
Homer, and a great deal on Apollonius, of which DeBrohun [2007] makes the most of the
specifically “epic” angle), but it is rare to find this approach in such introductory discus-
sions, especially via the word “epyllion.” Cf., however, articles or chapters on 64 which
need to justify their inclusion within books on (Roman) epic: Konstan (1993) 59, O’Hara
(2007) 33–34.
36 Quinn (1970) 297; he also, unusually, adds episodes from the Aeneid (“that of Cacus
in A. 8 and that of Nisus and Euryalus in A. 9 . . . cf. also such tours de force as the episode
of the ships turned into nymphs in A. 10”).
37 Boucher (1956) 191.
38 Couat (1882) v; translation from Couat (1931) xi.
a strong tradition of concluding books that survey Hellenistic poetry with

a chapter on the Romans, in which Catullus tends to feature largely.39 It
would be fascinating to conduct an objective investigation into whether
the authors of these books really study Hellenistic poetry on its own terms
first and then apply their conclusions to Latin texts, or whether the Latin
is always already present in the way they see the Greek. Unfortunately,
such objectivity is probably impossible, and certainly so for a Latinist like
me who is currently steeped in Catullus 64. From my own, inescapable
position, however, I will continue for the moment.
Scholarship on the epyllion has frequently become involved with
all sorts of assumptions about Hellenistic poetry, epic, and smallness,40
which I will not discuss in detail here; Cameron’s Callimachus and His
Critics of course provides a full and refreshing reassessment of all these
issues.41 However, it is worth noting how potent the metaphor of “small-
ness” is when discussing Hellenistic poetry, following the way that images
of slenderness and purity are already associated with the ἔπος τυτθόν (“lit-
tle epos”)42 in Callimachus’ Aetia prologue itself.43 Cruttwell’s Victorian
textbook, which contains an early British use of “epyllion,”44 quotes on the
same page Callimachus’ μέγα βιβλίον μέγα κακόν (“a big book is a big evil”)
and calls it “characteristic . . . of his narrow mind.”45 The first paragraph
of Couat’s chapter on the Hecale associates short poems with “a less lofty
tone” and the “low” social status of their characters.46 It is easy to see how
the diminutive term “epyllion” fits into this kind of discourse.
39 Wilamowitz (1924) has a chapter on Catullus (its title is “Catulls hellenistische

GeÂ�dichte”) and one on the Copa; Hutchinson (1988) and Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004) include
more general surveys of the Hellenistic influence on Roman poetry. Cameron (1995) dis-
cusses only “Vergil and the Augustan recusatio,” but his contents page follows the same
pattern. D’Agostino (1956) does the same thing in article form.
40 We have already come across the “quarrel between Callimachus and Apollonius”
(p. 56 and n. 7 above).
41 Cameron (1995).
42 All translations of quoted Greek and Latin are my own.
43 Callim. fr. 1 Pf.
44 Cruttwell (1877) n. 1: “᾿Επύλλια, or miniature epics, in one, two or three books.”
45 Cruttwell (1877) 218 (emphasis mine). Like many others, Cruttwell quotes the tag in
its simplified form; it is derived from Callim. fr. 465 Pf. (Athenaeus): ὅτι Καλλίμαχος ὁ γραμÂ�
ματικὸς τὸ μέγα βιβλίον ἴσον ἔλεγεν εἶναι τῷ μεγάλῳ κακῷ.
46 Couat (1882) 356: “des récits de courte haleine, d’un ton moins haut, dont les
héros seraient toujours ceux de la fable, mais diminués et ramenés aux proportions de
l’humanité.”
64 gail trimble
There is, however, another diminutive that was already available:

εἰδύλλιον.47 For Wilamowitz, suspicious of “epyllion” because of its lack
of ancient attestations in the sense of “short epic,”48 “Epos und Eidyllion”
is the appropriate chapter title, and there is an incidental reference to
“[d]as Eidyllion Hekale.”49 Partly because of the availability of εἰδύλλιον and
“idyll,” partly because of the equally controversial issues of how to define
“bucolic” and/or “pastoral,” but mostly, I suspect, because of the desire to
explain their author’s work as a corpus and to look for common themes
among his various hexameter works,50 books about Theocritus do not
tend to use “epyllion.”51 Halperin’s book contains a wide-ranging account
of the varied ways in which ἔπος was used in the ancient world which is
fascinating to anyone interested in epyllion, but does not itself discuss
the issue.52 The word “epyllion” is much more prevalent, on the other
hand, in scholarship on the Hecale: Cameron’s chapter title is “Hecale and
epyllion,”53 and the idea of “epyllion” and the Hecale are respectively the
subjects of the first two major sections in Fantuzzi/Hunter’s chapter “Epic
in a minor key”.54 Here we can see Catullus 64 affecting reconstructions
and readings of Hellenistic epyllion, since when trying to characterise a
fragmentary poem it seems more acceptable to look for evidence in later
poetry which may have imitated it. The Catullan scholars who project a
Hellenistic model which Catullus might be translating or closely imitating
veer towards creating a Hellenistic epyllion that would have been more
like Catullus 64 than any of the Hellenistic epyllia that we actually have:55
clearly it would be possible for the fragmentary Hecale to be reconstructed
in a Catullan image too.
This does not happen all the time: Cameron, for instance, is concerned
to show how different the Hecale is from all other “epyllia,” especially
those in Latin.56 But where it does, it happens in two main ways. The first
concerns the story of Erichthonius told by the crow in frs. 70–73 Hollis.
47 See further Tilg in this volume, pp. 38–41.

48 Wilamowitz (1924) 117 n. 2.
49 Wilamowitz (1924) 184.
50 On all these issues cf. Masciadri in this volume, pp. 6–11.
51 For instance, it is absent from the commentaries of Gow (21952b) and Dover (1971),
and appears only once in Hunter (1999), at 262, though that is in relation to Theoc. 13, the
only one of the Theocritean “epyllia” that Hunter includes.
52 Halperin (1983) 193–216.
53 Cameron (1995) 437.
54 Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004) 191–200.
55 See above, n. 21 and n. 22.
56 Cameron (1995) 437–453.
This is undoubtedly a formal digression, a story separate from the tale of

Theseus and Hecale and introduced by a transparently artificial device.
But to someone with Catullus 64 in mind, “digression” becomes a loaded
term,57 and the crow’s speech is flagged as a possible explanatory model
for “digressions” in “later epyllia” not only by, e.g., Wilkinson when writ-
ing about Ovid,58 but also by Hollis in his edition of the Hecale itself.59
Yet this is despite the fact that this speech comprised probably less than
a hundred lines and is unmentioned by the Diegesis of the poem,60 so
that there is no reason to believe that its contribution to the overall effect
of the Hecale was comparable to that made by the Ariadne ecphrasis in
Catullus 64. The second way in which 64 and the idea of “epyllion” influ-
ence perception of the Hecale is more pervasive: it is simply a desire to
include both these privileged poems within the same story of “epyllion”
somehow, despite their differences. So Hollis in his introduction to the
Hecale defends his “belief” in the epyllion in the following way:
Roman poets who composed such works as Catul. 64 or the pseudo-Virgilian
Ciris—not to mention lost poems like Cinna’s Zmyrna or Calvus’ Io—must
surely have believed that they were using a recognizable form inherited
from the Greeks; and the traces of Callimachus’ Hecale which may be found
in both these works, as well as in several episodes of Ovid’s Metamorphoses,
suggest that our poem was given an honoured place in the evolution of the
genre.61
Such a desire to link the Hecale and Catullus 64 can also affect the way
that later Hellenistic poems are approached. Both Cameron and Fantuzzi/
Hunter, wishing to emphasise the scale and seriousness of the Hecale
while still including it in a story of epyllion that can reach Catullus, draw
a strong distinction between earlier and/or longer epyllia—to account for
57 “Digression” is also emphasised in some abstract accounts of the epyllion, following

in particular Crump (1931) 33–34: see below, section VI.
58 Wilkinson (1955) 147: “For some reason or other it was fashionable to insert in an
epyllion a secondary tale which might have no bearing on the main theme. This may have
been simply because Callimachus’ Hecale, apparently the prototype of Hellenistic epyllia,
had the story of Erichthonius inset. We are familiar with Catullus’ Marriage of Peleus and
Thetis (LXIV), which consists largely of the inset story of Ariadne on Naxos, as embroi-
dered on the bridal coverlet.”
59 Hollis (22009) 25: “Digressions are often said to be a distinguishing mark of the epyl-
lion, even if they do not occur in every specimen. We may note the substantial digression
on Ericthonius and the daughters of Cecrops.” See also id. 232–233.
60 Hollis (22009) 224–225: “some 82 lines for which we can account, plus an indetermin-
able proportion of the c. 22 lines missing between frs. 69 and 70.”
61 Hollis (22009) 25.
66 gail trimble
the Hecale—and later and/or shorter ones—thinking overwhelmingly of

Moschus’ Europa. Fantuzzi/Hunter state:
On one side are ambitious poems of considerable length, such as Callima-
chus’ Hecale and the lost Hermes of Eratosthenes (cf. SH 397) which ran to
well over a thousand verses; on the other are shorter narratives of, roughly
speaking, between one hundred and three hundred verses, best exemplified
for us by Moschus’ Europa. Although the term “epyllion” is sometimes used
to refer to both groups, it is in fact the second, shorter group which proved
to be of greater subsequent significance for the more familiar tradition of
Latin “epyllion.”62
Cameron argues that “[t]he only Hellenistic poem that resembles the
Latin epyllia in any significant way, down to its long ecphrasis, is the
Europa of Moschus.”63 Cameron gives the game away. The Europa gets
the prominence it enjoys in the study of Hellenistic poetry partly because
it is extant, partly because of its “great charm,”64 but mostly because in its
ecphrasis of the mythological pictures on Europa’s basket it can provide a
model for Catullus 64.65 What else but Catullus 64, after all, is a “familiar”
Latin epyllion with an ecphrasis? Both Perrotta and D’Agostino, similarly,
end their articles on Hellenistic epyllion by discussing ecphrasis, so that
they can account for 64: Jason’s cloak in Ap. Rhod. Argon. 1 and the cup
in Theocritus 1 are important ecphrases by third-century Hellenistic poets,
so they must be included, but they are not in epyllia, so Moschus must
feature too.66 It is Perrotta who most clearly presents as part of the devel-
opment of a genre what is really just a link between two poems: “Lo svi-
luppo ulteriore dopo Mosco si può vedere nel carme 64 di Catullo.”67 And
yet when attention is focused on the Europa for its own sake, it begins
to look a great deal less like Catullus’ poem. Campbell’s introduction to
his commentary emphasises the Europa’s “overall simplicity of design” in
explicit contrast to Catullus, as well as its lack of displayed learning.68
62 Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004) 191.

63 Cameron (1995) 451.
64 Cameron (1995) 451; this charm seems to give it priority over the “sombre (some
would say dreary)” Megara of similar length and date (Campbell [1991] 8).
65 Thomas (1983) 108, by using “epyllion” of the story of Heracles and Molorcus that
was contained within the elegiac Victoria Berenices in the Aetia, and then suggesting
that it might also have been an ecphrasis, argues for a new possibility for the “source” or
“impulse” of Catullus 64, but the idea has not entered the main trends of scholarship either
on epyllion or on Catullus 64 as much as might have been expected.
66 Perrotta (1923) 225–229; D’Agostino (1956) 39–40.
67 Perrotta (1923) 225.
68 Campbell (1991) 7–9; cf. below, section VII.
Such considerations bring us back to general accounts of “the Hellenis-

tic epyllion” which attempt to identify its typical features. Gutzwiller’s is
the only book-length study of epyllion which limits itself to the Hellenis-
tic examples.69 As already mentioned, she includes one of Callimachus’
Hymns:70 by doing this, she seems to me to be opening the door to a more
fruitful way of looking at Hellenistic “epyllia,” which is to discuss them in
conjunction with other Hellenistic “short narratives,” including those that
are hymns, elegies, and/or part of longer works. De-emphasising metre
might also allow for a greater appreciation of the influence of lyric nar-
ratives, such as those seen in Pindar and Bacchylides, on Hellenistic nar-
rative poetry. Such an approach has been suggested by many scholars,71
and some have carried it out.72 It has less to do with labelling, however,
than with other scholarly moves such as including, excluding and juxta-
position: to achieve this sort of reassessment of Hellenistic narrative one
would have to do more than just stop using the word “epyllion.”73
IV
An epyllion was more or less expected of the complete New Poet.74

These words open the first sentence of Clausen’s treatment of Catullus
64 in The Cambridge History of Classical Literature; Fitzgerald’s chapter
on the poem, in a much more radical book, begins in an almost identi-
cal way.75 In section II, I identified two key areas of poetry with respect
to which 64 is usually situated; when one turns from the first of these,
69 Gutzwiller (1981); on p. 2 Gutzwiller states that “[s]ignificant differences between the

Alexandrian epyllia and later Latin epyllia call for a separate study of the latter poems,”
but she does not expand further beyond a reference to Ross (1975).
70 See above, n. 3.
71 Wilamowitz (1924) vol. 1, 117 n. 2 is one famous example.
72 Vessey (1970) and Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004) 191–196, while associating themselves with
“epyllion” in their titles, are really already engaged in this sort of project.
73 For instance, Hutchinson (1988) 56–83 (his chapter on the Hecale) avoids the term
in what seems to me a studied way that only draws attention to the missing word (“a con-
tinuous narrative on a substantial scale” / “this lavish work”). Cf. also Hutchinson (2008)
66, at the beginning of a chapter which makes an effort to discuss the Hecale as an epic
alongside other epics: “Epic is the most obvious and natural category in which to place the
Hecale.” This time the word “epyllion” does appear, but only within a footnoted reference
to Merriam (2001) and Gutzwiller (1981).
74 Clausen (1982) 187.
75 Fitzgerald (1995) 140: “Among the poets of Catullus’ circle one learned and virtuosic
epyllion (little epic) seems to have been required as proof of the poet’s powers.”
68 gail trimble
the Hellenistic epyllion, to the second, the neoteric epyllion, the scholarly
situation suddenly becomes much clearer. There simply is just the right
amount of evidence—from Cicero’s apparent references to this group
of poets,76 from their own extant fragments,77 from Catullus’ references
to them and their works,78 from Parthenius,79 and from possible imita-
tions in later poetry80—to be able to construct a plausible account of the
neoteric poets with their one epyllion each: this was most fully and con-
vincingly done by Lyne’s (1978a) article.81 Rather than looking in detail at
how this picture of the neoterics or “new poets” has been built up, then, I
would like to examine some of the effects that it has on our understanding
of Catullus and his epyllion.
At a basic level, as we have seen, the picture of the neoteric poets and
their epyllia gives us a setting for Catullus and 64. This method of forming
a canon by identifying a clearly defined group of poets all writing in the
same genre is as old as the Alexandrian scholars who identified the nine
lyric poets or the three iambists, so it is clearly a satisfying one. It allows
us to make plausible inferences from Catullus to other neoterics and back
to Catullus: for instance, since Catullus 95 implies that Cinna’s Smyrna
was published by itself, we can suggest that 64 may have been published
in this way too.82
However, if we want to make any critical moves beyond saying that 64
is an epyllion like other neoteric epyllia, the relationship between Catul-
lus and our picture of the neoterics ceases to be so simple. Lyne’s article in
fact contains cues for several different “new” ways of seeing Catullus, and
76 See esp. Crowther (1970) and Clausen (1986).

77 Available in both Courtney (1993) and Hollis (2007).
78 Most obviously Cinna’s Smyrna in Catullus 95 (for the Sm- spelling see Goold [1965]
11) and Caecilius’ Cybele poem in Catullus 35.
79 See Lightfoot’s edition (1999), esp. 50–76 on “Parthenius in Rome,” and the influen-
tial article of Clausen (1964).
80 Predominantly the Ciris, Verg. Ecl. 6, and certain episodes in Ov. Met. See esp. Lyne
(1978b) 36–47, who sets out a way of finding new fragments of the Smyrna embedded in
the Ciris which has more in common with the way in which fragments of lost historians
are generally identified than with the methods by which scholars of fragmentary poetry
are used to receiving their fragments. He is followed by e.g. Thomas (1979) and (1981), and
Knox (1983); cf. also Hollis (2007) vi–vii.
81 Lyne (1978a) justified many assumptions and drew together certain arguments from
a great deal of previous scholarship; see in particular the book-length study of the “new
poets” by Alfonsi (1945). See also the careful criticism of some elements of Lyne’s thesis,
in particular his emphasis on the exclusive and clearly defined nature of the group of
neoterics, in Lightfoot (1999) 67–70, and the even-handed recent assessment of “neoteric
poetics” by Johnson (2007).
82 E.g. Wheeler (1934) 23.
Catullus 64, in relation to the neoterics. First, there is the possibility that
if the epyllion is the hallmark of a neoteric poet, our appreciation of the
neoteric Catullus perhaps “ought” to be more slanted towards 64 than it
has frequently been: 64 should be seen as central to his work rather than
in any way incidental or inferior. But this argument also works in reverse.
Lyne has a section on “what in Catullus is not typically neoteric,”83 con-
cluding that what is not typically neoteric is the Lesbia poetry, or series
of erotic poems obsessively concerned with feelings about one lover.
We could argue that critics who emphasise Catullus’ love poetry at the
expense of 64 are right to do so if this was his important original contri-
bution. Finally, we will have to decide how similar to the other neoterics
we want Catullus to be in terms not just of some of his shorter poetry but
of 64 itself. If we accept the widespread view that the epyllia of the other
neoterics were a homogeneous group of accounts of the erotic woes of
mythical heroines, then we must eventually conclude that Catullus 64,
instead of fitting neatly into this group, is an exception to it. After all,
however often scholars may call it the Peleus and Thetis, it is the only
neoteric epyllion that is never cited by its title,84 and an awareness of
this reminds us that, unlike the stories of Smyrna and Io, it is simply not
about one figure and her “pathological love.”85 From there, of course, it
is a short step to identifying within 64 an epyllion that might be called
“Catullus’ Ariadne”, and so we are back with Cova’s argument and 64 as a
whole is no longer a neoteric epyllion.86 On the other hand, we may want
to reassess the usual description of what the average neoteric epyllion was
like. After all, if 64 had not survived, [Tib.] 3.6.41–42 might have led us to
believe that Catullus wrote an Ariadne (or even a Minois, as Cinna called
Myrrha by the name Smyrna),87 and we would probably have guessed
that this poem was very much like our current reconstructions of Calvus’
or Cinna’s epyllia; we would have had no direct evidence for Peleus and
83 Lyne (1978a) 175; cf. 176–179.

84 Cf. Most (1981) 113 n. 19: “Nor need we attach too much weight to the fact that only
Catullus’ epyllion is never cited by a title: what one-word title could possibly have been
appropriate?” This begs the question.
85 Cf. also Wiseman (1974) 56, who argues for the importance of themes like those in
Parthenius’ Erotika Pathemata for the work of the other neoterics, especially Cinna: “The
consistency of the favourite themes can be seen, even with our lamentably inadequate
information, once we rid ourselves of the idea that Catullus’ work must be typical.”
86 See above, pp. 60–61, and see esp. Cova (1949) 714–715.
87 Sic cecinit pro te doctus, Minoi, CatullusÂ€/Â€ingrati referens inpia facta uiri. “So learned
Catullus, Minois, sang on your behalf, describing the unholy deeds of your ungrateful hus-
band.” (Text from Lenz/Galinsky [31971].)
70 gail trimble
Thetis or for Catullus’ combination of two stories into one poem. And
this thought-experiment should remind us that we have no evidence that
other neoteric epyllia were not similarly digressive, and perhaps some evi-
dence that they might have been.88 Where “epyllion” is concerned, the
evidence for the neoterics is less stable than it first appeared.
The influence of the epyllion on the Aeneid89

When there is an intertextual relationship between two texts, which-
ever of the two we have our eye on (or are writing about) at a particu-
lar moment tends to become the complicated, interesting one. The other
looks relatively simple until we focus our attention on it instead.90 In this
section I want to look briefly at some criticism of Virgil and Ovid which
is so concerned with these master-texts and the various critical debates
about them that it has room only for a very simple view of Catullus 64,
and in particular of Catullus 64 and “epyllion.”
This is the reason for my choice of epigraph: I am not actually going
to look at scholarship on the Aeneid, but Mendell’s title demanded to be
included in this paper because it is an extreme case of one kind of use
of the word “epyllion.” Mendell’s article begins by describing what he
believes “the epyllion” was, but he soon points out that Catullus 64 is the
example that really matters:
[L]et us . . . consider what this general type of product contributed to the
Aeneid. Fortunately our greatest Roman epyllion, the Peleus and Thetis of
Catullus, must have been among the earliest ever written in Latin.91
Four pages later he is no longer claiming that he is talking about a “gen-
eral type of product”:
[I]t is the influence of one poem of Catullus on one type of Augustan poetry
that I wish to discuss.92
88 See below, section V, on Ovid’s version of the myth of Io and Virgil, Georgics 4.
89 Mendell (1951), title.
90 See e.g. Hinds (1998) 100–104.
91 Mendell (1951) 207.
92 Mendell (1951) 211.
The rest of the article is indeed about “the influence of Cat. 64 on the com-
position of various portions of the Aeneid”;93 this effectively means that in
his title, Mendell uses “epyllion” to mean, quite simply, “Catullus 64.”
The two areas of scholarship on Augustan poetry that I am concerned
with here, however, raise the issue of whether it is legitimate to say not
just that a section of a larger text is influenced by a particular epyllion or
epyllion in general, but that it is an epyllion. This was a use of “epyllion”
that Allen inveighed against, considering that it was fatal to any attempt
to come up with a convincing definition: “if one disregards the criterion
that the epyllion is an independent short epic, the battle is lost before it
is begun,” he asserted, and “[i]f an epyllion is a short poem, it can hardly
be part of a longer poem.”94 The parts of longer poems that have most
often been called “epyllia” are the second half of Virgil, Georgics 4—the
story of Aristaeus, to whom Proteus tells the inset narrative of Orpheus
and Eurydice—and any number of episodes in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.
They feature in some of the “epyllion studies” that will be discussed in
the next section,95 but the word “epyllion” is also widely diffused in the
scholarly literature whose main focus is the Virgilian and Ovidian texts
themselves.
In the case of the Metamorphoses, the idea of “epyllion” was made part
of the critical debate over what sort of narrative unity or structure, if any,
Ovid’s poem possesses.96 It is no longer particularly prevalent there,97 but
for a long time it was unavoidable. Already for Lafaye in 1904:
Cette anthologie, formée uniquement avec des morceaux de sa composi-
tion, comprend une longue série d’epyllia, ou de contes épiques, tout à fait
comparables à ceux de l’époque alexandrine; chacun d’eux peut être déta-
ché de l’ensemble sans en compromettre la solidité.98
Epyllion also dominates the terms in which the issue is discussed by
Wilkinson and Otis, in two of the mid-twentieth century’s most widely
read English language books on the Metamorphoses.99 What part is
93 Helmbold (1953) 313 (a review).

94 Allen (1940) 1 n. 1; Allen (1958) 517.
95 Jackson (1913), Crump (1931), Perutelli (1979) and Bartels (2004).
96 See e.g. Crabbe (1981) 2274–2277.
97 It is not used, for instance, in the articles on Ovidian narrative by Barchiesi in Hardie
(2002a) and Rosati in Boyd (2002).
98 Lafaye (1904) 94; the survey of Wolff (1988) suggests that this is the earliest applica-
tion of the term to Ovid.
99 Wilkinson (1955); Otis (21970).
72 gail trimble
Catullus 64 playing here? It seems likely that Lafaye found “epyllion” a

convenient term after his work on Catullus.100 Wilkinson characterises
the Ovidian myths which contain an inset story, like Catullus 64, as par-
ticularly deserving of the title of epyllion.101 And for Otis 64 is an impor-
tant negative model: Otis denies that the Metamorphoses is a series of
epyllia,102 and contrasts the successful continuity of Ovid’s narrative with
the immobility and “essentially non-narrative character” of “such a typi-
cally neoteric epyllion as Catullus’ Peleus and Thetis.”103 The Ovidian ver-
sion of Catullus 64 is, as expected, a simplified one.
As mentioned above, some Ovidian scholarship is also engaged in the
project of finding traces of other neoteric epyllia in the Metamorphoses,
especially the Smyrna and the Io, since Ovid includes the stories of these
heroines:104 Otis himself takes part in this, and he is later followed by
Knox.105 This can produce a strange effect if we shift the focus back to
the question of how Ovid might be reworking his sources, if such they
are. Ovid’s version of the myth of Io (Met. 1.568–746) not only alludes
demonstrably to Calvus,106 but also contains an inset story. If the nested
structure that we know from Catullus 64 is important in our definition of
epyllion, this provides a powerful temptation to think that Calvus’ Io might
also have been of this shape.107 One could also point to the progression
in one section of Virgil’s strongly neoteric sixth Eclogue from Pasiphae to
the Proetides and back to Pasiphae—all stories which, like Io’s, centre on
cows.108 Yet none of this, of course, proves that the Io had a digression:
100 See above, pp. 59–60, and n. 24.

101 Wilkinson (1955) 147, quoted above, n. 58.
102 Otis (21970) 49: “The Metamorphoses . . . is not a composite of little epics or epyllia
but a stylistically unified whole.”
103 Otis (21970) 206–207, 332–333.
104 See above, n. 80.
105 Otis (21970) 205–207; Knox (1986) 19, 31–32, 54–55; cf. Knox (1983) 311.
106 Met. 1.632 amara pascitur herba (“grazes on bitter grass”) and 634 infelix (“unhappy”)
(text: Tarrant [2004]) with Calvus’ famous a uirgo infelix, herbis pasceris amaris (“ah,
unhappy maiden, you will graze on bitter grasses”) (fr. 9 Courtney = fr. 20 Hollis). Here,
and with what follows, cf. Höschele in this volume.
107 Hollis (2007) 61: “It is probably no coincidence that Ovid’s Io episode, with its inset
subsidiary myth, provides one of the most perfect examples in the Metamorphoses of the
structure which may have characterized many Hellenistic and Latin epyllia. But we would
be rash to assume that, in Calvus too, the inset was provided by Mercury’s story-telling.”
108 Verg. Ecl. 6.45–60; cf. n. 80 above.
Ovid could have been combining allusions to Calvus’ and Catullus’ epyllia,
the structure of one with the subject matter of the other.109
Turning to Georgics 4, the story of Aristaeus is called an “epyllion” for
many reasons. One reason is that the word is now simply a convenient
and accepted label, so that when Gale, for instance, repeatedly refers to
“the Aristaeus epyllion” in her book on Virgil and Lucretius, which is not
concerned with the narrative or generic status of that part of the poem,
she seems to mean no more than “the second half of Georgics 4.”110 The
episode also seems more deserving of a label that applies to an indepen-
dent poem because, formally speaking, it fits only loosely in to its position
in the Georgics, as a narrative section attached to a didactic epos.111 Critics
who avoid the word “epyllion” still give it its own title, “the Aristaeus.”112
But other reasons for the application of the term involve Catullus 64 at a
basic level. There is the emotional tone of the Orpheus section, with its
Catullan heu (“alas” [491, 498])—though emphasising this “neoteric” tone
can distract us from the Homeric aspects of the outer section concerned
with Aristaeus himself.113 There is the echo of Catullus’ Ariadne in Aris-
taeus’ words sperare iubebas (“you told me to expect”);114 and there are
many other detailed interactions, discussed by Crabbe.115 But most of all
it is, again, narrative structure that is at stake. Griffiths’ article carefully
compares the structure of the Aristaeus story with that of Catullus 64 and
with Hellenistic poems that set two stories together, not always one inside
the other;116 but more typically the basic shape of Catullus 64, generalised
with little or no supporting evidence to “the epyllion,” is used to explain
the shape of “the Aristaeus.” This pattern is already seen in Cruttwell’s sec-
ond use of the term “epyllion”: “In its form [the Aristaeus section] reminds
us of those Epyllia which were such favourite subjects with Callimachus,
109 On the pairing of Calvus and Catullus, both in ancient sources which name them
and in the way that the fragments of Calvus seem to map on to the genres of the Catullan
corpus, see Courtney (1993) 201, Hollis (2007) 58–59.
110 Gale (2000).
111 As many scholars note, it is probably this fact that has made Servius’ account of the
replacement of the laudes Galli (ad Georg. 4.1) more believable than it ought to be. The
thematic relevance of the Aristaeus section to its place in the Georgics is, of course, one of
the most controversial issues in Virgilian studies.
112 E.g. Griffiths (1980), Farrell (1991) 104–113, 253–272.
113 On this contrast see e.g. Harrison (2007) 161.
114 Georg. 4.325, Catullus 64.140 (texts: Mynors [1958] and [1969]).
115 Crabbe (1977).
116 Griffiths (1980).
74 gail trimble
of which the Peleus and Thetis is a specimen.”117 It plays an important

part in Wilkinson’s classic assessment,118 and it is still there in Thomas’
commentary.119 As with the work on the Metamorphoses discussed above,
“epyllion” here seems to mean “a poem that tells one story inside another,
like Catullus 64.”
VI
Culmination of the form (Catullus 64)120

In the final part of my investigation I will look at one more scholarly
genre, studies specifically devoted to “the epyllion.” There are both books
and articles. Heumann (1904), Perrotta (1923), D’Agostino (1956) and Gutz-
willer (1981) discuss only Hellenistic poetry, Jackson (1913), Perutelli (1979),
and Bartels (2004) only Latin; Crump (1931), Vessey (1970) and Merriam
(2001) aim to cover “the epyllion” in both languages. I will not otherwise
summarise their different approaches, since most of them do a good job
of summarising their predecessors;121 see, therefore, the accounts in the
most recent works.122 As might be expected of studies “of ” or “in” a literary
genre, many of these works have a section defining the epyllion, usually
by describing what they see as its main features; most of them then have
a series of chapters devoted to particular epyllia, arranged chronologically
to form a literary history. I will concentrate on two areas: the influential
account in Crump (1931) of the essential features of the epyllion, and those
literary-historical accounts which treat 64 as the high point of the genre.
Crump’s book is important because, despite Allen’s vehement and
detailed attack on it only nine years after its publication,123 it has remained
117 Cruttwell (1877) 263 n. 1; cf. n. 42 above and contrast the (italicised) roman text
here.
118 Wilkinson (1969) 114–115: “It was a feature of epyllion to have at least one story inset
within the primary one . . . [F]or our purpose the crucial example is the Peleus and Thetis
(64) of Catullus.”
119 Thomas (1988) vol. 2, 202: “As is often noted, the lines are in the style of an epyllion,
in movement (with frame and picture constituting the whole as, for instance, with Cat.
64) and in language.”
120 Merriam (2001) 75 (title of ch. 3).
121 Vessey (1970) is not always included, but seems to me an important attempt to say
something constructive about epyllion while taking on almost all of Allen’s criticisms.
122 Merriam (2001) 1–6, Bartels (2004) 3–16. Perutelli (1979) 15–31 is also particularly use-
ful. Merriam’s account focuses on female characters, as the title of her dissertation (1993)
makes clear; Bartels’ work is narratological.
123 Allen (1940) 3 calls it “completely mistaken.”
influential. This is probably due partly to its comprehensiveness: it treats

the epyllion “from Theocritus to Ovid,” with major sections on Moschus
and Bion, the Hecale, Euphorion and Parthenius, Catullus “and his school,”
the Culex and Ciris, “the school of Cornelius Gallus,” Georgics 4 and the
Metamorphoses. A book that declares so positively that there is such a
widespread genre, and promises to deliver a tidily organised history of
it, has an enduring appeal: it is much more satisfying to feel that a word
in scholarly discourse refers to something in a comprehensible way than
to be told that it does not actually apply to anything very much. A large
part of Crump’s continuing influence, however, can be attributed to the
three pages in her introductory chapter in which she describes “the gen-
eral characteristics of this form.”124 This account possesses a seductive
combination of abstraction and authority: it quotes almost no examples
for any of the characteristics it mentions, but sitting where it does, at the
beginning of a book that covers such a wide sweep of literary history, it
commands trust. And it is helpful: an abstract description of epyllion can
be used by subsequent scholars as a standard against which to measure
the text of their choice for epyllion characteristics. Many of the details
Crump mentions in her first paragraph seem to me, as they did to Allen,125
to fit Catullus 64 better than any other epyllion: “probably the average
length was four to five hundred lines,” Crump suggests, while “the later
Alexandrians and the Romans preferred love stories and usually concen-
trated the interest on the heroine” and “it is usual to find at least one long
speech.” But Crump’s crucial contribution is her assertion:
There is, however, one characteristic of the epyllion which sharply distin-
guishes it from other types, namely the digression. Except the Hylas of The-
ocritus, all the extant epyllia before the time of Ovid possess digressions.
The digression is a second story, often of great length, contained within the
first, and frequently quite unconnected with it in subject. Usually it appears
as a story told by one of the characters; less commonly as a description of
a work of art.126
We have already seen several examples of the assumption that having a
Catullus 64-style “digression” is an essential mark of the epyllion;127 some
124 Crump (1931) 22–24.

125 See above, epigraph to section I, and cf. also Merriam (2001) 5 on this passage: “Here
Crump apparently has Catullus 64 in mind.”
126 Crump (1931) 23.
127 See above, pp. 64–65, and section V.
76 gail trimble
predate Crump, and some acknowledge her influence.128 But uncred-

ited versions of this assumption still appear in unexpected places, such
as Lightfoot’s discussion of the neoterics in her edition of Parthenius.129
Every time this happens, Catullus 64 is effectively treated as the paradigm,
or perfect, epyllion.
In the literary-historical part of her book, however, Crump sees many
weaknesses in Catullus 64.130 Perutelli, Merriam and Bartels, on the other
hand, sketch histories of epyllion in which the poem has paramount
importance.131 This can be clearly seen not just in the arguments they
make but in the way their books are organised. Bartels, analysing Latin
“epyllia” using the narratological categories of time, mode and voice,
begins with Catullus 64, and after a chapter on the Ciris includes a further
short section to underline the affinity between the two before proceeding
to the Ciris, Culex, Moretum, Virgil’s “Aristaeus” and Ovid’s “Cephalus” (in
Met. 7); for her it is the similarities between the ways in which they are
narrated that make Catullus 64 and the Ciris together the paradigm of the
Latin epyllion,132 and, as the shape of her book implies and her conclu-
sion makes explicit, the other examples she discusses depart from this
model, ceasing, in her view, to be true epyllia.133 Perutelli’s book is also
concerned with styles of narrative, though without Bartels’ narratological
toolkit; it too presents Catullus 64 as its first Latin example, and for Peru-
telli the poem’s key importance consists in its innovative introduction in
the epilogue of the narrator’s comment on his narration, a feature devel-
oped in different ways by later poets.134 And Merriam’s account is more
or less explicitly teleological: she sees the epyllion as a genre defined by
the importance it gives to female characters, but also featuring “a second-
ary story . . . inset tale, or digression . . . Like the epyllion itself, this use of
128 E.g. Wilkinson (1955) 147, quoted above (n. 58). Much more recently, in the Oxford
Classical Dictionary entry of Courtney (1996), the statement that “often a second theme
or a description of an object is enclosed within the main narrative” is presumably due to
Crump (1931), the first bibliographical reference given (the second is Allen [1940]).
129 Lightfoot (1999) 67: “It would be too exacting, perhaps, to demand evidence that all
these poems, including the lost ones, corresponded to the strictest definition of epyllion,
that is, that they all included a digression or an ecphrasis; enough to remark that they
all contained erotic mythological narrative.” Lightfoot does not give her source for this
“strictest definition.”
130 Crump (1931) 115–131.
131 Jackson (1913) has no chronological section.
132 Already in the interim conclusion at Bartels (2004) 114.
133 Bartels (2004) 220–222.
134 Perutelli’s other main discussions cover the Ciris (referred to as “il commento con-
tinuo” after Catullus’ “commento separato”) and Ovid.
the inset tale in such a poem reaches its zenith in Catullus’ 64th poem.”135
Merriam herself states “I have chosen those [poems] which most clearly
demonstrate the generic characteristics which I consider central to the
epyllion.”136 In the story of epyllion which she wishes to tell, character-
ised both by nested structure and by powerful women, the extant poem
in which “the inset story is so expanded as to become (almost) a separate
entity, a second epyllion in its own right”137 and in which the heroine of
this inset is able to get her revenge, is a natural “culmination.” Again the
book is shaped into a pattern that emphasises the author’s judgement:
the chapter on Catullus 64 is preceded by chapters on Theocritus 24 and
the Europa and followed by one on the later Latin epyllion, represented
by the Ciris (“the final stages”).138
VII
Partly Catullus’ fault, this139

We have not simply invented epyllion in the image of Catullus 64, as I
initially feared: we have made “epyllion” mean many different things for
many different scholarly purposes, only some of which I have discussed
here. I hope to have shown, however, that while the two main methods
for identifying a genre are defining its characteristics and listing the texts
that it includes,140 these are not the only ways in which a generic term
like “epyllion” can gain its various meanings. New critical uses of the word,
such as those that will emerge in and from this volume, should bear this
in mind.
I would like to finish by asking what my investigation has revealed
about Catullus 64 itself and its scholarly reception. Most prominently,
I think, I have shown that scholars feel the need to explain the poem,
135 Merriam (2001) 21.

136 Merriam (2001) 23.
137 Merriam (2001) 75.
138 Merriam (2001) 127 (title of ch. 4).
139 Henderson (2006) 108.
140 We can tell that Merkel (1837) 346 meant by “epidia” something similar to what
some later scholars meant by “epyllia” from the titles of the Hellenistic poems that he lists:
“Hinc primum nata sunt epidia illa breviora singulorum heroum vel heroinarum, qualia
Euphorionis sunt Anius, Hyacinthus, Philoctetes, Hippomedon, Alexandri Circe, ῾Αλιεύς,
Theocriti 24. et 25., Moschi 2., 4., Callimachi Cydippe, Hecale, Galatea, Glaucus, Semele,
Eratosthenis Erigone, Nicandri Europa et Hyacinthus, Parthenii Iphiclus et Hercules.” A
third possible option for genre-identification is Wittgensteinian family resemblance.
78 gail trimble
to fit it into a pattern, and, if possible, to label it: we want to know not
only what this peculiar poem is like, but what kind of thing it is. This
need is clearly related to the desire to give an overarching explanation of
the whole of Catullus’ anomalous corpus, which sits so strangely on our
shelves and in our syllabuses next to books of epic, lyric or epigram. It is
not quite like anything else; if we can find evidence that but for accidents
of survival we could have had a similar book of carmina by Calvus, and
perhaps by others, we will seize on it.141 An odd role is being played by
concepts of “short” and “long” here, too: we think of Catullus as a writer
of short poems, uersiculi, and his book as a libellus (“little book”),142 yet
poems 61–68 are the carmina maiora, the “longer” or simply “long” poems.143
If, despite this, the longest Catullan poem of all can be given a diminutive
title, so much the better.
We attempt to normalise the other strange characteristics of 64, mean-
while, when we try to make it the paradigm case of a rather strange genre.
But when, as good literary historians, we then start paying attention to
the evidence of the other poems we have decided to call “epyllia” and
aim to characterise them on their own terms, we find ourselves identi-
fying much more plausible groupings that exclude 64 (Hellenistic short
narratives, neoteric studies of heroines in extremis), and Catullus’ poem
slips out of our grasp.144 Despite our ongoing attempts to find new mean-
ings for “epyllion” that will keep 64 at the centre of our understanding,
we remain unable to write a stable account of the genre that will include
anything other than just this poem while still allowing us to identify the
“perfect” epyllion with the best-known epyllion of all.
This brings me to a final suggestion: it may not in fact be completely
meaningless to say, as some scholars I have mentioned have come close
141 As discussed above (section IV), I am not disputing that the evidence does point this
way, for Calvus in particular (cf. n. 109), but Most (1981) 113, for instance, certainly sounds
enthusiastic: “The hypothesis is tempting: a small group of poets, bound by youth, friend-
ship, shared poetic principles, and contempt for the uninitiated, poets who each composed
as sole masterpiece one (and not more than one!) epyllion in dactylic hexameters and who
published one (and not more than one!) liber combining that epyllion with short poems
in lyrical meters and in elegiac distichs and with more extended Gelegenheitsgedichte in
lyrical meters and/or dactylic hexameters . . .”
142 Catullus 16.3 and 6, 50.4, 1.1 and 8; Lyne (1978a) frequently refers to “versicles.”
143 Cf. perhaps schol. ad Callim. Hymn 2.106 (= test. 37 Pf.), asserting that the Hecale is
Callimachus’ answer to those who claimed he could not write a μέγα ποίημα (“big poem”).
See Gutzwiller in this volume.
144 Is it just “sui generis” (Vessey [1970] 42, Ferguson [1988] 34)—in a genre of its own?
See below.
to doing, that “epyllion” means “Catullus 64.” Throughout this paper one
feature of the poem has recurred more than any other:145 its nested struc-
ture, the fact that it has a so-called “digression” which is actually of simi-
lar length to the outer or “main” subject,146 and which has an equivalent
or greater impact on the poem’s reader. Scholars have looked for similar
structures in other poems and been quick to use the word “epyllion,” at
least where they feel that metre or length allow it. But this structure is
only one aspect of what is perhaps the poem’s most essential trait of all:
the extraordinarily dense nature of its composition. Much critical work
on 64 has been rightly fascinated by its repetitions of themes, images
and particular words, both within and between the two stories; by its
chronological and allusive complexity, which similarly works against lin-
ear reading by constantly encouraging readers to circle back to sections
they have already read; and by its minutely crafted style, in which every
line presents itself for analysis and admiration. It is hard not to feel that
the nature of this dense complexity is closely related to the length and
narrative mode of this particular poem. If it is while discussing this same
density that we reach for the word “epyllion,” and if we find ourselves
wanting to call other poems “epyllia” when, however imperfectly, they
exhibit something comparable, then perhaps being an epyllion could be
understood as “being what makes Catullus 64 so much itself.” Identifying
genres is about seeing similarities and differences between texts, grouping
them together and splitting up the groups again: why need “epyllion”—
traditionally a generic term, but an extremely problematic one—describe
a group of texts if it does a better job of providing insight into the unique
nature of just one poem?147 This meaning of “epyllion” is not put forward
as a new definition, simply as my contribution to the ever expanding set
of scholarly uses of this obstinately ineradicable word.
145 See esp. the discussion in section VI of Crump (1931).

146 Longer, in fact; I take the story of Ariadne as extending from 50 to 264 with a lacuna
after 121 but not after 253 (216 lines), that of Peleus and Thetis as comprising 1–49, includ-
ing 23b, plus 265–408, not including 378 (192 lines).
147 Unique, that is, in surviving Greco-Roman literature; if Calvus’ Io were rediscovered
tomorrow and found to be precisely comparable to Catullus 64 in structure (cf. above,
pp. 72–73) and density, it would of course be an epyllion in this sense.
part 2
The Archaic and Pre-Hellenistic Period

The Songs of Demodocus:
Compression and Extension in Greek Narrative Poetry*
Richard Hunter
1. Compression and Εxtension I
Compression and extension are such universal characteristics of all poetic

narratives, both long and short,1 that they attract attention only when
attention is called to them. Perhaps the most common way that our atten-
tion is drawn to these techniques is when comparable narratives are jux-
taposed or meaningfully included in the same work or when a narrative
openly asks to be read against another, whether or not the intended audi-
ence is familiar with “the model.” The Ilias Latina, for example, offers a
paradigm case of a summary narrative created through both compression
and extension.2 Attention can also be directed to these features by inter-
nal textual signals and/or our familiarity with “roads not taken.” Consider,
for example, the opening section of the fifty-nine verse Homeric Hymn to
Dionysus (late sixth century?):
ἀμφὶ Διώνυσον Σεμέλης ἐρικυδέος υἱὸν
μνήσομαι, ὡς ἐφάνη παρὰ θῖν’ ἁλὸς ἀτρυγέτοιο
ἀκτῇ ἐπὶ προβλῆτι νεηνίῃ ἀνδρὶ ἐοικὼς
πρωθήβῃ· καλαὶ δὲ περισσείοντο ἔθειραι
κυάνεαι, φᾶρος δὲ περὶ στιβαροῖς ἔχεν ὤμοις
πορφύρεον· τάχα δ’ ἄνδρες ἐϋσσέλμου ἀπὸ νηὸς
ληϊσταὶ προγένοντο θοῶς ἐπὶ οἴνοπα πόντον
* I am grateful to many seminar audiences for much instructive criticism of earlier
versions of this essay. I am very conscious that, no doubt partly through ignorance, I have
done nothing like justice to the bibliography on this subject, and it is not to be assumed
that the absence of a bibliographical reference implies that I am claiming novelty for any
particular idea.
1 The same is of course true for narratives not in verse form, but I restrict myself to what
will concern me in this paper. I have also deliberately avoided extended (or indeed any)
discussion of “compression and extension” within the context of how oral compositional
technique is currently understood; I am aware that this has led me to speak of “poets mak-
ing choices” etc., language which is not universally shared.
2 Thus, for example, in dealing with the early events of Book 1, Chryses’ speech to the
Greeks and Agamemnon’s brutal reply are both covered in seven verses (19–26) of narra-
tive, not direct speech, whereas Chryses’ prayer to Apollo is expanded (32–43).
84 richard hunter
Τυρσηνοί· τοὺς δ’ ἦγε κακὸς μόρος· οἱ δὲ ἰδόντες

νεῦσαν ἐς ἀλλήλους, τάχα δ’ ἔκθορον, αἶψα δ’ ἑλόντες
εἷσαν ἐπὶ σφετέρης νηὸς κεχαρημένοι ἦτορ.
υἱὸν γάρ μιν ἔφαντο διοτρεφέων βασιλήων
εἶναι, καὶ δεσμοῖς ἔθελον δεῖν ἀργαλέοισι.
τὸν δ’ οὐκ ἴσχανε δεσμά, λύγοι δ’ ἀπὸ τηλόσ’ ἔπιπτον
χειρῶν ἠδὲ ποδῶν· ὁ δὲ μειδιάων ἐκάθητο
ὄμμασι κυανέοισι, κυβερνήτης δὲ νοήσας
αὐτίκα οἷς ἑτάροισιν ἐκέκλετο φώνησέν τε·
Homeric Hymn to Dionysus 1–16
Of Dionysus, the son of glorious Semele, I shall sing, how he appeared at
the shore of the barren sea, on a jutting headland, looking like a young man
in first manhood. His lovely dark hair waved, and around his strong shoul-
ders was a crimson cloak. Suddenly men on a well-benched ship appeared,
pirates from Tuscany racing over the wine-dark sea; an evil doom led them
on. When they saw Dionysus, they nodded to each other and quickly jumped
out; they immediately seized him and set him on their ship, rejoicing in
their hearts, for they thought that he was the son of Zeus-nurtured kings.
They wanted to bind him in harsh bonds, but the bonds did not hold him:
the osiers fell far away from his hands and feet. He sat smiling with his dark
eyes. The helmsman understood and at once cried out to his comrades . . .
This is very rapid narrative which does not stop to explain itself, and it
is narrative which advertises its rapidity (τάχα, θοῶς, τάχα, αἶψα, αὐτίκα);
on a different day, or with a different poet, this narrative could have been
much extended (perhaps, for example, with an ekphrasis of the cloak Dio-
nysus was wearing—such things are not unheard of—or with a speech
from the wicked captain telling his men what to do and forecasting the
profit they will make). After this initial “scene-setting” (and I am aware
that this is a tendentious description) the pace becomes, if not actually
leisurely, rather slower as more details are spelled out;3 we will find a not
dissimilar shift in the “Song of Ares and Aphrodite.”4 The Odyssey is a
work which, as is well known, revels in the display of narrative possibili-
ties of all kinds, and compression and extension are no exception; Odys-
seus’ summary of his adventures to Penelope in Book 23, with its opening
insistence on the exhaustiveness of the account (ὅσαÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€ὅσαÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€πάντ᾽Â€.Â€.Â€.
ἅπαντα) seems “programmatically” to call attention precisely to this poetic
concern.5 The three reported songs of Demodocus in Book 8, with which
3 I discuss this narrative further in Hunter (2011).

4 Cf. below, p. 106.
5 Cf. the song of the Sirens (12.189–191), presented by them in the briefest summary
form (and which, of course, may not actually exist in any other form). On the summary
the songs of demodocus 85
this paper will largely be concerned, are an obvious case where close jux-
taposition draws attention to differences of narrative scale and mode, but
many other well known examples are also available.
Menelaos’ account of his encounters with Eidothea and Proteus and his
seals (4.351–592) bears, as is well known, many similarities to Odysseus’
Apologoi, in particular to Odysseus’ encounter with and escape from the
Cyclops. When we look back to Book 4 from Book 9, and indeed from
Books 9–12 more generally, then the opportunities for expansion which
were not taken become even clearer. Menelaos does not, for example, tell
us how he reached Egypt and Pharos;6 unlike Odysseus, before he reached
the Cyclopes, Menelaos has no intermediary deeds of heroism to report,
and this is clearly significant within the context of the poem’s presen-
tation of its principal figure. There is no description of what Eidothea
looked like (vv. 364–366)—contrast, for example, Odysseus’ description of
Hermes, another god offering assistance, at 10.277–279—and no account
of any explanation or report of what she had said that Menelaos may have
given to his comrades (vv. 428–434). In retrospect, one of the effects of this
distinction between Menelaos and Odysseus as narrators is to advertise
Odysseus’ skill as narrator and quasi-bard; Menelaos’ amusing seal-story,
the whole second half of which is occupied by Proteus’ speech,7 lacks the
poikilia of Odysseus’ narrative, as well as the cat-and-mouse dialogic inter-
change between the Cyclops and Mr. Nobody.8 If the contrast between
these narratives operates across a significant body of text, catalogue form,
on the other hand, parades different narrative decisions within the very
short space of a single speech. It is hardly accidental that the longest
narrative in the “Catalogue of Women” in Book 11 (if we exclude Odys-
seus’ meeting with his mother) is also the first, namely the account of
Tyro (vv. 235–259). The juxtaposition of this narrative, which includes the
only direct speech of the Catalogue, to the extremely abbreviated story
in Book 23, which was athetised by Aristarchus, cf., e.g., Danek 1998 (460–461), de Jong
(2001) 562–563.
6 Pharos, a place of hunger, is opposed to Odysseus’ “Goat Island,” a place of plenty;
the similarity of 4.354 to 9.116 might be thought to point the analogy very markedly. The
“auffallend knapp” (Danek [1998] 113) opening of Menelaos’ speech was a puzzle even in
antiquity.
7 If we take Menelaos’ narrative as commencing in v. 351, then Proteus’ speech (vv.
472–592) occupies precisely the second half.
8 For other aspects of Menelaos as narrator cf. de Jong (2001) 105–107.
86 richard hunter
of Antiope (vv. 260–265) is a powerful advertisement of Odysseus’ (and

Homer’s) ability to expand and compress at will.9
Odysseus’ account of Tyro has a particular interest within the subject
of the present volume, as a series of allusions in Moschus’ Europa to this
Homeric narrative construct it as one of Moschus’ forerunners, not merely
perhaps in terms of subject-matter (a god deceives and then sleeps with a
young woman he desires), but also in terms of narrative form, of “genre,”
if you like.10 Moschus’ poem “is, as it were, a single episode from the
Hesiodic Catalogue treated in the modern manner,”11 and this relationship
between catalogue-poetry and what have traditionally been called “epyl-
lia” has important ramifications for, say, the Metamorphoses of Ovid.
Tyro’s story, a narrative of female desire, of deception and meta-
morphosis, of love-making (did Ποσειδάων ἐνοσίχθων—the name placed
potently at the end of his speech—make the earth move for Tyro, or did
she sleep through the whole thing [cf. v. 245]?),12 and of children who
carry their own stories with them, looks in fact like an “epyllion” waiting
to happen, or perhaps it has got there already. Be that as it may, the pos-
sibilities for extension and compression are obvious. It is possible that, in
the Hesiodic version of her story, Tyro was simply ravished by Poseidon
without the narrative motif of her love for Enipeus;13 poets make choices
at every turn—what does narrative need? Here perhaps it is Tyro’s regular
trips to the Enipeus which most provoke our imagination and memory.
Apollodorus’ gloss (1.9.8) on Homer and/or Hesiod seems to say that what
Tyro used to do beside the waters of her beloved Enipeus was “lament”:
this makes her sound like nothing so much as a poet—it is not difficult
9 Danek (1998) 231 rightly notes that the very short narratives of the Catalogue, which
is itself but a selection (vv. 328–330), make clear “die MachtÂ€.Â€.Â€., die der Erzähler über seine
Stoffe ausübt.”
10 Cf. Europa 79 ~ Odyssey 11.245, Europa 153–161 ~ Odyssey 11.248–252, Europa 162–164
~ Odyssey 11.245–246; Campbell (1991) 122–123.
11 Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004) 216.
12 It is worth noting that Hermogenes, in discussing this passage as an example of how
a shameful deed can be indicated in a serious manner but not made explicit by saying
what happened before and after, does not consider the place of sleep in the narrative
(201.11–202.2 Rabe, cf. also [Plutarch], De Homero 22.8). For an attempt to give the sleep a
function within the narrative cf. Doherty (1993) 5, 7. On the Tyro-narrative in general cf.
also Dräger (1993) 77–82.
13 Unfortunately, Hesiod fr. 30 MW breaks off at just the wrong point. Hirschberger
(2004) 236, 240 assumes that the Enipeus-motif was in Hesiod, whereas Osborne (2005)
16–17 and Irwin (2005) 49 take the other view. Much might hang on what one takes to be
the source of Apollodorus 1.9.8.
to imagine what, for example, an Ovid could do with this material14—but

we can be more specific than that. We might think of Gallus in Eclogue
6, of Orpheus in Georgic 4, of—and here Tyro’s name “Miss Cheesy” does
her no favours—the cheese-making Cyclops who cannot reach his sea-
dwelling and “milky” beloved in Theocritus 11, or Antimachus lamenting
his love for Lyde beside the stream of the Paktolos (Hermesianax fr. 7.41–
46 = Antimachus T 11 Matthews).15 Given the apparent importance of Anti-
machus’ poem and paradigm for later poetry, the epic narrative of Tyro
suddenly assumes a potentially very interesting place in literary history.16
2. The Songs of Demodocus
The three reported songs of Demodocus in Book 8 would probably be on

most people’s list of the Odyssey’s greatest hits, and not just, I think, because
of the central concern in recent Odyssey scholarship with the (admittedly
fascinating) subject of what we might call the “poetics and para-poetics”
of the epic, a subject in which Demodocus must rightly take centre-stage.
The three songs of Demodocus have of course a complex (and very much
discussed) relationship to the epic in which they are embedded,17 but this
is not my principal concern here. They offer also an extraordinary epi-
deixis of the possibilities open to the poet for extension and compression,
and—as noted above—it is their close proximity to each other, as well as
the fact that the first and third songs at least seem to embrace the begin-
ning and the end of the Trojan War, that precisely calls attention to this
issue. Moreover, that the songs in various ways foreshadow (though this
14 The transmitted ἀπωδύρετο is regularly changed to ἐπωδύρετο or ἐπενήχετο (Hercher).

15 For discussion and bibliography cf. Matthews (1996) 26–39, 258–259.
16 A complementary possibility for what Tyro is doing is offered by Iphimedeia, another
of Poseidon’s conquests whom Odysseus saw in the Underworld (Odyssey 11.305–320).
Odysseus tells us merely that “she said that she slept with Poseidon and bore him two
sonsÂ€.Â€.Â€.,” but Apollodorus (1.7.4), presumably glossing the Catalogue of Women (cf. Hesiod
fr. 19 MW, and perhaps also fr. 10a.102–106 and fr. 117), describes her, in very similar terms
to his description of Tyro (συνεχῶς φοιτῶσα in both descriptions presumably derives from
a Hesiodic πωλέσκετο) “falling in love with Poseidon and constantly going to the sea-
shore, where she would draw up the waves with her hands and pour them into her lap
(κόλποι).”
17 Cf., e.g., Newton (1987); some recent guidance and bibliography in Rinon (2006), and
cf. also Krummen (2008). As far as the “Song of Ares and Aphrodite” is concerned, the
relationship of the song to the wider context of the Odyssey was already discussed in antiq-
uity, and in ways not far removed from some modern discussions, cf. Athenaeus 5.192c–e,
Eustathius, Hom. 1597.46–47.
88 richard hunter
might not be the best way to describe the genetic relationship) certain
features of Hellenistic narrative, including epyllion (as the term is cur-
rently used) is, or should be, generally familiar, but there is perhaps more
to be said in this direction.18
If, for example, we look back at Demodocus’ third song (the “fall of
Troy”) from the perspective of later narrative poetry, rather than worry
about the (indeed important) question of its relation to the cyclic Iliou
Persis, we may be tempted to divide it into just two sections, which we
might tendentiously call “The Wooden Horse” (vv. 500–513) and “The Sack
of Troy” (vv. 514–520), rather than the four which seems to be a critical
norm.19 Triphiodorus, for example, announces his theme as “the delayed
end of the war which brought much suffering and the ambush, the equine
handicraft of Argive Athena” (vv. 1–2),20 and it is clear that it is indeed
Demodocus’ third song which is the principal Homeric, as opposed to
cyclic, inspiration for Triphiodorus’ poem. The final section of Triphiodo-
rus’ poem, describing the chaotic slaughter of the Trojans, though itself
very brief (and self-consciously marked as such, vv. 664–667)21 in com-
parison with the “horse” section, might indeed be seen as an extended
rhapsody on the theme briskly announced in v. 516 of Odyssey 8 (“[he
sang how] all going in different directions, they plundered the lofty city”),
and Triphiodorus of course does not neglect the confrontation of Odys-
seus and Menelaus with Deiphobus (vv. 613–629), which is singled out for
particular mention in the report of Demodocus’ song. A more extended
comparison of Demodocus’ third song with Triphiodorus would, I suspect,
be an illuminating exercise in “how epic (or should that be ‘epyllion’?) is
written”; in this case we have some sort of “control” for how compression
and extension may work. Thus, for example, the report of Demodocus’
third song offers no direct speeches, but Triphiodorus and Virgil, among
others, were to write them. In the case of Demodocus’ first song, whatever
its relation to “our Iliad,” our knowledge of Iliad 1 allows us very easily to
imagine the ἔκπαγλα ἔπη (v. 77) with which Odysseus and Achilles might
have argued; ἔκπαγλα ἔπη marks in fact a particular opportunity for the
poet (taken, for example, by Homer in Iliad 1, but not taken in Demodocus’
first and third songs). So too, similes are an obvious mode of expansion: in
the abbreviated report of Demodocus’ song, the Greeks “pour out from the
18 Cf. Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004) 194.

19 Cf., e.g., Goldhill (1991) 52–53, Danek (1998) 156–157.
20 On these verses cf. Paschalis (2005b) 107–109.
21 Cf. Hunter (2005b) 161–162.
horse” (ἱππόθεν ἐκχυμένοι Od. 8.515), whereas Triphiodorus has them “flow
forth” (ἔρρεονÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€ἀμφιχυθεῖσαι, v. 533) “like bees from an oakÂ€.Â€.Â€.”;22 narra-
tives grow by accretion, with poets making choices at every turn. Simi-
les and speeches advertise themselves plainly; the selection of narrative
material does not always do so. There is much, for example, that we would
like to know about the relationship between Demodocus’ third song and
earlier Trojan traditions, such as those reflected in the cyclic Ilias Parva
and the Iliou Persis, but one avenue at least may be open to us.
The Greeks have fired their camp and sailed away:
φαῖνε δ’ ἀοιδήν,
ἔνθεν ἑλών, ὡς οἱ μὲν ἐϋσσέλμων ἐπὶ νηῶν
βάντες ἀπέπλειον, πῦρ ἐν κλισίῃσι βαλόντες,
᾿Αργεῖοι, τοὶ δ’ ἤδη ἀγακλυτὸν ἀμφ’ ᾿Οδυσῆα
εἵατ’ ἐνὶ Τρώων ἀγορῇ κεκαλυμμένοι ἵππῳ·
αὐτοὶ γάρ μιν Τρῶες ἐς ἀκρόπολιν ἐρύσαντο.
ὣς ὁ μὲν ἑστήκει, τοὶ δ’ ἄκριτα πόλλ’ ἀγόρευον
ἥμενοι ἀμφ’ αὐτόν· τρίχα δέ σφισιν ἥνδανε βουλή,
ἠὲ διατμῆξαι κοῖλον δόρυ νηλέϊ χαλκῷ,
ἢ κατὰ πετράων βαλέειν ἐρύσαντας ἐπ’ ἄκρης,
ἢ ἐάαν μέγ’ ἄγαλμα θεῶν θελκτήριον εἶναιÎ⁄
Homer, Odyssey 8.499–509
[Demodocus] set forth his song, taking it from the point where the Greeks
had embarked on their well-benched ships, after setting fire to the huts; the
others with glorious Odysseus sat in the Trojan gathering-place, concealed
in the horse. The Trojans themselves had dragged it to the citadel. There the
horse stood, and the Trojans sat around in endless argument. Their views
divided three ways: either they should pierce the hollow structure with piti-
less bronze, or drag it to a cliff and hurl it headlong from the rocks, or leave
it as a great offering to appease the gods.
The Greeks leave their colleagues “around the glorious Odysseus” con-
cealed in the horse; the horse was in the place where the Trojans meet,
“for the Trojans had dragged the horse to their acropolis.” Demodocus’
song, as it is reported to us, then fully responds to the disguised Odys-
seus’ hint (v. 494) that Odysseus is to be given the principal role in the
song; only one other Greek is mentioned—Menelaus, who accompanied
Odysseus in pursuit of Deiphobus (v. 518)—and Odysseus is the subject
of the only likeness or simile in the account of the song (“Odysseus, like
Ares,” v. 518). Odysseus’ very request to Demodocus to tell of the horse
22 Cf. also DanaiÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€effundunt uiros in Eumolpus’ “Capture of Troy” (Petronius, Sat. 89,
v. 57).
90 richard hunter
“which godlike Odysseus brought to the acropolis” is, as Garvie (1994) 33

put it, “odd”;23 doubtless other explanations can be found, but we may
wish to see Odysseus here directing the singer in none too subtle a way.24
Homer then makes the blind singer fit the song to the person request-
ing it, even when that audience is in disguise; the self-absorbed Odys-
seus is not in the mood to share the limelight with anyone.25 Vv. 503–504
(above), however, invite us to remember that there was an earlier his-
tory of the horse: the Greeks leave it on the plain and, in some versions
(e.g. Virgil and Triphiodorus), the debate about what to do with it takes
place there, not in the city.26 What other traditional parts of the story
are here “summarised” and/or excluded? The quickest glance at Virgil and
Triphiodorus will confirm that the most striking element of the familiar
story not included in the report of Demodocus’ song is the role of Sinon.
Proclus tells us that in the Iliou Persis “Sinon raised torches for the Greeks,
having previously entered the city under a pretence (προσποίητος)”; this is
not as helpful as we might have wanted, but it does at least confirm that,
in that poem at least and presumably in other early traditions,27 another
Greek than Odysseus played a significant and guileful role, and it looks
likely that he also was at least mentioned in the Ilias Parva.28 Sinon, of
course, is a kind of double of Odysseus;29 one tradition made him Odys-
seus’ cousin, through the disreputable Sisyphus (cf. Lycophron, Alexandra
345), and Triphiodorus calls him πολυμήχανος ἥρως (291) and ἀπατήλιος
ἥρως (220). As we saw in relation to Tyro, Homer’s “summary” technique
invites us to the imaginative reconstruction of fuller, wider songs and, just
as importantly, forces us to think about choice and selectivity in narrative.
So too do later “epyllia,” on any definition of this term.
23 Pace Dawe (1993) 342–343.

24 For a related, though rather different, suggestion cf. Harrison (1971) (accepted by
Grandolini [1996] 141).
25 Cf., e.g., Garvie (1994) 331 on vv. 487–498. I hope that it will not need spelling out
that I am not suggesting anything as simplistic as the idea once current that Demodocus
has “recognised” Odysseus.
26 Although it is not completely certain, it looks from Proclus’ summary as if the Iliou
Persis had the same sequence as Odyssey 8.
27 Cf. Apollodorus, Epit. 5.19.
28 Cf. Apollodorus, Epit. 5.15. For a summary of the evidence for Sinon and modern
bibliography cf. Horsfall (2008) 93–94.
29 Cf., e.g., Jones (1965), though his interpretation of Odyssey 8.494 differs from mine.
3. A Hymn for Aphrodite?
The hymnic quality of the “Song of Ares and Aphrodite” has often been
noted, and Wilamowitz, for whom Demodocus’ song was the model for
the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite, influentially connected it with a “Hymn
to Hephaestus.”30 There are of course at least two (potentially) separate
questions here. One concerns the poetic archaeology of the passage (Wil-
amowitz’s question), and the other, upon which I will focus, is our sense
of “genre” as we (and the Phaeacians) listen to the song. There are clearly
significant differences between the report of Demodocus’ song and the
longer Homeric Hymns; in particular, the song does not concern, at least
directly, the interaction of men and gods or indeed the distribution of
spheres of influence among the Olympians, as do the Hymns to Demeter,
Apollo, and Aphrodite. There can be no suggestion that we could just add
a different beginning and end in order to create a “Hymn to Hephaestus”
or a “Hymn to Aphrodite” which would fit perfectly within our corpus of
hexameter hymns. Nevertheless, the narrative structures of the song do
seem to have much in common with both archaic and later hymns, and I
want here to explore how far the assumption of some hymnic resonance
can help us to understand Demodocus’ song.
The song is introduced as “about the love-making of Ares and fair-
crowned Aphrodite, how they first made love secretly in the house of
Hephaestus” (vv. 267–269), and it is they—or more specifically Aphro-
dite (Ares’ name is effaced, v. 361)—who dominate the end;31 this would
be a very odd way to begin a “Hymn to Hephaestus,” but far less odd if
this were a “Hymn to Ares and Aphrodite,” or just—particularly given the
ending—a “Hymn to Aphrodite.” The generic sense of “a hymn” may be
triggered by the initial “how they firstÂ€.Â€.Â€.,” where the phrasing can cer-
tainly be paralleled in hymnic contexts,32 but it is the end of the song
which really is of the greatest interest in this connection. Different views
about the tone and significance of the ending have been taken but, for
what it is worth, it seems to me that Jasper Griffin was close to the mark
30 Wilamowitz (1895).
31 We may perhaps compare Callimachus’ “Acontius and Cydippe” in which the cou-
ple are named together at the beginning (fr. 67.1–2 Pf.), but it is Acontius only (or rather
“Acontius and Calliope”) who dominate the end. Some take παιδός in fr. 75.76 Pf. to be
Cydippe (so Trypanis [1975], D’Alessio [21997] [very hesitantly], Massimilla [1996]), but this
is I think difficult in the face of fr. 67.2.
32 Cf. Mineur (1984) 77 on Callimachus, Hymn to Delos 30.
92 richard hunter
when he claimed that in these verses Aphrodite “[re]assumes all the splen-
dour of her divinity”;33 closer certainly—inasmuch as such things can be
judged—than Douglas Olson who has us at the end “ogling [Hephaestus’]
wife at her toiletÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€in disturbing parallel both to the suitors on Ithaca sur-
rounding Penelope, and the giggling gods at Hephaestus’ door.”34 If this
song has a hymnal feel, it is (or rather is closely analogous to) a “Hymn
to Aphrodite”; it is she, not Hephaestus, who is triumphant at the end.
It would, I think, hardly surprise if after v. 366 the singer were to turn to
address the goddess with a hymnic χαῖρε. When some (?) thousand years
later Reposianus wrote his “epyllion” De concubitu Martis et Veneris he
ends with the guilty couple ensnared in their locus amoenus, but Venus
is feeling anything but shame and, here taking a lead from Ovid (Met.
4.190–192, cf. further below), the poem ends with another foretaste of her
power:
Stat Mauors lumine toruo
atque indignatur, quod sit deprensus adulter.
At Paphie conuersa dolet non crimina facti;
sed quae sit uindicta sibi tum singula uoluens
cogitat et poenam sentit si Phoebus amaret.
Iamque dolos properans decorabat cornua tauri,
Pasiphaae crimen mixtique cupidinis iram.
Reposianus, Mars and Venus 176–182
Mars stands grim-faced and angry because he has been caught in adultery.
But the Paphian does not grieve for the overturning of her guilty deed;
rather, she ponders every detail of the revenge she may take and feels it a
proper penalty if Phoebus were to fall in love. Now already she was hurrying
on with her trick and beautifying the horns of the bull, to prepare Pasiphae’s
guilt and the anger of mixed desire.
The Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite shows that hymnic narratives in praise
of that goddess can encompass material that might seem embarrassing to
her; shame and embarrassment are perhaps an inevitable part of sexual
love and desire, and hence have a place in “Hymns to Aphrodite,” the
purpose of which is to explain and celebrate the goddess’ nature.35 Such
material does not lessen the praise of the goddess.
33 Griffin (1980) 200; cf. also, e.g., Halliwell (2008) 84.

34 Olson (1989) 145.
35 Cf. Faulkner (2008) 17–18. On the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite and the “Song of Ares
and Aphrodite” cf. further Baumbach (this volume).
The final words of the Song apparently invite us to envision the god-
dess in her beauty, to experience divine epiphany in our minds, which is,
as John García in particular has stressed, a feature (indeed the directing
telos) of a common narrative pattern in the Homeric Hymns,36 and one
with a striking Nachleben in the Hymns of Callimachus. θαῦμα ἰδέσθαι in
v. 366 is almost always used in early epic of a material object, and thus
probably here refers primarily to the goddess’ lovely clothes (cf. Odyssey
6.306, 13.108), as at Hymn to Aphrodite 90 it refers to the goddess’ marvel-
lous jewellery and at Hesiod, Theogony 575 to Pandora’s veil.37 Neverthe-
less, there may perhaps be more going on as well, and I offer a speculation
about the “poetic archaeology” of this passage. The scholia on v. 363
report that there is no cult statue (ἄγαλμα) of the goddess at Paphos and
that the fact that Homer refers only to the goddess’ “precinct and altar”
shows that he knew this; in the parallel passage of the Homeric Hymn to
Aphrodite the goddess has a “fragrant temple” as well as a precinct and
altar (vv. 58–59), and observation of this difference (or something like
it) perhaps lies behind the scholiast’s note.38 Nevertheless, at least later
in antiquity the cult image of the goddess at Paphos was (uniquely for
Aphrodite) an aniconic conical stone,39 and there are good reasons for
believing that this goes back to a date before Homer; it is in fact gen-
erally accepted that one such cult stone has been found on site.40 It is
thus perhaps worth considering the possibility that behind Demodocus’
θαῦμα ἰδέσθαι (and behind the scholiast’s observation) lies the anointing
and dressing (as a divine woman) of this stone block; this would indeed
be a “wonder,” just as Philostratus (VA 3.58) reports that Apollonius of
Tyana “wondered” (θαυμάσαι) at the Paphian image. Be that as it may,
these verses suggest (or, at the very least, could easily be taken to sug-
gest) the kosmêsis of a cult image (of whatever kind),41 and the linkage of
36 Cf. García (2002).

37 Cf. further Bergren (1989) 11.
38 As far as I can see, Faulkner (2008) does not comment upon this aspect of the rela-
tionship between the two passages.
39 For the evidence and bibliography cf. Karageorghis (2005) 29–31, LIMC II.1 s.v. Aph-
rodite, 9.
40 Cf. Karageorghis (2005) 29–31. The fullest study of the sanctuary at Palaepaphos is
Maier/Karageorghis (1984) 81sqq. (where the stone is fig. 83).
41 For such anointing of statues cf., e.g., Callimachus Hymn 2.38, fr. 9.11–14 Massimilla
(with Massimilla’s note on v. 12), Epigram 51 Pf., I.Petrovic/A.Petrovic (2003) 182–184.
The Callimachean Hymn to Athena of course precisely thematises the kind of unguents
which Aphrodite and Athena “use” (vv. 15–16). The stone which Kronos vomited up, θαῦμα
θνητοῖσι βροτοῖσιν (Hesiod, Theogony 500, where see West’s [1966] 303 note), and which was
94 richard hunter
that theme to a “hymnic” narrative is at least very suggestive (inter alia) for
the later hymns of Callimachus. This of course can only be one specula-
tion among many. Paphos is also rich with female figurines wearing elabo-
rate jewellery (see further below), and Jacqueline Karageorghis (in Maier/
Karageorghis [1984] 365–366) suggests that the various epic descriptions
of Aphrodite’s “toilet” in fact reflect rather an elaborate dressing of “the
priestess who represents the goddess” by “young priestesses” who, in the
epic vision, become “the Hours and Graces.”
However this may be, there remain interesting links between the Hymn
and Demodocus’ song, and it might be thought that the end of the “Song”
and the parallel passage of the goddess’ preparations at Homeric Hymn to
Aphrodite 58sqq. was a good test case for “intertextuality” in archaic “oral”
epic.42 The matter is complicated (inter alia) by the fact that the passage
in the Hymn also shares elements with Iliad 14.166sqq., where, in a thala-
mos built by Hephaestus, Hera prepares to seduce Zeus (we are clearly
dealing with a type scene going back to Near Eastern poetry of “goddess
does her make-up before sex”), and by the probably relatively early date of
the Hymn to Aphrodite, but the possibility of a direct relationship between
the passages can hardly be ruled out. If the hymn writer was thinking
of the Odyssey, did he simply echo one “disgraceful” episode in another
or did he take the end of Demodocus’ song, which shows the goddess
in her full power, and reverse it—she is trapped by the very power she
embodies? In either case, perhaps, we should entertain the possibility that
the poet of the Homeric Hymn “read” Demodocus’ song as a “Hymn to
Aphrodite,” and it will be clear that I think he was on the right track; if the
chronology of the two poems should be reversed, then the point would
carry even more force.
One further epiphanic passage is perhaps worth citing in this context.
After the parallel passage of kosmêsis in the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite,
the goddess presents herself in front of Anchises:
στῆ δ’ αὐτοῦ προπάροιθε Διὸς θυγάτηρ ᾿Αφροδίτη
παρθένῳ ἀδμήτῃ μέγεθος καὶ εἶδος ὁμοίη,
μή μιν ταρβήσειεν ἐν ὀφθαλμοῖσι νοήσας.
᾿Αγχίσης δ’ ὁρόων ἐφράζετο θαύμαινέν τε
εἶδός τε μέγεθος καὶ εἵματα σιγαλόεντα.
πέπλον μὲν γὰρ ἕεστο φαεινότερον πυρὸς αὐγῆς,
preserved at Delphi, was anointed every day and decorated on special occasions (Pausa-
nias 10.24.6).
42 See especially Baumbach (this volume).
εἶχε δ’ ἐπιγναμπτὰς ἕλικας κάλυκάς τε φαεινάς,

ὅρμοι δ’ ἀμφ’ ἁπαλῇ δειρῇ περικαλλέες ἦσαν
καλοὶ χρύσειοι παμποίκιλοι· ὡς δὲ σελήνη
στήθεσιν ἀμφ’ ἁπαλοῖσιν ἐλάμπετο, θαῦμα ἰδέσθαι.
Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite 81–90
Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, stood in front of him, like in stature and form
to an unmarried girl, so that he would not be afraid when he saw her with
his eyes. Anchises looked at her and took note in amazement of her form
and stature and her shining clothes. She wore a robe more brilliant than
the gleam of fire, and twisted bracelets and shining ear-rings, and around
her soft neck were necklaces of gold, exceedingly beautiful and elaborate;
around her soft breasts it shone like the moon, a wonder to behold.
Here is another case where the goddess’ “accessories” are θαῦμα ἰδέσθαι,
but where attempting to distinguish between wonder at her clothes and/
or accessories and wonder at the goddess herself seems wasted effort, as
Anchises’ “wonder” (v. 84) makes clear. As θαῦμα ἰδέσθαι invites us to imag-
ine the goddess’ jewellery, it also invites us to imagine her soft breasts and
to put ourselves in Anchises’ position; the only “real experience” which we
can feed into our imagining at such a moment is perhaps our memory of
images of the goddess decked out with brilliant jewellery. Once again, it
is material images of the god which inform our own image-making; what-
ever links to Near Eastern epic there are here, we should perhaps remem-
ber the archaic female statues from the eastern Aegean and Cyprus, very
probably of Aphrodite, wearing heavy and elaborate jewellery.43
If Demodocus’ song is a celebration of Aphrodite, not of Hephaestus,
what has mislead us? Partly, of course, it is the obvious Hephaestus ~ Odys-
seus analogy; as the Odyssey is very obviously ad maiorem gloriam Ulixis,
the song should play the same role for Hephaestus—but manifestly frame
and included narrative have very different outcomes. Hephaestus’ finest
hour comes in fact in vv. 326–332 in which the gods laugh (though why
they laugh has been endless debated) and praise his cleverness and the
fact that Ares will now have to pay recompense. It is true, of course, that
Hephaestus’ position, as he himself makes very clear, is not one of untramÂ�
melled happiness, though Ruth Scodel’s “Hephaestus appears ridiculous”
perhaps goes too far.44 Eustathius (in his note on v. 335, Hom. 1597.22–36),
perhaps reflecting ancient theories which traced the origin of comedy to
43 Cf. esp. Karageorghis (1977), LIMC II.1., 18–19 “die kyprische Aphrodite,” Faulkner
(2008) 20–21, 161–162, 168–170.
44 Scodel (2002) 86. Halliwell (2008) 77–86 offers a helpful and balanced account.
96 richard hunter
Homer,45 notes how Homer has mingled σπουδαῖα καὶ γελοῖα καὶ πικρά,
the last being exemplified by the position of the cuckolded Hephaestus.
However that may be, the jests of Hermes and Apollo change things. From
their perspective, Ares has not done so badly out of the affair, and in the
event Hephaestus will need the protection of Poseidon as guarantor of
Ares’ payment; Hephaestus does not really end up on the winning side.
The gnomic οὐκ ἀρετᾷ κακὰ ἔργα (v. 329) has regularly been taken in mod-
ern times as the moral of the tale,46 and may well have been so taken in
antiquity, for of course it had immediate didactic and educational attrac-
tions, and the scholia on v. 267 set out a clear moralising interpretation of
the “Song.”47 One can certainly imagine that, in educational contexts, not
only vv. 333–342, which—according to the scholia—were missing from
some texts, would be passed over in silence, but everything after v. 332,
whether or not we are to imagine actual texts without these verses; οὐκ
ἀρετᾷ κακὰ ἔργαÎ⁄ κιχάνει τοι βραδὺς ὠκύν would then indeed be the “clos-
ing moral” of the song. Vv. 326–332 form in fact a “false ending”: they are
certainly gnomic enough to be closural, and they close down the story by
telling us what to think. Just, however, when we know where we are—
the episode offered a safe moralising interpretation by the anonymous τις
among the immortals (thus giving the ancient scholiasts their cue)—up
pop Hermes and Apollo to take the song and its interpretation in a new
direction, and it is hard to think of two interpreters of poetry with whom
one would less like to disagree.
In his seminal discussion of Demodocus’ song, Walter Burkert observed
that “the whole song culminates in v. 326” (“unquenchable laughter arose
among the blessed gods”).48 Manifestly it does not, but Burkert had excel-
lent precedents for his view. Leuconoe’s tale of the adultery itself ends in
Book 4 of Ovid’s Metamorphoses as follows:
45 Cf. [Hermogenes] 454.6–14 Rabe, citing the opening of the Acharnians, on the char-
acteristic mixture of πικρὰ καὶ γελοῖα in comedy, [Plutarch], De Homero 214; ancient infer-
ences from Frogs 389–390 are unlikely to be far away. According to [Hermogenes], what
the πικρά do is σωφρονίζειν, which is the same verb as the Odyssey scholiast uses to explain
why Demodocus sings such a racy song (scholium on v. 267).
46 Cf., e.g., Hölscher (1988) 271: “[U]m diese Spruchweisheit herum ist die Geschichte
erfunden.”
47 Cf. also Athenaeus 1.14c and Plutarch, Mor. 19d (with Hunter [2009] 188–189).
48 Burkert (1960) 134–135. So too Bömer (1976) vol. 2, 68 puts the laughter of the gods
“am Schluss der Szene.”
Lemnius extemplo ualuas patefecit eburnas

immisitque deos. Illi iacuere ligati
turpiter, atque aliquis de dis non tristibus optat
sic fieri turpis; superi risere, diuque
haec fuit in toto notissima fabula caelo.
Ovid, Metamorphoses 4.185–189
Straightaway the Lemnian opened wide the ivory doors and let in the gods.
The two lay there in bonds, a matter for shame, and one of the gods, who
were in jolly mood, prayed to be shamed in just this way; the heavenly ones
laughed, and for a long time this was the best known tale in all of heaven.
Ovid has to some extent anticipated Burkert.49 Admittedly, Leuconoe
then passes on to Venus’ revenge upon the Sun, and the story of Venus
and Mars is actually told, not for its own sake, but within the context of
the solis amores (Met. 4.170). Nevertheless, in fusing the anonymous τις
speech of the Homeric original with the jests of Hermes and Apollo, both
here in the Metamorphoses and in the version of the Ars Amatoria (2.585–
586), and by concluding the narrative in the Metamorphoses with divine
laughter, Ovid has had a formative influence, not just upon the modern
conception of Homer’s “laughing gods,” but also upon modern readings of
Homer himself. Finally, it is worth noting that Eustathius (Hom. 1600.48)
seems to link the “smile-loving” of the goddess at the conclusion to the
song (v. 362) with the “unquenchable laughter” which has gone before,
and Garvie (1994) 311 at least is prepared to admit some contextual reso-
nance for this “formulaic” epithet here.
4. Poetic Lies?
Are we, as we listen to Homer, supposed to be familiar with the subject

matter of the “Song of Ares and Aphrodite”? There are good reasons for
thinking that Demodocus’ two other songs (or at least their subject mat-
ter), the songs of κλέα ἀνδρῶν, are to be understood as familiar to the
audience (cf. vv. 75, 492–498), but with regard to the “Song of Ares and
Aphrodite” we may well wonder, and this is of course a different question
49 In Ovid’s other reworking of the “Song” he adds a twist which takes the story beyond
the Homeric ending (Ars am. 2.589–592); on the Latin versions of the “Song” cf. Bömer
(1976) vol. 2, 67–69 and Janka (1997) 404–420 on Ovid, Ars am. 2.561–592.
98 richard hunter
from the poetic antecedents of this song.50 Many would, I think, agree
with Garvie that “[i]t is tempting to suppose that this [song] is H[omer]’s
own invention, or at least that it is a recent entrant to his tradition,”51 but
again that is not quite the same thing as wondering whether this is a song
new to its audience.
The scholium on v. 267 famously claims that Demodocus himself is
responsible for making Hephaestus and Aphrodite a married couple,
because for Homer Hephaestus’ wife was Charis. We of course will not
want to distinguish between Homer and his character in quite that way
(though Burkert has some interesting remarks along these lines), but this
scholiastic note may suggest a wider ancient search for novelty here. It is
perhaps also relevant that when Odysseus praises Demodocus and asks
him to sing of the Wooden Horse (vv. 489sqq.), he does not mention the
“Song of Ares and Aphrodite,” only (apparently) the bard’s first song; I
say “apparently” because in antiquity at least the question was asked how
Odysseus could know that Demodocus sang “the fate of the Achaeans, all
that they did and suffered and laboured λίην κατὰ κόσμον,” without (as far
as we know) someone saying “well, it’s obviously a reference to Demodo-
cus’ first song.” This however is the modern consensus, both among those
who see the song of Ares and Aphrodite as well integrated into Book 8
and those who take their cue from the ancient scholars who athetised
the whole Song.52 However we wish to understand μετάβηθι in v. 492,53
however, it is clear that one could ask a Demodocus to sing of (e.g.) a
quarrel between two great heroes or the fate of the Achaeans at Troy,
but one could not ask him to sing of Olympian events unknown to mor-
tals (though known to bards through their particular gifts);54 one could,
I imagine, ask a bard to (e.g.) “sing that song of the adultery of Ares and
Aphrodite, which I heard you singing last week,” but this does not seem
to be how Homer envisages bardic performance (there is an interesting
50 Cf., e.g., Danek (1998) 153–154. On Demodocus’ first song cf. Finkelberg (1998) 146–
147, citing earlier bibliography.
51 Garvie (1994) 293. The idea recurs in many guises in modern writing, cf., e.g., Dalby
(2006) 124.
52 Cf. scholium on Ar. Pax 778, Garvie (1994) 294. An exception to the consensus is
Dawe (1993) 341 who realises that there is a problem here.
53 Cf., e.g., Grandolini (1996) 144, Ford (1992) 42–43.
54 Cf., e.g., Scodel (2002), chapter 3, Graziosi/Haubold (2005) 81–82, who in my view
put too much stress on the bard’s “special relationship with the Muses,” at least where the
“Song of Ares and Aphrodite” is concerned.
contrast here with the goatherd’s urging of Thyrsis to sing of the ἄλγεα
Δάφνιδος in Theocritus 1).
Odysseus’ famous praise for Demodocus (vv. 487–491) seems to elide
the “Song of Ares and Aphrodite” because there are no criteria by which
mortals (even Odysseus, who was not an eyewitness) can judge it, let alone
determine that it is λίην κατὰ κόσμον.55 That Odysseus and the Phaeacians
took pleasure in the song (vv. 367–369)56 does not help us here. More
instructive, however, might be the fact that Odysseus notes that Demodo-
cus’ skill shows that he was taught either by the Muse or by Apollo, when
this is placed alongside the fact that whereas Demodocus’ two “Iliadic”
songs seem to derive from the inspiration of the Muse (vv. 73, 499), noth-
ing is said of any role for the Muse in the “Song of Ares and Aphrodite”;
Demodocus sings “off his own bat,” no less than the Phaeacian dancers
prove their superiority to other dancers (note vv. 250–251).57 It could, of
course, be objected that anything which Demodocus sings has the sanc-
tion and/or authority of the Muse:58
καλέσασθε δὲ θεῖον ἀοιδόν,
Δημόδοκον· τῷ γάρ ῥα θεὸς περὶ δῶκεν ἀοιδὴν
τέρπειν, ὅππῃ θυμὸς ἐποτρύνηισιν ἀείδειν.
Summon the divine bard, Demodocus; to him god gave the gift of song, to
offer delight in whatever way his spirit urges him to sing.
Nevertheless, Homer’s silence about the Muse before the “Song of Ares
and Aphrodite” remains potentially significant, at least from a later
perspective.
It might be tempting to see in the presence or absence of the Muse
a distinction between “epic” and “hymn,” but the poets of the Homeric
Hymns to Hermes, Aphrodite and Pan (at least) invoke the Muse, and
there is clearly no simple generic demarcation here, which is not to say
that there is no differentiation at all; the god being praised may him- or
55 On this much discussed phrase cf., e.g., Walsh (1984) 8–9.
56 Cf. v. 45 with Garvie’s note ([1994] 245). Eustathius points out that one could save
Odysseus’ philosophical reputation by making him take pleasure, not in the subject-matter
of the song, but rather in Demodocus’ skilful rhythm and poetic grace, or—of course—one
could understand that he interpreted the song allegorically whereas the hedonistic Phae-
acians took it at face value, Hom. 1601.16.
57 Grandolini (1996) 123 presents alternative explanations for the absence of the
Muse.
58 The bibliography on the subject is, of course, enormous. Helpful guidance to some
of the issues can still be found in Murray (1981).
100 richard hunter
herself be imagined as the source of the hymnic bard’s inspiration. Cal-

limachus’ Hymns have virtually no place for inspiration by the Muses.59 It
is of course a very familiar idea of modern Homeric scholarship that the
Muse is some kind of figure for “received poetic tradition,” and thus we
may see here one further indication of the “novelty” of Demodocus’ sec-
ond song; although everything falls within the purview of the Muses, they
have a particular responsibility for the great deeds of the heroes of the
past, who are of course completely absent from Demodocus’ second song.
For what it is worth, the very fact of the scope of the song, in comparison
with the summary report of the two “Iliadic” performances, would also
seem to point to the “Song” as a special site of Homeric epideixis. Looking
forward, moreover, we may note that there is no role for the Muses in Cal-
limachus’ Hecale, Theocritus 24 and 25, Moschus’ Europa or Catullus 64,
whereas both Apollo and the Muses have (disputed) roles in the proem of
the Argonautica,60 the Muses or Muse in the proems of Ennius’ Annales
and the Aeneid, and “gods” in the proem of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. If there
is anything to this,61 we may at least wonder whether the small-scale hex-
ameter narrative has no need of the apparatus of “tradition.”62 Finally,
we may also wonder if, at least for the “Song of Ares and Aphrodite,” the
absence of any reference to the Muse witholds a particular (Homeric)
guarantee of “truth” from the song, as Odysseus’ silence about it also
implies. The doings of the Olympians are in fact the first site of poetic fic-
tion; the early onset of defensive “allegorical interpretation” is perhaps in
part a sign of the freedom that divine characters offered to the poets.
One final thought: except for a very slight hiccough up at the begin-
ning (where we might feel that we are still hearing Homer’s voice, rather
than Demodocus’),63 the “Song of Ares and Aphrodite” proceeds in a rela-
59 The possible exception, Hymn to Delos 4–8, in fact makes clear that the poet himself
is taking responsibility for his song.
60 The role assigned to the Muses at the opening of the Batrachomyomachia is perhaps
analogous to that which Apollonius assigns them; on this proem cf. Wölke (1978) 84–90.
61 The poet does address the Muses more Homerico at the start of the “Aristaeus epyl-
lion” in Virgil, Georgics 4.315, but the generic issues which surround this text are well
beyond the scope of the current paper, cf. Morgan (1999) 17–20. It may, however, be worth
noting that vv. 315–316 to some extent stand apart from what follows, and familiarity with
Hellenistic and Roman “epyllion” would lead us to take the highly Graecising v. 317, pastor
Aristaeus fugiens Peneia Tempe, as the first verse of the embedded “epyllion”; with ut fama
in v. 318 cf. the opening of Catullus 64.
62 Calliope reappears in the proem of Triphiodorus (v. 4), but vv. 664–667 show the
poet distancing himself from the Muses, who are there associated rather with long, “tradi-
tional” epic (presumably the Cycle), cf. Hunter (2005b) 161–162.
63 Cf. further below, p. 101.
tively straightforward, chronologically linear pattern, whereas what we

are offered of the two “Iliadic” songs suggests more complex (we might
be tempted to say more “Homeric”) time arrangements. In part, this is of
course a function of its very extension, but it is perhaps also one further
small sign of a song which marks itself off from the dominant tradition; in
doing so, it also points the way to later small-scale narratives.
5. Compression and Extension II
The Homeric Hymns as a group would offer considerable scope for a study
of compression and extension in hexameter narrative. The longer Hymns
themselves thematise the question of where narrative should begin and
end, as do Demodocus’ third performance in Odyssey 8 and, to a certain
extent also, the “Song of Ares and Aphrodite.” Where then does Demodo-
cus start the “Song of Ares and Aphrodite”? Of course we do not know,
and the question itself may be wrong-headed. I think many hearers/
readers would be tempted to believe that they start to hear Demodocus’
voice, rather than Homer’s (a problematic distinction, of course),64 when
Hephaestus enters the scene (vv. 272sqq.),65 which is also the point from
which the narrative proceeds in a broadly chronological order (but note
vv. 300–302). This might be right, but one of the remarkable things about,
particularly, the first part of this narrative is not just our uncertainty about
“whose voice is this?,”66 but how the song seems to dramatise the ever-
present possibilities of extending and compressing narrative in another
display of the power the poet has over his audience.
The possibilities of narrative suppression and expansion are indeed
paraded at the very beginning of the Song:
αὐτὰρ ὁ φορμίζων ἀνεβάλλετο καλὸν ἀείδειν
ἀμφ’ ῎Αρεος φιλότητος ἐϋστεφάνου τ’ ᾿Αφροδίτης,
ὡς τὰ πρῶτ’ ἐμίγησαν ἐν ῾Ηφαίστοιο δόμοισι
λάθρῃ· πολλὰ δὲ δῶκε, λέχος δ’ ᾔσχυνε καὶ εὐνὴν
῾Ηφαίστοιο ἄνακτος. ἄφαρ δέ οἱ ἄγγελος ἦλθεν
64 Cf., e.g., de Jong (2009) 99–101.

65 Bowie (1997b) 54 explicitly puts the beginning of Demodocus’ song, as opposed to
Homer’s summary, at v. 270b; transition in mid-verse would be a very strong marker of
the transition in voice.
66 Eftychia Bathrellou (private communication) has observed that the very unusual (for
the Odyssey) role played by Poseidon increases the sense of this as a “Phaeacian” song and
hence our uncertainty as to whether it is Homer’s song or Demodocus’.
102 richard hunter
῞Ηλιος, ὅ σφ’ ἐνόησε μιγαζομένους φιλότητι.

Playing on his lyre he began a lovely song about the love-making of Ares and
Aphrodite of the fair garland, how they first had sex secretly in the house
of Hephaestus; he gave many things and shamed the marriage and couch
of lord Hephaestus. But straightaway a messenger went to him, Helios, who
had seen them making love.
About this first love-making and Ares’ gifts we learn almost nothing: the
song begins with an announcement of its subject “the love-making of Ares
and fair-garlanded Aphrodite” and then a very abbreviated summary of
what we are to imagine as the early parts of the song (vv. 268–270a).67
Hephaestus is then informed by Helios who had seen the couple mak-
ing love (vv. 270–271). It is perhaps a pity that no report is given of the
θυμαλγὴς μῦθος in which Helios broke the news to Hephaestus (Repo-
sianus’ version with its mocking sun-god, vv. 152sqq., seems very modern
in its flavour), but for how an “extended” version of this narrative might
work—on another occasion, by another bard, in a different context—
we can look to the opening of the Hymn to Demeter in which Hecate
and Helios are the only witnesses to Persephone’s rape and Helios tells
Demeter what has happened, after which the angry goddess withdraws to
roam in sorrow; clearly the episode of Helios seeing the lovers could, in
another telling, have been similarly (or indeed much further) drawn out.
So too Hephaestus at his forge (vv. 273–275): we have many descriptions
from both narrative epic and later hymns (e.g. Iliad 18.372sqq. where the
god is (again) making δεσμοί, Callimachus, Hymn to Artemis 46sqq. etc.)
of the blacksmith god at work, and in the Odyssey too the description—
on another occasion, by another bard, in a different context—could have
been much extended. The description of the invisible bonds is accompa-
nied by a simile “like fine spider-webs” (v. 280), but such a simile could
also of course have been much extended, had the singer so wished.
Such an analysis of how the narrative parades possibilities for compres-
sion and expansion could itself be much extended, but not much would,
I think, be gained; to the objection that this is true of every narrative, I
think it can be answered that the “Song of Ares and Aphrodite” advertises
67 It has been suggested that this first “love-making” is actually the act in which the
gods are caught by Hephaestus and which forms the subject of the song, by a kind of
Homeric hysteron proteron; it is then very difficult to reconstruct the “time line” of events.
The very fact, however, that some students of the Song have received this impression is
itself testimony to the very rapid and summary mode of the opening verses.
the possibilities open to the poet in very particular ways, which are, at one
level, the result of the mixed diegetic and mimetic form, but—at another
level—may with hindsight be seen to look forward to the strong interest
in narrative pace which characterises small-scale Hellenistic and Roman
hexameter narrative.
It seems hardly possible, however, to pass over the extraordinary nar-
rative compression, if that is what it is, at vv. 295–298:
ὣς φάτο, τῇ δ’ ἀσπαστὸν ἐείσατο κοιμηθῆναι.
τὼ δ’ ἐς δέμνια βάντε κατέδραθον· ἀμφὶ δὲ δεσμοὶ
τεχνήεντες ἔχυντο πολύφρονος ῾Ηφαίστοιο,
οὐδέ τι κινῆσαι μελέων ἦν οὐδ’ ἀναεῖραι.
So he spoke, and she welcomed the idea of going to bed. They lay on the bed
and slept, and around them the artful bonds of cunning Hephaestus poured;
they could not move or raise any limb.
Most recent translators into English translate κατέδραθον as “they lay
down,” or something very close to that (Fagles, Hammond, Rieu, Rouse,
Shewring), and it is hard to deny that the verb could mean that,68 particu-
larly if we extended it to mean “lay down to sleep (together),” with a sug-
gestion of euphemism as in the English “sleep together” (so Samuel Butler).
This might be supported by the apparent gloss at vv. 313–314 (καθεύδειν ἐν
φιλότητι) and by standard euphemistic usages such as we find in v. 337
(“sleep beside”). Nevertheless, we might think that the “natural” meaning
of this verb was “sleptÂ€/Â€fell asleep,” and both Lattimore and Dawe opt for
this.69 Edward McCrorie has it both ways: “The two made love in the bed.
They dozed.” It is of course true that Homer is elsewhere not very explicit
about love-making, but we might think that he here raises and defeats
his listeners’ expectations rather naughtily (did Ovid, with his cetera quis
nescit?, learn the trick from here?).70 We might here also recall the obser-
vation of the learned scholiast on Iliad 14 who notes that, although Homer
gave a full description of Hera washing and then dressing up, elaborate
jewellery and all, in order to seduce Zeus, he omitted to represent (δεῖξαι)
her taking her clothes off “so as not to put dirty thoughts in the audience’s
mind” (Schol. bT on Iliad 14.187). Be that as it may, we might here see
68 Cf. esp. Odyssey 5.471, with LfgrE s.v. δραθεῖν.

69 Note too Halliwell (2008) 79: “The lovers are trapped, during their post-coital
sleepÂ€.Â€.Â€.”
70 Commentators on this phrase should, however, pay more attention to Aristotle’s dis-
cussion of the phrase “Who does not know?” at Rhetorica 1408a 32–36.
104 richard hunter
(again) a sign of the kind of compression which marks the in-between

state of this narrative with its two simultaneous narrators (something
which we perhaps have to look forward to Ovid to parallel).71
If, however, we ask “What could an archaic hexameter poet have said
here?,” another passage from the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite might be
helpful. When Anchises gets the mysterious stranger into bed (so to
speak), there follows a quite lengthy description:
οἱ δ’ ἐπεὶ οὖν λεχέων εὐποιήτων ἐπέβησαν,
κόσμον μέν οἱ πρῶτον ἀπὸ χροὸς εἷλε φαεινόν,
πόρπας τε γναμπτάς θ’ ἕλικας κάλυκάς τε καὶ ὅρμους.
λῦσε δέ οἱ ζώνην ἰδὲ εἵματα σιγαλόεντα
ἔκδυε καὶ κατέθηκεν ἐπὶ θρόνου ἀργυροήλου
᾿Αγχίσης· ὁ δ’ ἔπειτα θεῶν ἰότητι καὶ αἴσῃ
ἀθανάτῃ παρέλεκτο θεᾷ βροτός, οὐ σάφα εἰδώς.
Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite 161–167
When they had got on to the well-made bed, he first took the shining jewel-
lery from her body, the pins and twisted bracelets and ear-rings and neck-
laces; Anchises undid her girdle and took off her shining clothes and laid
them on a silver-studded chair. Then, by the will of the gods and destiny, he,
a mortal, lay with an immortal goddess, not knowing the truth.
The elaborate undressing, together with the phrase λῦσε δέ οἱ ζώνην, sug-
gests a “wedding night” in which the bride is an inexperienced virgin, as
indeed Aphrodite has represented herself to Anchises (v. 133);72 that in
other respects too the meeting of Aphrodite and Anchises looks to aspects
71 It is perhaps somewhere here that we should seek an explanation for what seems, to
me at least, to be another narrative difficulty. Verses 300–358, particularly vv. 315–317, sug-
gest that Ares and Aphrodite are actually asleep during the divine discussion; apparently
(v. 299 and perhaps v. 298) they are not, but why do they say nothing? Perhaps because
there is nothing they could say, or because this is still a summary of a song, or because they
were, despite v. 299, asleep (perhaps the laughter woke them up?); if the last (or perhaps a
mixture of the second and third explanations), then their escape at v. 360 will also be a site
of narrative compression. It may be relevant that in his telling of the tale Lucian’s Hermes
clears up any narrative uncertainty: not only were the couple not asleep, they were “on
the job” (ἐν ἔργῳ) when the invisible chains closed around them, and Aphrodite had no
way to preserve her modesty and Ares begged for release (Dialogues of the Gods 21, cf. On
the Dance 63); Lucian has pictured the scene and come up with a neat little drama with all
the fuzzy edges removed. So too, in the Ars Amatoria the trapped couple are very awake as
the gods enjoy the sight (Ars am. 2.582–588). Dawe (1993) 330–331 seeks to identify other
phenomena which might suggest that the current poem shows traces of “two different
ways of telling the story.”
72 λῦσε ζώνην and similar phrases seem regularly (always?) used of the first sexual inter-
course for the female partner. Cf. further Bergren (1989) 24.
of wedding ritual and iconography has of course been noted before.73

I wonder, then, whether the rapidity of the “bed scene” in the “Song of
Ares and Aphrodite” marks the divine pair as experienced lovers who
have done this before, just as Aphrodite’s pleasure at the thought of sleep-
ing with Ares (v. 295) marks her as anything other than a blushing bride.74
The two great Iliadic scenes of “seduction”—Paris and Helen in Book 3
and Zeus and Hera in Book 14—are here, I think, the exceptions which
prove the rule. Both of these scenes involve couples who have known each
other intimately for many years; in both cases, however, reference is made
to the male’s desire on the first occasion they made love (3.442–446 in
Paris’ mouth, 14.295–296 in the mouth of the poet), in part, I would sug-
gest, to excuse the exceptionality of the erotic description. For Ares and
Aphrodite, however, this is just one more night in paradise.
If some of this analysis is along the right lines, then we should return
to the very opening of the song. We have no good model, I think, for how
an epic poet might have handled such an adulterous approach, any more
than we know “in detail” how Anteia sought to seduce Bellerophon (Iliad
6.160–161). The reference to Ares’ “many gifts” is, however, very interest-
ing. The phrase occurs elsewhere of “bride-price” (Iliad 11.243–245, and cf.
the gifts brought by Helen’s suitors in the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women),
and if the phrase might evoke formal marriage, then its use in a context
of adulterous seduction is very pointed (particularly, of course, if we are
to remember that, in other traditions, Ares and Aphrodite were actually
married).75 We may perhaps compare Mimnermus’ list of the things which
really matter, κρυπταδίη φιλότης καὶ μείλιχα δῶρα καὶ εὐνή “secret love-
making and winning gifts and bed” (fr. 1.3), though it has been denied that
this verse can actually refer to adulterous affairs (cf. Allen ad loc.). Alex
Garvie would probably command general assent when he observes ([1994]
295, note on v. 269) “Ares’ giving of presents to Aphrodite must precede
ἐμίγησαν,” but there are no rules to this game, or else there were none until
Ovid came along. Ovid advises the man not to tire of promising gifts (in return
for sex), hoc opus, hic labor est, primo sine munere iungi (Ars am. 1.453), and
he advises the woman only to grant sex when the gifts have actually been
handed over (Ars am. 3.461–462). We might think that Aphrodite is not
one to give her favours only for promises, but two points are worth making
as we look ahead to Roman comedy and elegy: the motif of corrupting
73 Bergren (1989) is perhaps the fullest discussion.

74 Sowa (1984) 91–92 has some remarks which move in a related direction.
75 Cf. West (1966) 415 on Hesiod, Theogony 933.
106 richard hunter
gifts is clearly in the erotic tradition from a very early date and, perhaps,
the arrangement of vv. 268–270 left open to later interpreters the actual
chronological relation between “giving gifts” and “getting sex”.
Whatever view we might take of individual cases, our sense, and it can
probably be no more than that, that such compression is no longer such an
issue once the speeches begin (vv. 305sqq.) perhaps helps to confirm the
preceding analysis; in this song the ἔκπαγλα ἔπη are indeed spelled out for
us, and it is in the composition of speeches that we hear the “true voice”
of the poet. If it is Demodocus’ skill which gives pleasure to Odysseus
and the Phaeacians, then it is in the composition of speeches (something
only implicitly present in his two “Iliadic” songs) that that skill is most
on show (cf. the very heavy concentration of speeches in the Dios apatê
of Iliad 14), and here we might be tempted to see an implicit “poetics”
which foreshadows Aristotle’s praise for the dramatic quality of Homeric
poetry in which character-speech predominates (Poetics 1460a 5–11); here
too may be where there might be some sense in saying that Demodocus
is Homer’s self-portrait.
Appendix: Ovid and the “Song of Ares and Aphrodite”
In Amores 3.7 Ovid’s impotence disappoints the “summoned goddess” (cf.

v. 2 uotis saepe petita meis) who, having finally despaired of the poet’s
member, “leaps down” (desiluit, v. 81, cf. Odyssey 8.361) and seeks her own
form of washing to deceive her ministrae, whereas Aphrodite’s attendants
play a full part in the “Song” of Demodocus:
Nec mora, desiluit tunica uelata soluta
(et decuit nudos proripuisse pedes),
neue suae possent intactam scire ministrae,
dedecus hoc sumpta dissimulauit aqua.
Ovid, Amores 3.7.81–84
Without delay, her tunic in disarray, she leapt down (very becoming was the
movement of her naked legs), and so that her maids should not know that
she remained as before, she disguised this disgrace with the use of water.
The casting of Ovid as an impotent Ares gives particular point to (e.g.)
militia in v. 68 and deprensus in v. 71, but also plays with the fear of impo-
tence as the reward for anyone who slept with a goddess, a motif which
we interestingly find in the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite.76 In the “Song of
76 Hymn. Hom. Ven. 188–190, with Faulkner (2008) 248–251, Giacomelli (1980) 13–19.
Ares and Aphrodite,” neither Aphrodite nor Ares finds themselves able
“to move or raise any limb” (v. 298, a verse used in the Homeric Hymn to
Aphrodite [v. 234] of the aging Tithonus), but—so Ovid presumably saw,
perhaps under the influence of the Hymn to Aphrodite—it might have
been Ares who found this situation particularly embarrassing, whereas
Aphrodite’s principal emotion might have been disappointment. In
vv. 27–35 and 79–80 Ovid also exploits the tradition of erotic “binding
spells” which may not merely make the loved one desire you, but may
also cause impotence to one’s enemy; in Amores 3.7, Ovid thus amusingly
“reads” the main plot of the Song “allegorically,” i.e. the δεσμοί which Hep-
haestus cast upon the couple were actually magical “binding spells” which
induced paralysis of all the relevant limbs.77 In a related form of magic, we
have in fact two examples from late antiquity in which wax figurines of a
man and a woman in a tight embrace and wrapped in a papyrus on which
was written a love-spell binding the woman “with unbreakable shackles”
(δεσμοῖς ἀλύτοις, cf. Odyssey 8.274–275) were buried in a pot.78 Ovid is also
perhaps a would-be Ares who is in fact really a Hephaestus. When the
latter summons the gods he complains of both his wife and his parents:
Ζεῦ πάτερ ἠδ’ ἄλλοι μάκαρες θεοὶ αἰὲν ἐόντες,
δεῦθ,’ ἵνα ἔργ’ ἀγέλαστα καὶ οὐκ ἐπιεικτὰ ἴδησθε,
ὡς ἐμὲ χωλὸν ἐόντα Διὸς θυγάτηρ ᾿Αφροδίτη
αἰὲν ἀτιμάζει, φιλέει δ’ ἀΐδηλον ῎Αρηα,
οὕνεχ’ ὁ μὲν καλός τε καὶ ἀρτίπος, αὐτὰρ ἐγώ γε
ἠπεδανὸς γενόμην· ἀτὰρ οὔ τί μοι αἴτιος ἄλλος,
ἀλλὰ τοκῆε δύω, τὼ μὴ γείνασθαι ὄφελλον.
Father Zeus and all you other immortal gods, come here to see bitter and
undeserved events, how Aphrodite, Zeus’ daughter, ever dishonours me,
because I am lame, whereas she loves terrible Ares, because he is handsome
and sound of limb, not weak as I was born. There is no one to blame for this,
but my two parents—I wish I had never been born!
77 Cf. Faraone (1999) 12–14. Verse 10 of Ovid’s poem, lasciuum femori supposuitque
femur, may ape the fevered wishes of the erotic magical papyri which are characterised
by the juxtaposition (both verbally and in the imagination of the practitioner) of the body
parts of the beloved with his or her matching parts; cf. also Theocritus 2.140 (spoken by
someone practising love magic). Stephen Harrison points out that ἔχυντο in v. 297 is a verb
that would “naturally” be used of sleep.
78 Cf. Brashear (1992), Faraone (1999) 62.
108 richard hunter
Just as he has “read” Aphrodite’s final bath as a contraceptive douche,79 so

Ovid has “read” the contrast between Ares “sound of foot”80 and “weak”
Hephaestus in terms of sexual performance. Whether χωλός and/or κυλλός
(cf. κυλλοποδίων of Hephaestus) could be used of those suffering from
impotence, I do not know, but just as ἀρτι-compounds may suggest
“straight, (?) upright,” so χωλός implies “bent,” i.e. an inability to be
“straight.”
As something of a footnote, we might observe that the song of Ares and
Aphrodite would have lent itself very well to dramatisation in, or influ-
ence upon, one of the many versions of later mime, particularly given the
popularity in later times of “the adultery mime”;81 the famous “Dionysus
and Ariadne” mime from the end of Xenophon’s Symposium is an obvious
comparandum, and Lucian preserves an account of how a pantomime in
the age of Nero danced the whole story of Ares, Aphrodite and Hephaes-
tus “without musical accompaniment” (On the dance 63). Eustathius refers
to the whole episode as τὸ κατὰ τὴν ᾿Αφροδίτην καὶ τὸν ῎Αρην δρᾶμα (Hom.
1597.38). Whether or not one understands that Demodocus performs the
song while the young man dance around him (vv. 262–264, cf. Athenaeus
1.15d), a matter on which modern scholars have been divided, the juxta-
position of dance and the “Song of Ares and Aphrodite” in Homer might
have been suggestive for later ages. Be that as it may, Jim McKeown has
suggested that Amores 3.7 (cf. above) might have drawn on mime as one
of its sources82 and, if so, this would certainly sit happily with my account
of that poem’s debt to Odyssey 8.
If the ending of the “Song of Ares and Aphrodite” evokes material rep-
resentations of the goddess, then it is perhaps worth pointing out an Ovid-
ian version of this idea, though not in Amores 3.7. In Amores 1.5 the poet
describes a (real or imaginary) afternoon with Corinna. Not only, as is
well understood, is her appearance very obviously a divine epiphany, but
vv. 17–18
79 Sowa (1984) 93–94 seems to have come closest of modern scholars to such a reading
of the Homeric passage (without of course reference to Ovid): “another possible reason
[for the bath] is that Aphrodite has done something impure and must bathe it.”
80 The evidence for the use of πούς to refer to the penis is much less strong than is often
claimed, cf. Bain (1984) 210.
81 Cf., e.g., Reynolds (1946), McKeown (1979).
82 McKeown (1979) 79.
ut stetit ante oculos posito uelamine nostros,

in toto nusquam corpore menda fuit
Ovid, Amores 1.5.17–18
as she stood revealed to my eyes, her robe laid aside, there was no fault
anywhere on her body
evoke the famous story of the young man who made love to the Cnidian
Aphrodite (for whom posito uelamine has a particular resonance), thus
leaving a stain (κηλίς, menda) in the marble; the story is told at greatest
length in [Lucian’s] Amores, but it may well be Hellenistic and is cited
from a Περὶ Κνίδου of one Posidippus (FGrHist 447 = SH 706 = Posidippus
fr. *147 Austin/Bastianini).83
83 Cf. Badino (2010) 77–87. Does cetera quis nescit? evoke the familiarity of the story?
Demodokos’ Song of Ares and Aphrodite in Homer’s
Odyssey (8.266–366): an Epyllion? Agonistic Performativity
and Cultural Metapoetics
Anton Bierl
Introduction: Epos and Epyllion
It is well known that the epyllion is a modern construct, or at least the

term,1 which was probably coined by Karl David Ilgen (1763–1834) in
1796 when he tried to characterize the Homeric Hymn to Hermes.2 Fur-
thermore, for evolutionists like Gregory Nagy, we even have to question
the universalized concept of “the epic” as a fundamental and generic
category.3 According to him, there is no such thing as “the epic” or
“Homer,” but at any given moment in time we have a diachronically dif-
ferent picture of the genre and Homer. Therefore, we must speak of “ages
of Homeric reception” as he is manifested in time and space, as Nagy put
it in his Sather Lectures.4 Homer and his monumental epics, the Iliad and
the Odyssey, only gradually emerged in a long historical process, reaching
from a dark Mycenaean past, over the period of transition of the ninth and
eighth centuries to the sixth and fifth centuries BC, and even from then we
have to reckon with a further development until the age of Aristarchos. It
is attested that Hipparchos regulated the agón of the Panathenaia: in the
competition, the two monumental poems of Panhellenic status now had
to be performed at full length in alternation, with one rhapsode following
the other in a kind of relay (ἐξ ὑπολήψεως ἐφεξῆς [Plat. Hipp. 228b]). In
addition, this agonistic regulation had an impact on the evolution of the
text. Now, the oral tradition could be transformed to a continuous and
1 Cf. Allen (1940).

2 Tilg in this volume, esp. pp. 29–33, contra Most (1982) who argued that “epyllion” was
coined by Friedrich August Wolf (1759–1824) between 1817 and 1824 in order to polemi-
cize against Hellenistic short epic poems, originally targeted at ps.-Hesiodic Aspis. For the
prehistory and embeddedness of the concept in eighteenth century literary aesthetics, see
Masciadri in this volume.
3 Cf. Nagy (1999); (2005), esp. 71, 77–78; (2008/09); (2009/10). Against universalistic gen-
eralities regarding the genre “epic,” see Martin (2005b) (on the questionable differentiation
between long and short epics, ibid. 10–11).
4 Cf. Nagy (2008/09) 2 (P§6); (2009/10) Intro. §1.
112 anton bierl
whole narration that was then, in the age of writing, transmitted as text
in form of a script. Thus, our “Homer” is a snapshot of a historical moment
as well as a reprojected biographical construct, and the Homeric epic
evolves toward a monumental text of pedagogical purpose for all of Hellas
under specific historical circumstances.5 The long narration extends over
twenty-four books and forms a continuous narration; by means of ongo-
ing retardations, the elaborate plot is built on much shorter songs that are
stitched together on the principle of variation and combination.6
With the fundamental cultural change in Hellenistic times, both the
monumental size and the august, heroic content that functioned to cre-
ate a Panhellenic cohesion met resistance. Therefore, the new Hellenistic
poeta doctus started to compose epic miniatures full of artistry. However,
he recurred to small and short epic forms that were the origin of monu-
mental epic and that never stopped to circulate aside Homer.7 Only in the
canonization of complex, Panhellenic plot structures were the smaller,
mostly epichoric epic songs dropped in the transmission process and lost.
In addition, lofty forms were already parodied before Hellenistic times.
Thus, the light style of narration characteristic of short epics that were
subsumed under the term “epyllion” in the nineteenth century always
existed and was never abandoned. I assume, along with other critics, that
“epyllion,” a term formerly used by Aristophanes in order to attack Eurip-
ides’ poorly composed verses (Ar. Ra. 942), was transferred to the entire
genre of epic as a diminutive term. It seems to be an analogous coinage
to “eidyllion,” which designates only the poor copy of a big form or image
and brings together vignettes of diverse generic modes.8
Scholars still disagree on when the alleged genre of epyllion developed,
on its characteristics in form and content, and on which texts have to be
subsumed under this label. On these terms, it makes the most sense, as
the editors of this volume suggest, to start an inquiry on possible intertex-
tual and generic references between those texts that have been associated
with the epyllion. Furthermore, if we depart from the Hellenistic perspec-
tive, it is perfectly legitimate to search for earlier models and pretexts
5 Cf. Nagy (1996a); (1996b); (2002); (2003); (2008/09); (2009/10); Bierl (2012).
6 Cf. Bierl (2012).
7 Similarly Petrovic in this volume, pp. 149–155, esp. 154.
8 See Wilamowitz (1924) vol. 1, 117 n. 2: “Weil εἰδύλλιον so lange mit dem modernen Idyll
(oder der Idylle, wie man barbarisch sagte) verwechselt ward, haben sich die Philologen
ein ἐπύλλιον erfunden, von dem im Altertum niemand etwas weiss; das Wort bedeutet auch
niemals ein kleines Epos. Mit dem hätte auch ein Grieche nie etwas anfangen können, sin-
temal das was die Modernen Einzellied nennen zu allen Zeiten vorgeherrscht hatte.”
demodokos’ song of ares and aphrodite in homer’s odyssey 113
that Hellenistic authors might have used and built upon to establish their
compositions in contrast and reaction to the traditional monumental and
heroic epic.
The consensus on the construct of the genre “epyllion” can be summa-
rized as following: it is a shorter text in hexameters of about 100 to 1500
lines. Its main feature is the subversion of the lofty from a “back-door”-
perspective.9 In most cases, small and obscure content of humorous char-
acter is represented in a tendency where irony and deconstruction of the
myth prevail. Thus, the scenery is often located in bourgeois households,
and sexual affairs play a major role. Then marginal and peripheral views
are central, and the heroic is still present as a foil. In addition, women
play a special role in many so-called epyllia. Furthermore, these small epic
texts often represent digressions, inserts, and ekphraseis. Finally, the pace
of narration tends to progress rather rapidly toward the end, and dramatic
aspects frequently overlap with the epic.10
Demodokos’ Song as a Hellenistic Epyllion?
The generic features of the epyllion somehow suit Demodokos’ second

performance at the Phaeacian court, the song about Ares und Aphrodite
(Od. 8.266–366). Therefore, it is not surprising that this song has often
been read as a digression or Einzellied detached from the context of the
Odyssey, and that it has been regarded, together with the two other songs
of Demodokos in the same Book 8 and some Homeric Hymns (especially
the Hymn to Hermes [3] and Aphrodite [5]), as a possible model or ori-
gin of the alleged genre of epyllion.11 In this vein, it is also reasonable
and legitimate how Manuel Baumbach deals with Demodokos’ song about
Ares and Aphrodite. According to him, it is a “proto-epyllion” to which
the Hymn to Aphrodite refers with a strong textual marker. Thus, it could
be seen as the origin of a textual family and a generic space of memo-
ry.12 However, such an opinion is only possible from the later Hellenistic
9 Cf. Merriam (2001) 1 (“The Back Door of Epic”), 3. On the subversion, see esp. Gutz-
willer (1981) 5.
10 Cf. Allen (1940) 12–23; see the good survey by Merriam (2001) 1–24; Fantuzzi (1998a);
Kost (2005) 294–295. See also Baumbach (pp. 144–145) and Bär (pp. 463–466) in this
volume.
11 Cf. Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004) 193; Vessey (1970) 40. See also Petrovic (esp. p. 168),
Hunter (esp. pp. 91–106) and Luz (esp. p. 219) in this volume.
12 See Baumbach in this volume.
114 anton bierl
perspective. There we can easily imagine that an educated poet of an

epyllion refers to canonical and programmatic texts as models in order to
reach his poetical goals. However, we have to consider if such a view on
this Homeric song is not anachronistic, and if we do not miss its primary
sense when we read it under such premises. After all, the entire question
boils down to the basic hermeneutical differentiation between a primary
and secondary recipient.
First, we have to find explanations for why it was possible to associate
this particular song with the epyllion, and determine which features could
make it a potential precursor in retrospect. In a kind of circular reasoning,
the generic characteristics of the epyllion can be found in this passage as
well. Thus, the following qualities might confirm the assumption that it
could be regarded as a sort of epyllion:
1) By distancing strategies, the song is set apart, and thus it seems to be
a self-contained digression and a short, single song of only 100 lines. 2) The
mythic story plays in a domestic and bourgeois setting, and is narrated
from a subversive point of view and in a light and playful way. 3) The focus
is on sex, adultery, and punishment. Therefore, the perspective seems to
be opposed to a heroic program. 4) The episode is rather unknown and
far-fetched, whereas the normal myth of the gods remains in the back-
ground. 5) The narration continuously refers back to itself and has traits
of a mise-en-abyme;13 and it reflects the entire epic in a metapoetic way.
6) The speed of narration progresses rather quickly, here underlined by
the repeated formula βῆ δ’ ἴμεναι and other references to motion. 7) Just
as in an epyllion, the narration is vivid and dramatized by direct speeches.
8) By internal focalization, by embedding and framing, the narrative seems
to be sophisticated and modern; moreover, by apparently suspending the
moral judgment for a long time through figures like Hermes and Apollo,
the ambiguous effect is increased. 9) The setting of the anecdote takes
place in the archaic past and in the beyond, and it conveys an aetiological
and cosmic dimension. 10) Hephaistos acts like a self-conscious artist. By
freezing and creating close-ups, the visual quality of the scene is enhanced
and has almost the effect of an ekphrasis. 11) The ending of the story is
circular and loops backwards to its beginning.
On the basis of these features, in particular its burlesque and disrup-
tive ethics, Demodokos’ song of Ares and Aphrodite in the eighth Book of
13 On the mise-en-abyme in the songs of Demodokos, see Steiner (2003), esp. 26;
Heubeck/West/Hainsworth (1988) 363.
the Odyssey seems, from a Hellenistic perspective, to be an interpolation,

a later addition by a poet already imbued with a new spirit.14 Accord-
ingly, the practice of Alexandrian philology that arose at the same time
athetized the song (Schol. Ar. Pax 778). Modern analytic philology follows
this view,15 or attributes this song to a later or to the last arranger.16 Other
critics regard the moral that the emerging individuality reinforced in a
serene manner as central.17 Wilamowitz assumes a hypothetically derived
Homeric Hymn to Hephaistos, which deals with the binding of mother
Hera and the return to Mount Olympus by Dionysos. This hymn would
then serve as a model for this autoschedíasma in the Odyssey.18 After all,
it is no surprise that the song about Ares and Aphrodite was regarded as
a digression until circa 1970.19
Reading the text from a later Hellenistic perspective is certainly legiti-
mate. By doing so, we might elucidate certain narrative traits much better
in retrospect. Furthermore, we can construct intertextual relations to other
texts, particularly to epyllion-like texts that refer to this Homeric key pas-
sage. However, such a literary view is anachronistic and does not do justice
to the Homeric text. Therefore, it is important to understand the allegedly
epyllion-like song in its own historic context, and to comprehend its poetic
function in the narrative web of the monumental Homeric epic.
Most of all, I will argue that the concept of epyllion is developed
purely from the Hellenistic point of view and in reaction to the canon-
ized Homeric epic in its monumental size. However, if we apply an evo-
lutionary view, we must acknowledge that Homeric epic has its origins in
smaller epic song. Bedazzled by Homer, it seems as if the epyllion were
just a response to Homer and as if no other shorter song traditions ever
existed. Yet, I would like to point out that from the very beginning of the
oral past and contemporaneously with the Homeric epic, which gradu-
ally evolved from shorter songs, and with the so-called Hellenistic epyl-
lia, shorter epic forms have always coexisted side by side with the one
monumental Homer. Thus, lower, more popular, and smaller epic songs
14 References in Burkert (1960) 132 n. 2.

15 References in Burkert (1960) 132 n. 3.
16 References in Burkert (1960) 132 n. 4. Schadewaldt (1958) 330 assigns the frame to B,
but the song itself to A without clearly showing how the then independent song must have
purely served the purpose of amusement.
17 Cf. Hölscher (1988) 271: “Was unter Göttern ein Götterspaß ist, ist unter Menschen
blutiger Ernst.”
18 Wilamowitz (1895), esp. 223–225 (= [1937] 12–14).
19 Cf. Gaisser (1969) 32–34.
116 anton bierl
flourished next to the high and elevated Panhellenic Homeric poems of

twenty-four books. In other words, whereas Homeric epic is the marked,
special case, which in a particular historical situation and over a long pro-
cess reaches monumental status, short epics and songs in hexameter rep-
resent the unmarked case; they are not derived from Homer, have always
been performed, and serve as the usual “epic” entertainment.
Historical Prerequisites
Upon closer historical inspection it can be seen that the burlesque story
is not proof of a new and younger spirit of the time, but rather is rooted
in very old traditions. The grotesque and comic narration about gods can
already be found in Hittite texts that, as is well known, had a strong influ-
ence on the Homeric tradition.20 Furthermore, the distorting treatment
of the divine realm had its occasionality, its Sitz im Leben, in archaic situ-
ations of festivity. At least notionally, this is a very old phenomenon, and
it can be elucidated by the characterization of the aoidós and his per-
formance. If we understand the song as a play on the norm by applying
patterns of ethical progress and regard it thus as an epyllion in nuce, we
run the risk of neither reading it in its original aesthetical context nor
understanding it in the horizon of the expectations of its primary recipi-
ent of the seventh or sixth century BC.
As I have noted above, in the time of Hipparchos the Homeric tradi-
tion underwent regulations and was cleansed of strands that went against
a uniform and monumental story. Moreover, Homer was equated with
the Iliad and the Odyssey, which were performed in a relay pattern by
alternating rhapsodes in their totality. This development had previously
begun between the ninth and seventh centuries BC in Panionic perfor-
mances on a large scale located on the coast of Asia Minor, which means
that epic gradually evolved from small, locally based song performances at
aristocratic courts to monumental forms. This Panhellenic tradition was
then attributed to a πρῶτος εὑρετής “Homer,” a name coined from ὁμῶς
and ἀραρίσκω (“to fit together”), and joined to a very long and complex
song that aims at instilling new Greek values.21 This performance prac-
20 Cf. Burkert (1960) 133 with n. 5 and Burkert (1982).

21 Cf. Nagy (1996a); (1996b); (2002); (2003); (2008/09); (2009/10); Bierl (2012). Above all,
I would like to preclude a potential misunderstanding: I am decidedly of the opinion that
tice replaced the former method in which, after a hymnic prooímion, one
jumped from episode to episode in a large mythic tradition. Again and
again one started anew, and the hymn, in a way, served as a connector
which, after the evocation of a god and the appeal to μεταβαίνειν, gave
way to an epic narration of a section of the entire tradition. In such a
way, the epic cycle was obviously still staged. Yet this performance tradi-
tion was abandoned after the Panathenaic regulation that originated in
Ionian circles and came via Chios to Athens. Accordingly, the other stories
of the Kyklos, which narrates the events that chronologically lie before or
after the Iliad and Odyssey (Kypria, Aithiopis, Ilioupersis, Little Iliad, Nostoi,
Telegonia), were no longer attributed to Homer but to new authors like
Arktinos of Miletus and Lesches of Lesbos. In the case of the Homeric
Hymns, which during the time of Thucydides were attributed to Homer in
an Athenocentric manner—as demonstrated by the fact that Thucydides
regards the singing “I” in the Hymn to Apollo (3) as Homer (3.104.2–6)—,
this separation from Homer occurred even later. Before that, the Hesiodic
and Orphic traditions had already been detached from the Homeric.22
In the following discussion, I suggest that Demodokos’ song about Ares
and Aphrodite has to be understood as a necessary and old part in the
large web of a gradually evolving Odyssey which developed from a shorter
song belonging to the subgenre of a return poem (nóstos)—Uvo Hölscher
calls such a hypothetical Urform “the simple story.”23 Therefore, it is not a
digression, but it has a poetic function that Richard Hunter, who focuses
on the modes of an integrated narration where a version of a story can be
compressed and extended according to the intention of the author, tries
to circumscribe with a hymnic song on Aphrodite as well.24
the song does not portray a later addition or interpolation after the Peisistratid regulations.
Rather, the song already belonged to the Homeric text from a much earlier stage and, after
the establishment of the regulation and monumentalization, reflects these developments
in the use of still older precursors.
22 Cf. Nagy (1996b); (2002); (2003); esp. (2008/09), esp. Ch. 2; on Demodokos ibid. 313–
353 (2§§274–350) and (2009/10) 1§§188–241.
23 Cf. Hölscher (1988), esp. 25–34, 162–169.
24 Cf. Hunter in this volume.
118 anton bierl
The Song of Demodokos as Ideal Pre-Stage and Hymnos as Web:

Metapoetic Reflections
In the last two decades it became evident that the Iliad and, even more so,
the Odyssey tend to self-referentially reflect on their own poetic tradition.25
I contend that our song integrates earlier stages of the Homeric epic after
its regulation and that it helps shape the plot in a metanarrative way.
In the same way as Penelope’s famous mechánema of weaving symbol-
izes the process of textualization,26 so the artful web of invisible chains
produced and installed by the master blacksmiths contains metapoetic
implications.27
At this essential stage of the plot, we are at the last location of the wan-
derings, from where Odysseus returns after a chain of death experiences
with a magical ship back home into the real world, and one pauses for a
moment in order to mark the crisis of this transition. During his adven-
tures the hero has been reduced to a nobody. In Scheria he is offered
the chance to regain his former identity;28 the island of the Phaeacians
is described as a utopian nowhere-land of a distant past where eutopía
threatens to change into a dystopía. Therefore, the new hosts are por-
trayed in a quite ambivalent way. At the same time, the negative traits of
the Phaeacians are carefully covered by a noble, epic atmosphere. How-
ever, in the original form of the simple fairy-tale-like story, their ambiva-
lence will have been strongly felt. After all, Scheria, as a land of Hades, is
a partially inverted otherworld that simultaneously refers to Greek aris-
tocratic views. It offers the ideal occasion to integrate the primordial and
the subversive. As I noted, the divine burlesque is very old and can be
found also in Near Eastern cultures that had such a strong influence on
Homer.29 Furthermore, it has been seen for a long time that the three
songs of Demodokos represent pre-stages of the monumental epic per-
formed in the regulated, recitative form.30 The Phaeacian singer repre-
25 Cf. Segal (1994) 85–183; de Jong (2001) 6, 191–192; Dougherty (2001); Bierl (2004) 105,
110–111; Clayton (2004); de Jong (2006); Bierl (2012).
26 Cf. Clayton (2004); Bierl (2004) 111; (2012) 6 n. 22.
27 Briefly suggested by Clayton (2004) 52.
28 Cf. Mattes (1958).
29 Cf. Burkert (1992) 88–100.
30 Cf. Gentili in Gentili/Giannini (1977) 7–37 and Gentili (42006) 31–34. On the singers
in Homeric epic in general, cf. references in de Jong (2001) 191 n. 2. On the idealization of
the portrayal, see e.g. Segal (1994) 116. Lyre players have already been attested for Thebes
in Linear B, Th Av 106, 7: ru-ra-ta-e “both lyre players” (dual); cf. Aravantinos (1999) 61, 63
sents the aoidós of oral poetry who composes and performs short songs
accompanied by a mute chorus of dancers. He embodies the singer as a
lyric kitharodós whose model is Apollo himself.31 In his compositions dur-
ing performance, Demodokos sings about condensed narrative contents
in notionally “lyric” strophes like Stesichoros. Demodokos thus embeds
the lyric prehistory of the hexameter into the Odyssey. This verse can be
derived from the pherecratean with internal expansion of three dactyls
(with the Aeolic basis normalized to a spondee or dactyl)32—that is, a
glyconean rhythm, and it might also have originated from a hypothetical
Urvers of the περίοδος δωδεκάσημος.33 The “lyric” dimension is underlined
by the mute chorus which accompanies the monodic singer. At the same
time, Demodokos functions as its virtual choregós. It is my contention that
the chorus and its movements are self-referentially deployed to highlight
pivotal developments of the plot and metapoetic messages.34
Gregory Nagy has recently shown that the three songs of Demodokos
are an ongoing hýmnos on a festive occasion, a δαίς (Od. 8.76) with sac-
rifices.35 According to Nagy, hýmnos is etymologically associated with
ὑφαίνω (“to weave”).36 A singer of hymns thus works on the big web of
“texts.” Therefore, a hymn does not mean only “cult song in praise of gods”
eventually followed by a narrative portion, but also song in its totality.
In addition, it is important that such hymns do not disappear but are
still composed parallel to epic in its highly developed and stylized form
n. 97. I reject the thesis that Demodokos is a “Hofsänger” (“court singer”) who reflects the
poet of the Odyssey (as Latacz [42003] 40–46, esp. 40; similarly Schuol [2006], esp. 141).
Contra now also Krummen (2008), esp. 12, 34; on Demodokos, ibid. 18–23.
31 Cf. Calame (1977) vol. 1, 104 n. 126 (Engl. [1997] 50 n. 126) with bibliography; on Apollo
as choregós and kitharodós, Bierl (2001) 171–173 (Engl. [2009a] 146–148).
32 Cf. Nagy (1974) 49–102; and the expansion in Nagy (1990) 459–464.
33 Cf. Gentili in Gentili/Giannini (1977) 29–37. On other theories and critical voices, see
Maslov (2009) 7 with n. 11 and 13.
34 From the perspective of a historical semantics and poetics, Maslov (2009) links aoidós
primarily with “member of the chorus” or “professional (solo) performer” (1), or “(choral)
performer” (21). Demodokos’ solo-performance as phórminx-player with the accompani-
ment of a mute chorus is, as pointed out, a return to pre-epic practices of hýmnos and
encompasses both primary meanings of aoidós. In other words, Demodokos’ emphasis on
chorality in his words mirrors the actual performance in its framing.
35 Nagy (2009/10) 1, §§188–223.
36 Nagy (2008/09) 229 with n. 81 (2§91 with n. 81) and Ch. 4, esp. 546–572 (4§§181–246);
see also Nagy (2009/10) 2§§385–456; (1996a) 64–65. On the connection between pattern-
weaving and poetry, cf. Bierl (2001) 230 with n. 345, with dance ibid. 158 n. 137; 236 n. 362
(Engl. [2009a] 201 with n. 345, 133 n. 137, 207 n. 362).
120 anton bierl
after the Panathenaic regulation.37 In a prooímion, a god who inspires the

singer is addressed.
In such hymns, one pays attention to the “thread” (οἴμη Od. 8.74) and
then, with the help of the transitional form of μεταβαίνειν, one comes to
tell a story. Nagy contends that the first and the third song of Demodokos
represent a pre-stage of the regulated hexameter. In these songs, the story
of Troy is told from the very beginning, the quarrel between Odysseus and
Achilles (song 1), to its end, the capture of the city (song 3). This is done
not in a continuous form but in single sections, each with a new begin-
ning (cf. ἂψ ἄρχοιτο Od. 8.90), by jumping from one portion to the next.
This manner of narration corresponds to that of the Kyklos. Song 2, on
the contrary, is embedded as a further recessed pre-stage. Here we have a
hymn as pure prooímion without the pars epica after the transitional for-
mula, as represented in the later Homeric Hymns.38 In the epic perspec-
tive, however, the three hymns are not integrated in direct speech but are
indirectly related by the narrator with an inset and dramatized speech of
figures.39 The very old, burlesque story of the gods is thus set in different
frames and en abyme.
The subversive perspective, whose importance has been emphasized
for the epyllion,40 and the precursory function of Demodokos’ second song
can be explained through the inversion of the world and the return to pri-
mordial times in the Odyssey.41 The Phaeacian festivity is the ideal context
of a divine burlesque, which is even put in a frame to underline its more
remote level. The song’s position, which marks this distance, highlights
37 See Petrovic in this volume. For the song of Ares and Aphrodite as hymn, see also
Hunter in this volume.
38 On this subject, see Nagy (2008/09) 313–342 (2§§274–331); (2009/10) 1§§210–241.
39 With this arrangement, the Homeric narrator imperceptibly merges with Demodokos
and his report, in turn, merges with his figures. The hymnic structure becomes clear
through key words: in the first song, the invocation of the Muses is performed in narra-
tion; in the second, the invocatio is missing, that means the hýmnos is acephalic; however,
the hymnic structure is conveyed in narration through the word ἀνεβάλλετο (8.266) (on
anabolé as a parallel concept to prooímion cf. Nagy [1990] 354) as well as through the word
ἀμφί with genitive (8.267); cf. Nagy (2009/10) 1§208. In the third song, the encouragement
to μεταβαίνειν (8.492) is acted out in dialogue; the singer begins from Zeus, a periphrasis
of the call for inspiration. Although the three songs are recounted indirectly, each time
a formula “This sang the singer!” stands at the end, which elsewhere is shown in direct
speech. The missing invocation of the Muses, in which Hunter (this volume) places so
much value, is conditioned inter alia through the form of a report.
40 Cf. Gutzwiller (1981) 5.
41 On the role of the women in the “counter-heroic society” of Phaeacia, who are also
relevant in the epyllion, see Merriam (2001) 12–13.
its self-referential significance for the entire poem. At the same time, it
becomes clear why Demodokos’ performance about Ares and Aphrodite,
in retrospect, can be understood as a model for an epyllion, which tends
to deal with metapoetic themes. Thus, placed into the center, the strange
burlesque represents something of higher importance. However, it does
not imply that we have to interpret the song allegorically, as did the early
scholarship, in order to remove the scandalous contents.42
For understanding the poem, I suggest that the themes of agón and
performance, in particular chorality, are fundamental. They clearly refer
back to an old song culture, and do not reflect modern Hellenistic times
or poetics.
The Context: An Ongoing Agón between Demodokos and Odysseus or the

Self-Referential Embedding of Athletics, Footrace, and Dancing
As Nagy argues, the second song of Demodokos is part of an ongoing

agón between Odysseus and his potentially dangerous hosts.43 Within
the surrounding competition of a hýmnos, aside from choral dance and
song, athletic disciplines can be staged, too. In the Delian Hymn to Apollo
for example, boxing is mentioned (Hymn. Hom. 3.149). This fact is also
reflected in the eighth Book of the Odyssey.44 The agón between the Phae-
acians and Odysseus extends de facto from 8.46 until 13.23. Since Odysseus
reacts in the first song (8.73–82), where he is confronted with himself and
his own κλέος ἄφθιτον,45 with tears instead of happiness and pleasure, Alki-
noos tries to guide the agón to the realm of athletics, of boxing, wrestling,
jumping, and racing (Od. 8.100–103). At first, Odysseus does not want to
compete. Only a severe insult from Euryalos makes him change his mind,
and he wins in throwing the discus. Then he challenges the young enemy
to compete with him also with the fists, hands, and feet (Od. 8.205–214).
Deeply offended, he even vows to compete with him in archery. The agón
42 On the moralistic critique, see Xenophanes fr. 11 and Plat. Resp. 390c 6–7. On ancient
ways to save the text, see Heubeck/West/Hainsworth (1988) 363. Heraclitus Quaest. Hom.
39; 69 = Schol. ad Od. 8.346 and Athen. 12.511b–c interpreted the passage in an allegorical
way.
43 On the agón between Demodokos and Odysseus, see Nagy (2009/10) 1§§232–241; on
the dangerous Phaeacians, see Rose (1969b). Cf. also Schmidt (1998) 202.
44 Krummen (2008) 20 also references the competitive program of the Pythian Games
in Delphi.
45 Cf. Steiner (2003) 25–26.
122 anton bierl
is in danger of breaking out in pure violence and revenge.46 Thus Odys-

seus announces that he will shrink back only from a foot-race because his
wandering has enfeebled him too much (Od. 8.230–233)—his limbs are
too weak and dissolved (τῶ μοι φίλα γυῖα λέλυνται Od. 8.233).
At this point, Alkinoos tries to relieve the tension and to settle the
argument. Before he praised the Phaeacians’ fame in wrestling. Now he
changes directions and draws back from this field, where they had to suf-
fer a defeat from Odysseus. Therefore he says they would not seek fame
in wrestling but in racing—the contest his son Klytoneos just won (8.121–
123)—and especially in all cultural refinements and comforts that might
impress Odysseus (Od. 8.246–253):
οὐ γὰρ πυγμάχοι εἰμὲν ἀμύμονες οὐδὲ παλαισταί,
ἀλλὰ ποσὶ κραιπνῶς θέομεν καὶ νηυσὶν ἄριστοι,
αἰεὶ δ’ ἡμῖν δαίς τε φίλη κίθαρίς τε χοροί τε
εἵματά τ’ ἐξημοιβὰ λοετρά τε θερμὰ καὶ εὐναί.
ἀλλ’ ἄγε, Φαιήκων βητάρμονες ὅσσοι ἄριστοι,
παίσατε, ὥς χ’ ὁ ξεῖνος ἐνίσπῃ οἷσι φίλοισιν,
οἴκαδε νοστήσας, ὅσσον περιγινόμεθ’ ἄλλων
ναυτιλίῃ καὶ ποσσὶ καὶ ὀρχηστυῖ καὶ ἀοιδῇ.
For we are not faultless boxers or wrestlers, but in the foot race we run
swiftly, and we are the best seamen; and ever to us is the banquet dear, and
the lyre, and the dance, and changes of raiment, and warm baths, and the
couch. But come now, all ye that are the best dancers of the Phaeacians,
make sport, that the stranger may tell his friends on reaching home how far
we surpass others in seamanship and in fleetness of foot, and in the dance
and in song. (translation: Murray [1919])
Besides the ship that Odysseus needs for his passage to Ithaka, now arts,
performance, and running are highlighted as the domain of Phaeacians,
and choreía is the key to understanding the second song of Demodokos
that follows. Racing and χοροί are often connected in an agonistic context.
Swiftness of the feet, a quality Odysseus obviously lacks, is also funda-
mental for the χορός. While the phórminx of the singer is fetched from
the palace, the arena, bearing the same name as the dance itself (ἀγών,
χορός cf. Od. 8.259–260), is smoothed by aisymnẽtai (258), that is, a sort
of judge whose designation normally is used for judicial professionals of
46 Only Schmidt (1998) 200–201 views this crisis as similarly dramatic.

a court settlement.47 Not only does the scene bridge time,48 but the per-
formance context is also brought into focus in this way by key words. The
dancers are young men, who form a chorus as πρωθῆβαι (263) or ephebes,
and experience education in choreía.49 Odysseus, on the other hand, is
older and reduced to the role of spectator who admires the radiance of
the youths’ fast feet (265). Demodokos’ second song is again embedded
in a performative framework (256–265, 367–384) in which the activity
of choreía is stressed. At the end, Odysseus pays respect to his host for
the performative accomplishment; Alkinoos boasted of it, and this boast
was not in vain. Odysseus is deeply impressed (382–384). The presenta-
tion of a hýmnos attains the necessary τέρψις and χάρις that express reci-
procity between singer and public.50 By showing an adequate aesthetic
reaction, Odysseus is received as a guest, and he obtains the warm baths
and the delicate garments that the Phaeacians enjoy so much. Through
this friendly reception he regains his sex appeal, a fact that Nausikaa will
later reconfirm (457–462). After the third song (499–520), Odysseus reacts
with open lamentation; now he has completely regained his identity and
is opening himself up.
In the lines that follow, Odysseus competes with the Phaeacians in
their realm of singing. His Apologoi in Books 9 to 12 represent an aesthetic
performance which corresponds to the monumental Homeric tradition
that developed in the ninth/eighth centuries BC, and came to its final
stage in Athens with the reforms of Hipparchos.51 After the performance
of the third song, he is ready to reveal his identity: “I am Odysseus, son
of Laertes!” (9.19). Then he presents his story of adventures “like a singer”
(ὡς ὅτ’ ἀοιδός, 11.368). He acts comparably to a singer only because his
performance takes place in the recitation of the formalized hexameter.
47 As adjudicator and διαλλακτής, Solon, for example, is also an aisymnétes (from αἶσα
and μινμήσκω); later in the work of Aristotle, aisymnétes is the designation for a magis-
trate who, as an elected tyrant, must try to create balance. Elsewhere such “Wieder-ins-
Lot-Bringer” (“rectifiers”) are also called καταρτιστῆρες or εὐθυντῆρες (cf. Meier [1980] 102
n. 26 and index s.v. “Wieder-ins-Lot-Bringer”). Smoothing out the dance floor (8.260) is the
concrete counterpart to settling the dispute.
48 Cf. Mattes (1958) 97: “[E]s entsteht dadurch eine Zwangspause, die mit dem Glätten
des Tanzplatzes notdürftig ausgefüllt wird—von den Phäaken, nicht vom Dichter . . .”
49 On this subject, see Bierl (2001), esp. 12, 34 and index (Engl. [2009a] 2, 22 and
index).
50 Cf. Bierl (2001) 140–150 (Engl. [2009a] 116–125).
51 Cf. Nagy (2009/10) 1§§232–241.
124 anton bierl
The Second Song of Demodokos as Metapoetic Reflection of an

Agón between an Older and Newer Form of Epic—Fettering,
Choreía, and Mobility
Finally, we come to the second song of Demodokos. Here I suggest that

Demodokos refers back to the quarrel with Euryalos and to the ill will
which developed out of ὕβρις and ἀτιμία immediately before our song. And
it metapoetically refers to and anticipates the ongoing agón between the
singer Demodokos and Odysseus. Projected onto the mythic burlesque of
the gods, it deals with two opposing concepts of narrative poetry. The old
form is represented by the Phaeacians in general, who symbolize love and
romances (εὐναί), luxury, festivity, music, mobility, χοροί, and swiftness of
movement of the feet (8.246–249); these features are personified by Ares
and Aphrodite. The newer one is the actual Homeric tradition after the
regulation of the Panathenaia, embodied by the old and rather slow Odys-
seus, in the story itself, by the lame and ugly Hephaistos.
Furthermore, our song reflects the conflict between two cultural worlds,
an older and unregulated one, in terms of anthropology and poetology,
and a later, regulated one. In the song, one key motif is enchaining (δεῖν).
The fluid form of hymn, which is normally associated with ῥεῖν, ῥόος, and
ῥέα and which by functioning as a “connector” establishes the easily flow-
ing link between diverse themes and scenes, is tied up by the more rigid
form of a monumental performance in the style of recitation which cor-
responds to the mode of the Iliad and Odyssey as well as of the Apologoi
of Odysseus.52 This long, embedded narration in the first person generates
an inner epic reflecting the outer frame in the third person.
In addition, the poetological discourse in Demodokos’ second song is
overlaid with anthropological, cultural, and judicial layers. Moreover, the
concept of fettered gods is blended into the story.53 Ares as well as Aphro-
dite suffer such a binding in the cultic and mythic context.54 Both usually
form a couple, whereas the marriage between Aphrodite and Hephaistos
52 For the fluid form, see Nagy (2008/09) 191 (2§13). On the hýmnos as “connector,” see
Nagy (2008/09) 312 (2§270).
53 Cf. Meuli (1975); also Merkelbach (1971).
54 Cf. Burkert (1960) 134 n. 9; on Aphrodite, see Burkert (1985) 152–156, on Ares, 169–170.
In Il. 5.385–391, it is recounted how Ares is bound in a bronze jar by Ephialtes and Otos,
until he is finally freed by Hermes after thirteen months. Incidentally, Hermes himself
occasionally adopts the function of binding dangerous gods. In the free, mythic portrayal,
he could thus play as meaningful a role here.—I also thank Andrej Petrovic for sending
the text of his lecture “Images in Chains: the Case of Ares” (2007).
is only rarely documented. From the union of Aphrodite with Ares, Har-
monia is born, the personification of balance and reconciliation, which
should be achieved here also. The fettering of gods and their statues and
their release express the alternation between normality and exception.
The dangerous gods are enchained in order to “bind” or to avert them,
while during festivals of exception they are released.55 The utopía of Hades
very often represents the period before civilization in a subversive man-
ner. Accordingly, the idea of an uninhibited love is at least entertained in
such a scenario (cf. εὐναί [249]).56
Freedom is symbolized by the lightness of the feet in the dance of
the youths. When the clandestine intercourse with the god of war is
announced to Hephaistos, the lame cripple, in due course he invents a
ruse: he fabricates invisible chains, which are attached to the bed as a
trap. Odysseus also covertly transforms epic poetry into its new and fixed
shape later on. Sexual instinct makes the lovers go into the trap after the
god of forgery has feigned his absence. Now Hephaistos particularly wants
to achieve public testimony, and the emerging judicial practice of μοιχεία
is interwoven into this discourse.57 The clandestine couple is caught in
flagranti and will be bound naked. In this web of artificial threads, they
are exposed in a kind of fixed tableau. Their free mobility is “frozen” into
a close-up, and they cannot move or raise their limbs, a symbol which
also refers to choreía and sexuality (298). The cuckold is angry (304), a
trait that very well describes Odysseus, the “angry man” par excellence.58
With Hephaistos’ cry for help, he announces that the chains put an end
to adultery, and he calls for recompense demanding the dowry back (318–
319). Through this action divorce would definitely follow, another judicial
procedure. Furthermore, fettering implies force which triggers further
counter-violence. In the regulation of μοιχεία, the cuckold can kill his rival
who has been caught in flagranti.
For Hephaistos, the circumstances are ἀγέλαστα, since he has nothing
to laugh about (307). All of the manuscripts and Aristarchus have γελαστά,
while only one old variant has ἀγέλαστα. In oral performance and in
55 On Kronos and Saturnus in myth and cult of the Kronia/Saturnalia in the context of
festivals of exception, cf. Versnel (1993) 89–227, esp. 105, 114, 131, 142, 153–154.
56 In the aristocratic, epic version, which elevates everything onto the level of the sub-
lime, this trait is largely retracted into romanticism and adoration. Sexual propriety is
prevalent in the Phaeacian world, too, which Nausikaa especially embodies. The inversion
of this theme is exhibited in the form of adultery.
57 Cf. Alden (1997).
58 Cf. Bierl (2004), esp. 106–107, 110 with n. 25–26, 115, 120–121.
126 anton bierl
scriptio continua, no difference can be seen between ἔργ’ ἀγέλαστα and

ἔργα γελαστά (ΕΡΓΑΓΕΛΑΣΤΑ), another way to convey the ambivalence.59
What is bitter for him offers an occasion for laughter to the public, as will
be seen later in the analysis. It is a playful laughter, which sometimes tar-
gets consequences and can be used to reprehend and to punish.60 At the
same time, Hephaistos runs the risk of being laughed at himself. The θεοὶ
ῥεῖα ζώοντες (Od. 4.805 inter alia), who have come to serve as the general
public, burst into the famous Homeric laughter (Od. 8.326)—a feature of
the primordial and easy-going world when even laughter has not yet been
regulated. Moreover, they formulate a kind of bourgeois morality whence
the song has evolved according to Uvo Hölscher:61 “Evil deeds do not lead
to any good!” and “The slow gets hold of the fast!” (329). In these gnomic
sentences, we again recognize the key themes that could be read as proof
of a new and anti-aristocratic attitude.62 The swift man is disabled, the
slow one catches up with the fast and defeats him in an agón, and the
choreía, which constitutes the fluid form of hymn, has to yield to a regu-
lated poetics.
The specifically burlesque scene, the frivolous dialogue between Apollo
and Hermes (334–342), is set in a new frame. Hermes, as the phallic trick-
ster god who disrupts and transcends all boundaries, but who as epitér-
mios also watches over boundaries and as kátochos can bind evil-doers by
keeping them beneath the earth via magical spells, fits well here.63 When
he is asked whether he would not love to lie, even in chains, with golden
Aphrodite in bed (335–337), his answer is more than affirmative: even if
three times as many or innumerable chains were to hold him, and all of the
gods and goddesses were to watch them who now stay away out of shame,
he would love to do so (338–342). The result is roaring laughter (343). This
means laughter with the exceptional god, a “playful laughter,”64 which
does not do any harm. Only Poseidon, Odysseus’ enemy, tries to achieve
Ares’ release by promising a sum in compensation (344–348). Hephaistos,
however, responds that such bails are futile. He wonders how to “bind”
59 Cf. de Jong (2001) 208.

60 Cf. Halliwell (1991), esp. 282, 286–287.
61 Cf. Hölscher (1988) 271; cf. also Muth (1992) 19.
62 Cf. also Schmidt (1998), who reads the song as “Ausdruck [einer] ‘Theologie im
Umbruch’ ” (217).
63 Schmidt (1998) 210–211 does not view this scene with the second laughter as distinct
from the first laughter—here, too, he assumes aggressive mockery of Ares.
64 Cf. Halliwell (1991) 282.
him (the terminus is transferred to the judicial formula), as soon as Ares

escaped the fetters (350–353). Poseidon answers that he would guarantee
with his person (355–356). In this story we can see how an archaic judicial
system is replaced by a more developed, modern one. Bails can also “bind”
or oblige others. As an old father god, Poseidon vouches for a settlement
together with Zeus who stands above all. In this way, the anger too will be
bound, that is, a settlement will be achieved by payments.
Then the couple is released (8.359–360)—the danger for both is over.
Ares and Aphrodite, the embodiment of Phaeacian life-style, are set free
again, the chains are removed from their feet, and the couple goes off in
different directions; while Ares goes to Thrace (361), Aphrodite departs
to her temple on Paphos. In a long and typical scene, we see how she
is bathed, annointed, dressed, and prepared for new adventures of love
(362–366).65
Demodokos seems to believe that he might still stick to the archaic
order with such a solution as put forward by Poseidon.66 And in the con-
crete situation, the story mirrors Alkinoos’ endeavors to reach a settle-
ment.67 Odysseus will then defeat Demodokos in his regulated long song.
By his recitative mode he fascinates the Phaeacians. The burlesque story
seems to refer back to an old fairy-tale, in which the wife of a blacksmith
cheats on her partner with a sexton. The cuckold glues them together
while saying a magical spell. Then he chases them through the streets.68
Moreover, δεῖν is a terminus technicus of magic and spells to harm other
people. Instead of “fixing them down to the Underworld,” as it happens on
curse tablets, Hephaistos and the blacksmith of the fairy-tale bind them
in concrete terms and deactivate them by doing so. In addition, black-
smiths are often associated with gnomes, dactyls, and telchĩnes who are
65 These are the values of the easy-living Phaeacians (8.249). The warm baths and
clothes are then granted to Odysseus immediately after the reconciliation (8.438–456). The
reference (8.363–366) to the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite (58–63) should be evaluated less
as marked intertextuality (as Baumbach does in this volume), than as a typical and ever
recurring scene in the formulaic language of Homer with which the oral singer describes
Aphrodite’s homecoming and new erotic preparations. On the cluster of references, cf. also
Böhme (1970) 440 n. 2 (in relation to Iliad 14).
66 As in a hymn, the song subtly follows a cyclical logic. Ares and Aphrodite feel no
shame whatsoever, nor are they condemned. Both continue acting in accordance with
their characters. Some elements suggest that Aphrodite in her radiance is hymnically glori-
fied in the titillating scene. See also Hunter in this volume, esp. pp. 91–97.
67 Cf. also Schmidt (1998) 211–212.
68 Cf. Petersmann (1980) 52.
128 anton bierl
called góetes and mágoi in numerous instances.69 Hephaistos as master

blacksmith is one of these. In magical spells found on curse tablets, the
victims are bound to Hades, and direct violence is mediated; in our song,
we find a sort of aetiology of such a judicial mediation of violence in the
presence of aisymnẽtai.
The hymn triggers happiness in Odysseus, and this is Demodokos’ goal
(367–369). After the song, a detailed description of the chorus of ephe-
bes who accompany the song follows. The scene was probably acted out
in a mute way. Out of Alkinoos’ three sons, Klytoneos has already won
the foot race (Od. 8.123). Now the father calls for Halios and Laodamas to
dance a solo, since nobody would wish to compete with them (370–371).
They are the chorus leaders, the stars, while the group of young dancers
stands around them to admire them. Somehow they are analogous to
the two prima donnas Hagesichora and Agido in Alcman’s great Louvre-
Partheneion (fr. 1 Davies = 3 Calame).70 And we might wonder whether
Halios has something to do with Helios, who serves as a spy and plaintiff.
The sun and moon, which symbolize radiance (7.84–85), play an impor-
tant role among the Phaeacians.
69 In a fragment from the anonymous Phoronis (seventh/sixth century BC, fr. 2 Bernabé),
the Idaean Dactyls, the inventors of iron and Hephaistos’ art of metalworking, are identi-
fied as γόητες (translation: Bierl): ἔνθα γόητες / ᾿Ιδαῖοι Φρύγες ἄνδρες ὀρέστεροι οἰκί’ ἔναιον, /
Κέλμις Δαμναμενεύς τε μέγας καὶ ὑπέρβιος ῎Ακμων, / εὐπάλαμοι θεράποντες ὀρείης ᾿Αδρηστείης, /
οἳ πρῶτοι τέχνῃς πολυμήτιος ῾Ηφαίστοιο / εὗρον ἐν οὐρείῃσι νάπαις ἰόεντα σίδηρον / ἐς πῦρ τ’
ἤνεγκαν καὶ ἀριπρεπὲς ἔργον ἔτευξαν. “There the Idaean sorcerers, the mountain men of
Phrygia, had their housing: Heater, the great Hammerer, and the giant Anvil, the skillful
servants of Mount Adrasteia, who were the first to find dark iron in the mountainous val-
leys with the arts of crafty Hephaistos, and threw it into the fire and forged well-finished
armor from it.” Cf. also Pherekydes FGrHist 3 F 47 = Schol. Ap. Rhod. Argon. 1.1129: Δάκτυλοι
᾿Ιδαῖοι] ἓξ καὶ πέντε φασὶ τούτους εἶναι, δεξιοὺς μὲν τοὺς ἄρσενας, ἀριστεροὺς δὲ τὰς θηλείας.
Φερεκύδης δὲ τοὺς μὲν δεξιοὺς εἴκοσι λέγει, τοὺς δὲ εὐωνύμους τριάκοντα δύο. γόητες δὲ ἦσαν καὶ
φαρμακεῖς· καὶ δημιουργοὶ σιδήρου λέγονται εἶναι πρῶτοι καὶ μεταλλεῖς γενέσθαι. ὠνομάσθησαν
δὲ ἀπὸ τῆς μητρὸς ῎Ιδης, ἀριστεροὶ μέν, ὥς φησι Φερεκύδης, οἱ γόητες αὐτῶν, οἱ δὲ ἀναλύοντες
δεξιοί. “The Idaean Dactyls: it is said that there are six and five, the right ones male, the
left ones female. Pherekydes says that the right ones are twenty in number, and the left
thirty-two. They were góetes and magicians. It is said that they are the first blacksmiths
and that they became mountain people. They were named after the mother of Ida; the left
ones, as Pherekydes says, are the sorcerers among them, the right ones are the releasers.”
Cf. Bierl (2009b) 30–31; Wilamowitz (1895) 241–243 (= [1937] 31–33); on the use of καταδεῖν
on curse tablets, cf. Graf (1996) 110–111, on love binding-magic, 127, 161. Thus Hephaistos
tellingly goes as the “injuring party” to Lemnos to the Sintians (Od. 8.294), who are labeled
as góetes and are connected to this archaic world of Hephaistos’ magic. The name of the
Sintians, who as evil γόητες inflict injures, comes—according to Eratosthenes (Schol. bT
ad Il. 1.594)—from σίνειν.
70 Cf. Bierl (2001) 45–54 (Engl. [2009a] 31–38); (2007). On the cosmic dimension of the
Partheneion, cf. now Ferrari (2008).
Both choral leaders take the ball in alternation and throw it up into the
air. One leans backwards and tosses it way up, and the other catches it
with ease, still floating, before he reaches the ground (372–376). This scene
is full of choral self-references. The ball as σφαῖρα symbolizes the φιλότης
that has been the focus of the inner tale, and the tossing to the clouds
and the floating express the playful freedom of bodily movements.71 The
alternation of throwing and catching the ball could accompany the act of
μεταβαίνειν, which is a feature of the old hymnic poetics. One leaps from
one action to the next and interweaves the whole into a performance.
Finally, both dance on the ground and exchange in a reciprocal manner,
while the chorus groups around the dancing floor and rhythmically claps
to its movements (377–380).
By watching the uninhibited and graceful movements of the young
men, the aged Odysseus regains some of his former radiance and youth.
Nausikaa, the young girl in the χορός where she experiences her transition
to an adult woman, had helped him already to regain his sexual charisma.
The χορός is indeed the domain par excellence of the Phaeacians. Thus,
Nausikaa and her brothers are constantly associated with this occupation.
In the end, the alluded marriage between Nausikaa and Odysseus does
not take place, since the young girl would not really suit the non-dancer
Odysseus.72 As I have stressed before, the vivid, citharodic performance
draws on the accompanying chorus full of expression. Therefore, choreía
and choral self-references are particularly significant for understanding
Demodokos’ second song.
In Odysseus’ performance as singer of his own adventures in the dia-
chronically later form, movement is frozen, bound, and formalized. In
contrast, Demodokos, as the ideal model of Homer or the Homeric tradi-
tion, thus belongs to a remote past. Only Phemios at Odysseus’ home in
Ithaka is a similar aoidós, who plays the phórminx to his song and leads an
accompanying chorus (Od. 23.133–134; cf. 1.150–155).73 However, his songs
are comparable only to the historical stage of the first and third songs of
Demodokos.74
71 On the ball game in choral dance, cf. references in Schuol (2006) 148 n. 22. Likewise,
two acrobatic solo-dancers appear in a similar choral configuration on a cosmic dimension
in the Iliadic shield description (Il. 18.593–606).
72 Cf. the remark by Olga Davidson, cited in Nagy (2009/10) 1§216 n. 123.
73 Cf. also Od. 1.325–327 and 22.344–353.
74 On Phemios, Demodokos, and Odysseus, cf. now also Krummen (2008) from a narra-
tological and “poetological” perspective; the singer scenes would serve the whole narrative
for the purpose of broadening the perspective, systematizing, and ranking other narrative
130 anton bierl
The Song as Visual Node of the Monumental Web of the Odyssey
At the same time, the story, which is framed three times, forms a node of
all the threads that look backward and forward in the plot; by means of
the invisible chains forged by the artisan par excellence, the web is woven
or knitted together in a kind of visual tableau which reflects the total
monumental network on the exemplary level of the Olympian gods.
At the decisive point in the action, these chains tie up the threads of
the epic to a close-up and hold on the action; thus, this frozen picture
of both enfettered lovers metapoetically refers to and encompasses the
entire Odyssey. Hýmnos means “woven texture” and our “performance as
text.” In a mise-en-abyme, the plot comes to a standstill and moves for-
ward in dynamic processes after the release of the couple.
It is well known that Homeric epic connects single scenes into a com-
plex web. Nonetheless, the single passages knitted together in a historical
process remain visible by certain breaches and inconsistencies. Moreover,
one proceeds along the thread of action from scene to scene according to
a visual and associative poetics.75 In the form of a diachronic reprojection
into the poetic past, such a frozen picture is represented as an immobile
artifact that is released again into action immediately.
Recent research has shown clearly that the song about Ares and Aph-
rodite has numerous associations to the plot at various levels.76 There
are intra- and extra-discursive references to Odysseus. In the direct prag-
matic context, the resentment and the quarrel with Euryalos are put on
a different level to be acted out and settled.77 Laughter resolves the ten-
sion and creates reconciliation. The story also foreshadows the themes of
strands in the tradition. According to her opinion, Demodokos’ songs on Troy function as
a “Prooimion der Apologoi des Odysseus” (22). On the second song, cf. ead. 20–21. Cf. her
concise conclusion (21): “Insofern die Verführung der Aphrodite durch Ares auf diejenige
der Helena durch Paris verweist, die den troianischen Krieg ausgelöst hat, kann das zweite
Demodokoslied auch als Fortsetzung des ersten betrachtet werden und hat somit auch
eine poetologische Funktion.” Besides such a poetic, narrative, and technical function, I
stress here a metapoetic function at the same time. Though for what reason, according
to Radke (2007), esp. 43 n. 137 and 66, such a “metareflexive Bezugnahme” to the preced-
ing tradition should not be legitimate escapes me, unless one follows a seemingly closed,
Aristotelian construct, as she adopts from her teacher Arbogast Schmitt.
75 Bierl (2004).
76 Rose (1969a) lists 17 motifs. Thereafter Braswell (1982); Newton (1987); Brown (1989);
Olson (1989); Pötscher (1990); Zeitlin (1995) 128–136; Alden (1997); Schmidt (1998); de Jong
(2001) 206–208; Lentini (2006) 76–77.
77 Braswell (1982) and Schmidt (1998).
compensation and hospitality that are so relevant for the adventure sto-
ries as well.78
Odysseus accepts the Phaeacian superiority in the realm of the old χοροί
(382–384). In return for his compliments he receives compensation from
Euryalos in the form of a precious sword (396–415), clothes, and warm
baths (387–392, 424–456). These gifts are characteristic of the aesthetic
people of the beyond, and they grant him sex appeal. Nausikaa says fare-
well to him for the last time (457–468), while her tender love as well as
a potential marriage with her have been thematized before. Odysseus is
an underdog, an almost lame and stiff person who is in need of mobility.
At the very end, he reaches his goal of receiving passage to Ithaka. His
previous anger is compensated and sublimated, then eventually played
out. At the same time, the stranger will soon bind his hosts in the realm
of hospitality. Furthermore, the song anticipates the themes of sex and
suitors; most of all, it brings into focus the key motifs of marriage and
marital fidelity. According to Froma Zeitlin, the conjugal bed is the deci-
sive symbol in the Odyssey.79 In a poetics of “traditional referentiality,”
this σῆμα plays a central role in the narrative.80 Penelope, still faithful to
her husband, will act in front of the suitors to some extent like Aphrodite
when she tries to elicit gifts from them (18.158–301, esp. 18.189–196 and
18.209–213).
Most of all, the judicial crisis of the confused situation at home is intro-
duced momentarily. Penelope might become unfaithful or could remarry
since the time limit Odysseus had set when he left her has been exceeded.
In addition, the themes of the bed and conjugal chastity foreshadow the
central recognition scene, the τέλος of the whole narration.
In a simile the suitors, just as the two lovers Ares and Aphrodite, are
caught in a net like fish (22.383–389). Moreover, the song deals with a suit,
a case of litigation, with self-administered justice as well as with violence
and its mediation. In addition, the song focuses upon the central motif of
potential infidelity, which is also reflected in the foil of Klytaimnestra and
Helena during the Odyssey. Furthermore, the theme of a contest between
a slow and a swift god refers back to the quarrel between Odysseus and
Achilles narrated in Demodokos’ first song. This altercation is reflected
in Odysseus’ disgruntlement with Euryalos. Moreover, the net of threads
78 Most (1989); Renger (2006) 200–277; Bierl (2008).

79 Zeitlin (1995) 128–136.
80 Foley (1999).
132 anton bierl
recalls a wedding veil or the fabric that Penelope weaves for Laertes, and
the invisible web “pours” out (cf. χεῖν 8.278, 282) and spreads around the
bed, like the fog or the night. As I pointed out, this song deals with the
birth of civilization and moralization as well.
The hymn about Ares and Aphrodite represents a further step into the
past compared to the beginning and end of the Trojan myth, and imports
Odysseus’ story and his actual status in an indirect way. Such a fabric is
constituted by innumerable threads which lead in all different directions.
Moreover, it is well known that in a mythical example the references are
rarely unequivocal. Accordingly, our close-up exhibits ambiguous roles
and attitudes. Odysseus himself pursues double standards concerning
marriage and fidelity. Over a long period of time he has acted like Ares
(cf. 8.518) in the realm of war, particularly as a swift-footed hero, as well
as in sexualibus.
The hymn suggests that Odysseus should not only be paralleled with
Hephaistos, but that he stands between Ares and Hephaistos, between
βία and τέχνη, honesty and guile, between an old and new code of ethics,
between aristocratic values and seeking profit. After his mental and physi-
cal recreation, he aligns himself more with Ares when he slaughters the
suitors in an Iliadic passage in the twenty-second Book.
Binding will be a further key motif that Odysseus will use in the regu-
lated form of epic report of his adventures as well. To some extent, our
song of Ares and Aphrodite integrates Orphic and pre-Homeric traditions
that refer to cosmic love and cyclicity.81 Moreover, the couple of Ares and
Aphrodite is not only deactivated by the fetters; also, their love finds its
concrete expression in the absolute union of a sphere. Empedocles, who
has been associated with Orphic concepts,82 will introduce Philótes and
Neĩkos as the principles of cosmic developments. Neĩkos dissolves the
union of love, symbolized in the ball or sphaĩra,83 until we return to the
maximum of Philótes and Love after one turn. In the same way, the loos-
ening of the fetters dissolves the total union of a cosmic bond and helps
love to begin again on the basis of quarrel. Finally, the story of our song
has also aetiological traits.84
81 Cf. Nagy (2009/10) 1§208.

82 Riedweg (1995), and others.
83 Cf. Emp., esp. fr. 27–30 DK.
84 Cf. τὰ πρῶτ’ ἐμίγησαν Od. 8.268; contra de Jong (2001) 206: “The story is told ab ovo
(cf. τὰ πρῶτα) and chronologically.”
Conclusions
It is time to abandon the modern construct of the epyllion. Thus, it is

certainly more fruitful to speak of short and long, comic-subversive and
lofty-heroic epic songs. Shorter and subversive songs do not automatically
come into existence at a later stage. Such reasoning is heavily dependent
on nineteenth-century concepts of a progress of thought and ethics, as
canonized in books like Bruno Snell’s Die Entdeckung des Geistes (41975).
According to such thinking, the playfully subversive parodies and criticizes
the serious and heroic, and only the new mindset of the recently detected
individual can develop a modern attitude and ethics which are opposed
to the aristocratic and collective spirit of the past. On the contrary, the
burlesque and comic view has always existed along with the short poem.
It is even more probable that the short epic poem stands at the origin of
the longer forms. In an evolutionary model, we can now understand how
shorter songs were integrated into poems of monumental size. The song
about Ares and Aphrodite has certainly been incorporated for a long time
into the Homeric tradition, since it is perfectly fitted into the larger con-
text and has its own metapoetic function. In addition, as we have seen,
through this song we glide back to previous strata of epic song culture,
and the return to an archaic hýmnos is also reflected on the level of con-
tent. All in all, we have seen that Homer’s monumental and heroic epics
are the special, marked case, whereas the shorter and less-heroic songs in
hexameter are the general, unmarked case.
At this point, it is necessary to associate all the features that on the
surface spoke in favor of linking the song about Ares and Aphrodite to a
Hellenistic epyllion with much earlier historical strata, and to locate them
in the Homeric tradition itself.
1) The song seems to be a self-contained digression, but at a closer
inspection is well connected with the entire poem. Moreover, it has its
own poetic and metapoetic function. 2) The domestic and bourgeois set-
ting, the subversive point of view, and the light and playful tone are rooted
in a very old tradition, which is reflected in Hittite and other Near Eastern
poems, and not proof of a new and modern spirit. 3) Sex, adultery, and
punishment are typical subjects of these ancient epic forms. We find simi-
lar scenes for example in the Διὸς ἀπάτη (Iliad 14). 4) Near Eastern mythic
epics often represent such a perspective. 5) Mise-en-abyme and metapo-
etical considerations do not speak in favor of a modern self-awareness
but, as a matter of course, are a constitutive part of the Odyssey. 6–8) The
unusual manner of narration, especially its quick pace, is characteristic of
134 anton bierl
the much older mode of hýmnos into which the song regresses. The same
is valid for the song’s internal focalization and direct speeches which con-
vey a flavor of vivid dramatization. The immoral views of Hermes and
Apollo are typical of such very old and Near Eastern traditions, too. 9) The
setting in the primordial past and in the beyond reflects the very archaic
status of the hymn. 10–11) The artful design by a self-conscious artist and
references to motion, immobility, and circularity mirror the evolution of
the epic genre, and are not proof of a modern style of composition.
The anachronistic way of reading the song as a Hellenistic epyllion in
retrospect has serious editorial and hermeneutical consequences for the
Homeric text and disregards the song’s function in the whole composi-
tion of the Odyssey. In addition, we might wonder whether the Telchines
who reprehend Kallimachos jealously that he does not create a continu-
ous poem of monumental size (ἓν ἄεισμα διηνεγκές, Callim. Ait. fr. 1.3 Pf.)
are not, as addressed in the song of Ares and Aphrodite by Demodokos, a
remote reflection of Hephaistos and his góes-like companions, since they
try to enchain, domesticate, and “bind” the fluid hymn with magical spells,
and the result is the regulated Homeric epic. Moreover, we must ask if this
binding is not to be equated with the transposition of oral poetry into
the new medium of literacy.85 In addition, Kallimachos comes back to
compose hymns in the Homeric way—we have relatively late copies of
Homeric Hymns stemming from the fifth century BC. Thus Kallimachos’
hymns are somehow only “virtual” Homeric hymns, since they are char-
acterized by an “eternal deferral of epic” and a negation of the poetics of
a metábasis that leads to an epic-narrative section.86 Finally, Hephaistos
or the Telchines do not want to bind Kallimachos’ hymns any more, since
chorality is inscribed in the poetic text only as a literal trace.
85 Cf. Haase (2007) 45–63 on the Sirens, esp. 55 on binding.

86 Cf. Nagy (2008/09) 246–248 (2§§118–122).
Borderline Experiences with Genre:
The Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite between Epic, Hymn
and Epyllic Poetry
Manuel Baumbach
The strength of a genre established theoretically, if not historically, con-

sists in how well its criteria characterise a given family of texts and delimit
them from closely neighbouring genres. In the process distinctions
between hard and soft genre criteria can be drawn in texts that belong
to the “core” of a genre or those that hover on its peripheries and appear
to resist a clear genre attribution. With a glance at the epyllion, in this
respect reminiscent of the ancient novel of classical times—which like-
wise only experienced a post-antique, theoretical genre identification—
epyllia can be spoken of as “on the fringe.”1 Such texts are especially useful
for a theoretical definition of genre, since they both reveal their generic
boundaries and sharpen their contours. The Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite
(no. 5), a work which up to now has not been linked with the epyllion, is
an example of such a generic border crosser. Although the archaic hymns
have been individually named as possible precursors of the Hellenistic
epyllion, these sporadic references mostly embrace the Hellenistic hymns
of Callimachus, some of which were read as epyllia.2 That to date no
attention has been paid to the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite3 could well
depend upon its firm ascription to the genre of the hymn, or upon missing
intertextual relationships of “established” epyllia to the Hymn, or, in the
wake of the painstaking scholarly classification of epyllion as a Hellenistic
1 See Holzberg (22003).

2 Following Crump (1931), Gutzwiller (1981) 6 comments on epyllia: “I include in my list
of epyllia Hellenistic narrative hymns in hexameters. This is not only because as hexam-
eter poems they clearly belong to the epic genre, as do other epyllia, but also because they
display the same ironic approach to the Homeric world of heroes and gods.”
3 Fantuzzi (1998a) 32: “Fast alle diese Besonderheiten [i.e. of Hellenistic epyllia] hatten
ihr genaues Vorbild im nichtmonumentalen nachhomer[ischen] Epos: die Aitiologie im
«homer[ischen]» Demeter- und Apollonhymnos; die Vermenschlichung und die scherzÂ�
hafte Leichtigkeit im Hermeshymnos . . .” Likewise, in her short discussion of the Homeric
hymns as possible generic forerunners of the epyllia, Crump (1931) 7–8 does not mention
the Hymn to Aphrodite, but, instead, focuses on the hymns to Hermes und Apollo.
136 manuel baumbach
new creation, upon epyllion-research’s lack of interest in more precisely

examining possible archaic or classical precursors.
In what follows the linkage between the established epyllia and the
Hymn to Aphrodite should on both sides open new horizons for text mean-
ing and genre definition. They can be read both affirmatively as an expan-
sion of this genre by one text from the archaic epoch and negatively as a
criticism of a too restricted genre concept. Instead of establishing genre
boundaries, this genre concept revokes established (historical) lines of
demarcation and mixes them together in a concept of genre whose added
heuristic value must first be determined. This ambivalent result reflects
not only the scholarly treatments to date of this genre—one which has
its advocates as well as opponents—but also represents a point of depar-
ture for a basic consideration of the treatment of the Greek “little epic,”
to which research on the epyllion in any case has contributed and can
contribute in the future.
On the question of its genre membership, the Hymn to Aphrodite4
can be placed in a dialogue with three text families: first, with texts with
which it was grouped according to generic categories (of ancient or mod-
ern fabrication) or with which it was handed down and read (historical or
theoretical genre classification); second, with texts that the Hymn to Aph-
rodite itself invokes through intertextual references; third, with texts that
are related to the Hymn to Aphrodite by intertextuality and interpretation.
All three of these reference terms can, of course, interact and enable or
support a specific genre classification, but they can also indicate differ-
ences that point to a dynamic genre process or to various possibilities
of genre attribution. In this sense the “memory space” (Gedächtnisraum)
of the Hymn to Aphrodite can in the sense of Renate Lachmann’s genre
memory5 be measured in four stages.
1. The “Birth” of the Hymn to Aphrodite in Homeric Epic
The linguistic similarity of the Hymn to Aphrodite to the Homeric and

(less pronounced) to the Hesiodic epic has been often observed, whilst
the Hymn to Aphrodite is in all likelihood post-Homeric and post-Hesiodic,
4 The uniform designation Hymn to Aphrodite is not to be understood in the sense of

a fixed genre classification of the text as a hymn, but rather takes the convention into
account.
5 Lachmann (1990) 35: “Der Gedächtnisraum ist auf dieselbe Weise in den Text einge-
schrieben, wie sich dieser in den Gedächtnisraum einschreibt. Das Gedächtnis des Textes
ist seine Intertextualität.”
borderline experiences with genre 137
so that the intertextual interrelationships between the Hymn to Aphrodite

and the Homeric and Hesiodic epics are to be ascribed to the intentions
and effects of the Hymn to Aphrodite.6 From its very beginning, the Hymn
alludes to the epic tradition: the very first verse (Μοῦσά μοι ἔννεπε ἔργα . . .)
is reminiscent of the first verse of the Little Iliad and the Homeric Odyssey,7
which raises the recipient’s expectation of epic narrative—an expecta-
tion that is additionally fed by verbatim quotations from the Iliad and the
Odyssey.8 Through these intertextual links, which go beyond iterative verse
and formulaic speech and thus intentionally mark the presence of the
invoked texts, the Hymn to Aphrodite leads its recipients again and again
to the Homeric epic and thus awakens definite genre expectations for the
Hymn to Aphrodite, which thereby inscribes itself into this generic memory
space. This inscription happens not just selectively or situatively where
individual quoted verses develop their special effects from the “download-
ing” of specific Homeric situations, but rather from the use of intertextual-
ity that influences, even determines, the composition of the entire text.
It is conspicuous that the actual narrative of the Hymn to Aphrodite,
the love affair between Aphrodite and Anchises, which in verses 45–291
comprises the majority of the text, is “born” of an intertextual quotation
(verses 58–63):
ἐς Κύπρον δ᾽ ἐλθοῦσα θυώδεα νηὸν ἔδυνεν
ἐς Πάφον· ἔνθα δέ οἱ τέμενος βωμός τε θυώδης·
ἔνθ᾽ ἥ γ᾽ εἰδελθοῦσα θύρας ἐπέθηκε φαεινάς,
ἔνθα δέ μιν Χάριτες λοῦσαν καὶ χρῖσαν ἐλαίῳ
ἀμβρότῳ, οἷα θεοὺς ἐπενήνοθεν αἰὲν ἐόντας,
ἀμβροσίῳ ἑδανῷ, τό ῥά οἱ τεθυωμένον ἦεν.
Going to Cyprus, to Paphos, she disappeared into her fragrant temple; it is
there that she has her precinct and scented altar. There she went in, and
closed the gleaming doors, and there the Graces bathed her and rubbed her
with olive oil, divine oil, as blooms upon the eternal gods, ambrosial bridal
oil that she had ready perfumed. (transl. West [2003a])
The verses quote the end of Demodocus’ song about Ares and Aphrodite
in Odyssey 8.362–366; the text reminds its recipients of the Homeric epics
and the narratives embedded within as it transfers them into the Hymn
to Aphrodite:
6 See Faulkner (2008) 23–44 and Olson (2012) 17–21, who have compiled lists of the
linguistic indebtedness to, and verbal quotations from, Homer and Hesiod.
7 On the linguistic similarities to Hesiod’s Theogony (verses 1 and 114), see Faulkner
(2008) 71–72 and Olson (2012) 129–130.
8 Compiled by Faulkner (2008) 26.
138 manuel baumbach
ἡ δ᾽ ἄρα Κύπρον ἵκανε φιλομμειδὴς Ἀφροδίτη,

ἐς Πάφον· ἔνθα δέ οἱ τέμενος βωμός τε θυήεις.
ἔνθα δέ μιν Χάριτες λοῦσαν καὶ χρῖσαν ἐλαίῳ
ἀμβρότῳ, οἷα θεοὺς ἐπενήνοθεν αἰὲν ἐόντας,
ἀμφὶ δὲ εἵματα ἕσσαν ἐπήρατα, θαῦμα ἰδέσθαι.
And laughter-loving Venus [scampered off] to Cyprus and to Paphos, where
is her grave and her altar fragrant with burnt offerings. Here the Graces
bathed her, and anointed her with oil of ambrosia such as the immortal
gods make use of, and they clothed her in raiment of the most enchanting
beauty. (transl. Butler [1900])
The obvious intertextual linking through a quotation of five Homeric
verses in a row—which in addition to three verses from the Demodocus-
song of Ares and Aphrodite contains two verses from the Iliad (14.169 and
14.172), thus intensifying the dialogue with the Homeric epic—has signifi-
cant effects on the reception of the Hymn to Aphrodite.
The quotation invokes the Demodocus-song as a foil for the episode
narrated in the Hymn to Aphrodite. The recipient is meant to compare
the poem’s subsequent plot to the story of Ares and Aphrodite, both in
its structure and in its contents as well as in its intentional effects. At the
same time we have to keep an eye on the aemulatio of the Hymn to Aphro-
dite, which “counter-writes” a well-known Homeric episode, using creative
variations of features drawn from the Homeric model.
With regard to the contents and intentional effects, a few of the simi-
larities in both texts are readily observable: both narratives concentrate
on a limited number (two) of protagonists as well as on a mythical theme,
namely, the love union between two divinities or a goddess respectively
with a mortal. In both texts the female protagonist (Aphrodite) occupies
the narrative focus. Both narratives selectively renounce certain ethical-
religious behavioural norms, and, finally, both narratives comically pres-
ent material that ironically undermines established conventions: in the
Odyssey these features are explicitly invoked in the text through the
laughter of the gods as a staged effect9—compare the verses 307 (stim-
ulate the expectation of laughter through ἔργα γελαστά)10 and 343 (sat-
isfy the expectation through γέλως ὦρτ᾽). In the Hymn to Aphrodite the
9 On the uniqueness of this laughter in the Odyssey and the dialogue entailing differing
ethical-religious concepts in the Odyssey and the Iliad, compare Burkert (1960).
10 In verse 307 the mss. have “ἔργα γελαστά”, but the marginalia “ἀγέλαστα”; in an
oral performance culture there is scarcely a difference, and also in scriptua continua
(εργαγελαστα) the original meaning cannot be decided. Perhaps there is intentional ambi-
guity here: Hephaistos has nothing to laugh about, but the gods certainly do and are full of
fear of precisely this laughter provides the story with its framework:
Zeus orchestrates the union of love between Aphrodite and Anchises in
order to bring to an end her constant ironic ridicule of the other gods
(verse 49: ἡδὺ γελοιήσασα), and, after being united in love, Aphrodite
warns Anchises not to reveal their union (verses 276–290) since she—
without being explicit—appears to fear the spread of a story destined to
humiliate her. Her fear finds expression in Aphrodite’s alluding (verses
247–248) to the opprobrium that her liaison with Anchises will cause
her to suffer at the hands of the gods: what cannot remain hidden from
the omniscient immortals should remain unknown among mortals. The
union of love with a mortal undermines the authority of the goddess to
an even more pronounced degree than does her adultery in the Odyssey,
and insofar as the Hymn to Aphrodite ironically makes her transgression
public—and thus becomes a medium for the spreading of the scandal in
an ironic mode—it contributes to the undermining of her prestige.11
Thus in the dialogue between both texts, formal similarities (hexam-
eter, brevity of the narrative) as well as thematic and aesthetic effects
emerge that link the Hymn to Aphrodite with the epic. Therefore, it is
striking that the story of Aphrodite and Anchises told in the Hymn, in
contrast to the Ares-Aphrodite episode, is evidently an innovation12 with
which the poet inserts something new against known material embedded
in a known epic.
At the same time the story of Aphrodite und Anchises appears to be a
sequel to the Demodocus-song: the Hymn to Aphrodite includes an addi-
tional episode from Aphrodite’s love life after Demodocus has ended his
song to Aphrodite. The linking precisely at this point seems well chosen,
because Demodocus in the Odyssey will sing another song. For those
familiar with Homer, therefore, the text at this point does not indicate
Schadenfreude, for the lamest of them—as a little later he is called (verses 329–332)—over-
powers the strongest.
11 The question could be asked whether we are dealing here with an early example of
the “subversion of the archaic ideal,” as Gutzwiller (1981) 5 defines it for the Hellenistic
epyllion: “But all that is epic is transformed, and it is the transformation which is all impor-
tant. The epyllion is epic which is not epic, epic which is at odds with epic, epic which
is in contrast with grand epic and old epic values. There is an attempt to preserve epic
subject matter and the conventions of epic form, while inculcating a new style. Thus the
tone of high seriousness which was considered to be a characteristic of epic is gone. It is
replaced by the genial wit and childlike charm characteristic of the poetry of Callimachus
and Theocritus. Most basic to the transformation of epic in the Hellenistic epyllion is the
subversion of the archaic ideal.”
12 Compare Faulkner (2008) 135–137.
140 manuel baumbach
the ending of the rhapsodic presentation at the court of the Phaeacians.

Instead, it offers an intermission before the main narrative resumes. When
the Hymn to Aphrodite chooses the verses quoted above as an entry into
the narration of a new song, it inscribes itself into the Homeric epic, and
lends itself for a moment the appearance of being an additional song sung
by Demodocus or one that owes its inspiration to the Homeric singer.
By means of the situational reference to Demodocus’ performance, the
origin of the narrative of Aphrodite und Anchises in the song of Demodo-
cus and thus the “birth” of the Hymn to Aphrodite in the Homeric epic
are orchestrated. The latter lends the Hymn to Aphrodite its diction and
themes (Aphrodite’s union(s) of love). The Hymn thus points to its liter-
ary roots, back to the Homeric epic, from which it draws its language,
theme, and narrative technique. In this respect it is no coincidence that
the singer in the last verse (verse 293) of the Hymn to Aphrodite uses a
term, the reference to a new song (μεταβήσομαι ἄλλον ἐς ὕμνον), that is
similar to the expression that Odysseus employs following the song about
Ares and Aphrodite when he requests Demodocus to sing a new song: ἀλλ᾽
ἄγε δὴ μετάβηθι καὶ ἵππου κόσμον ἄεισον (Odyssey 8.492).13 As in the case
of Demodocus, one song succeeds the next, leaving the impression of a
basically unlimited sequence of (thematically different) songs presented
by the ecstatic singer in the Odyssey. By announcing additional songs, the
Hymn to Aphrodite, also points to the poet’s potential for singing these
songs. What these would amount to and which themes they might have
is not important and indeed is intentionally left open, since, in contrast
to the songs in the Odyssey, the Hymn to Aphrodite is not part of a larger
narrative which it might contribute to either structurally or thematically.14
With the aid of intertextuality, the Hymn to Aphrodite rather emphasises
the principle that poetry begets poetry, a principle it makes as much use
of for the genesis of the Hymn to Aphrodite itself as for the prospect of
composing an indefinite number of additional songs that will follow the
Hymn to Aphrodite and could be in part perhaps also thematically, struc-
turally and generically oriented upon it. The recipients participate in this
process: in the course of recognising the intertextual links in the act of
reading, they perceive the genesis of the song and comprehend their sig-
nificance. Through its inscription in the Odyssey the Hymn to Aphrodite
13 μεταβαίνω is a Homeric hapax, which intensifies the intended reference; see Faulkner
(2008) 298.
14 In reality, despite its length, it could function even as a kind of “pre-song” for longer
(Homeric) epics.
furthermore expands its sphere of influence, since all recipients with pre-
cise knowledge of the Hymn to Aphrodite are present at a performative
recitation of the Odyssey or the Demodocus-song—in a fashion similar to
that of later readers—and will be reminded of the history of Aphrodite
and Anchises that suggests itself as a possible sequel to verses 8.362–365.
2. The Hymn to Aphrodite and the Tradition of Hymns
The suggested interpretation of the Hymn to Aphrodite as a text that, in a

dialogue with the Homeric epic, evolves anew on the art of short narration
has so far been restricted to the epic introduction of the form of short-epic
narrative through which it involves its recipients in the genesis of this
form, a reflexion poem, and verses 45–293. It remains to question how far
the verses prior to the short-epic comprising the Aphrodite-Anchises nar-
rative can be harmonised with the reading outlined above. On this point,
two observations:
a) The Hymn to Aphrodite was handed down from antiquity within the
collection of the Homeric hymns. This has determined the firm allocation
of the text to the genre of the hymn up to the modern period. Neverthe-
less, it was early recognised that the Hymn to Aphrodite differs from other
hymns in the collection since in its secular character it pays less homage
to a divinity than to the human race, the descendants of Aeneas.15 Viewed
thematically, the text thus stands between the cultic hymn and the heroic
aristeia, and can be regarded as a secular creation myth.16 The theme of
the narrative of Aphrodite and Anchises appears to defy a clear classifi-
cation in the hymn tradition. This area of tension is revealed also in the
“hymnal” introductory verses, where the godhead is initially invoked or
introduced and placed in her position of power and sphere of influence.
At this point the text employs an artistic structure in which the grow-
ing power of the goddess is formally depicted through the increase of the
words describing her respective area of control. The text thereby imitates
her expanding power, which in spatial aspect increases from top to bot-
tom and whose terminus in a proleptic manner emphasises that the nar-
rative’s purpose lies in the earthly sphere:
15 See, among others, Reinhardt (1956) 1 and Olson (2012) 1–9.

16 Walcot (1991) 138–139; also see Faulkner (2008) 10 in favour of a reference to historical
Aeneidae, and, more sceptical, Olson (2012) 8–9.
142 manuel baumbach
Aphrodite’s Domain Linguistic Figuration

Verse 2: gods (θεοῖσιν) [a word]
Verse 3: human beings (φῦλα καταθνητῶν [a verse]
ἀνθρώπων)
Verses 4–5: animals (θηρία πάντα) [2 verses]
Chart 1
Thus verse 6 establishes Aphrodite’s sphere of influence as apparently

reaching over the whole cosmos: πᾶσιν δ᾿ ἔργα μέμηλεν ἐυστεφάνου ΚυθεÂ�
ρείης.
However, instead of segueing to a hymnal praise of this area of domina-
tion in the succeeding song and—as usually occurs in many other Homeric
hymns—illustrating the work of the godhead by means of one (or several)
chosen examples, the goddess is immediately undermined: after she is
set up as a comprehensive power, precisely this capacity is challenged in
verses 7–35. The initial hymn to Aphrodite is interrupted by three short
hymns that introduce three other goddesses wielding dominance in fixed,
unlimited spheres of influence which are located respectively in one of the
three spheres of the cosmos that were previously allocated to Aphrodite:
Verses 8–15: Athena (γλαυκῶπιν Ἀθήνην) Human Sphere

Verses 16–20: Artemis (Ἀρτέμιδα χρυσηλάκατον κελαδεινήν) Animal Sphere
Verses 21–33: Hestia (Ἱστίῃ) (Godly Sphere)17
Chart 2
Instead of praising Aphrodite, the Hymn to Aphrodite thus initially gen-

erates three short hymns to other goddesses with which the praise and
influence of Aphrodite are undercut in precisely the same narrative form
in which her area of control would normally be extolled. In this respect
the hymnal entry performs thematically something very similar to the
succeeding narrative about Aphrodite and Anchises, which Zeus uses to
question the authority of the goddess. The hymnal beginning and the nar-
rative following pursue the same goal; they achieve the same effect by
17 This aspect is emphasised by Zeus through the comparatively lengthy narrative posi-
tioning of the goddess and her honour among the gods; she is—in contrast to the first two
goddesses—honoured equally among humans and gods; see also Faulkner (2008) 116.
different narrative means. What in some stages of earlier research was

dismissed as a lapse of taste18 thus in dialogue with the main part of the
Hymn to Aphrodite turns out to have an important narrative function.
b) The hymnal beginning is also closely related formally to the short-
epic narration that succeeds it, whose “birth” in the Homeric epic is the-
matised by intertextual links. In a very similar manner the beginning of
the Hymn to Aphrodite appears also to stage the “birth” of the hymn tradi-
tion from the same epic tradition: as the Demodocus-song lends the short
epic of Ares and Aphrodite its first words, the beginning of the Odyssey
also lends the three short hymns in the Hymn to Aphrodite its first verse.
Thus both parts of the Hymn to Aphrodite are intertextually linked with
the literary tradition of the epic from which it linguistically and themati-
cally develops. And as the short epic portion of the Hymn to Aphrodite is
first linguistically inscribed in the epic tradition in order to free itself from
it (this is seen structurally), the three short hymns at the beginning of the
Hymn to Aphrodite also serve a similar function: ostensibly, the putative
hymnal language about Aphrodite is initially praise of other deities, but
then it develops above all into praise of a human race that capitalised
upon her strict injunctions to secrecy placed upon Anchises as a means of
gleefully spreading the scandal in the new form of the “hymn.”
It can therefore be concluded that the Hymn to Aphrodite uses estab-
lished genre forms (epic and hymn) to define a new narrative form that
shares with both genres formal and thematic criteria, but which can actu-
ally be assigned to neither: the new form is neither epic in the Homeric
sense of the heroic epic nor hymn in the sense of a (cultic) song of praise
of a godhead, such as is represented by the other four long Homeric hymns
that form an epic subgenre of its own. The Hymn to Aphrodite in truth uses
a mixture of the genres or subgenres for the generation of a new poetic
narrative form that can be accurately described using the genre criteria of
the epyllion. This result leads back to the question posed at the beginning,
18 On lack of taste see Ludwich (1908) 258: “Jedenfalls war der Reformator [i.e. the
author of the Hymn] kein Dichter von Gottes Gnaden. Am allerseltsamsten berührt die
WahrnehÂ�mung, dass ihm sein Lobgesang zu einem wahren Spottliede gerathen ist, nicht
aus bösem Willen—denn hierauf deutet nichts—, sondern aus reinem Unvermögen und
Ungeschick. Er will ‘die Thaten’ (ἔργα) der Liebesgöttin singen, ihre unwiderstehliche, alle
Götter, Menschen und Thiere bezwingende Macht. Und was geschieht? Erst spricht er
ausführlich von drei Misserfolgen, die ihr Athene, Artemis und Hestia bereiteten, dann
noch viel ausführlicher von der schlimmen vierten Niederlage, die Zeus wegen der zahl-
reichen Liebschaften, in die sie ihn samt anderen Unsterblichen mit sterblichen Frauen
verstrickt hatte, über sie selbst verhängte, indem er sie in den schönen Hirten Anchises
verliebt machte.”
144 manuel baumbach
whether in the Hymn to Aphrodite we are dealing with an earlier form of

this genre or whether it makes sense to transfer the criteria of the epyllion
chiefly defined from Hellenistic texts to pre-Hellenistic texts.
3. The Hymn to Aphrodite and the “Birth” of the Genre Epyllion?
If the principal (hard and soft) generic criteria offered by the differ-
ent scholarly works on the genre “epyllion” are applied to the Hymn to
Aphrodite, it is apparent that according to almost all definitions of this
genre in modern research, the Hymn to Aphrodite must be called an epyl-
lion, even an almost perfect epyllion that could bear comparison with
Catullus Carmen 64: in its hexametrical epic form, as well as with regard
to formal criteria such as its relative brevity, and the diverse thematic,
narratological, or even gender-specific parameters of epyllic narrative, the
Hymn to Aphrodite appears as an almost ideal epyllion; even the glimpse
into the future of the protagonists at the poem’s end would be regarded as
typical for the later epyllia.19 In tabular form20 the following genre charac-
teristics could be represented as follows:
A) Formal Genre Characteristics of the Epyllion Hymn to Aphrodite

Poetry text, mostly hexameter (distich also possible) Hexameter poetry
Relative brevity (200–500 verses) 293 verses
Delight in ecphrastic displayÂ€/Â€series of metaphors Observation of the goddess
(verses 55–65; 81–91)
Lengthy character dialogue Verses 92–292 (interruption
in verses 155–176)
Mixture of different genre elements Hymn, epic
Rapid, compressed narrative manner Journey of the goddess
(verses 61–80); Love scene
(verses 155–176)
Chronological narrative At verse 45 the story begins
with typical temporally
indefinite localisation (v. 48
ποτ᾿; v. 54 τότ᾿)
19 Compare, for example, the definition offered by Merriam (2001) 2–3: “Usually the
author of an epyllion will include some sort of look into the future of the main characters
in his poem . . . while the epic traditionally tells the tales of heroic action in war or on great
quests, the epyllion exists to fill in the gaps in the myth . . . In many ways, the epyllion
presents a ‘back-door’ view into the heroic myths.”
20 Such a list of theoretical generic criteria and their application to specific texts runs
the risk of circular argumentation and the pigeonholing of literature, which is of course
not the intention here. In fact, questions as to the boundaries and the possibility of a genre
are more likely to arise from such an application.
B) Thematic Genre Characteristics of the Epyllion Hymn to Aphrodite

Mythological theme Aphrodite and Anchises
Focus on small number of protagonists Two (goddess and hero)
Focus on a specific plot/deed Love scene
Tendency to psychological analysis of gods Love theme
and mortals
Gods behaving like humans Love sceneÂ€/Â€human form
of the goddess
Renunciation of (Homeric) heroic ethic and Theme of love
themes of war
Reinforcement of the heroine Aphrodite
Future prospects for the protagonists The fate of Anchises and
Aeneas
Focus on minor characters or peripheral Anchises (in Homer scarcely
versions of the myth present)
Comic design, undermining the stock ethos (irony) a) Undermining with small
hymns
b) Undermining with
intertextuality
Reference to the Ares and
Aphrodite song in the
Odyssey
Chart 3
The above characteristics lend support to Crump’s (1931) generic classi-

fication of the epyllion in the tradition of the archaic hymn (25): “The
Greek epyllion is an outcome of the tradition which took rise in the
Homeric hymns.” Thus, the genre of the epyllion would be enriched by
one archaic text, and a new question would arise as to whether this text
itself stood in such a genre tradition and whether other (Hellenistic) epyl-
lia would have reacted to it in the form of a possible genre memory. In
order to speak of a possible genre understanding for the archaic world,
we need to find at least two texts that share specific genre characteris-
tics. Given the state of the extant tradition, such a text family does not
exist, since neither in the surviving Homeric hymns nor in the epic can
a comparable text exhibiting the characteristics of the Hymn to Aphro-
dite be found. However, the existence of such a text family cannot be
completely ruled out, especially since with the Demodocus-song about
Ares and Aphrodite a text is found that within the Odyssey possesses
a specific kind of independence that points to an established tradi-
tion of short-epic poetry: for whereas the two previous and subsequent
Â�Demodocus-songs contain in supplementary fashion and chronological
structure different episodes of the Trojan War (in each case with focus on
146 manuel baumbach
the deeds of Odysseus while he listens), the song about Ares and Aph-
rodite has nothing to do with the events of the Trojan War nor with the
events in the Phaeacian Court nor with (at least not explicitly) the course
of the action of the Odyssey. The discussion between unitarians and ana-
lysts over the status of this song is well-known and controversial. The dis-
cussion hinges on whether it is a “digression”21 or an interpolation; either
it has a narrative function within the epic narrative22 (the unitarians’ posi-
tion) or it is a later interpolation23 and unnecessary embellishment that
interrupts the flow of the plot (the analysts’ position). Without having
to take a position on this question, it is clear that the Hymn to Aphrodite
precisely interfaces intertextually with an episode that is characterised by
means of its particular independence within the large epic narrative.
If this point is linked to the observations made above on the Hymn to
Aphrodite’s inscribing in or “de-scribing” out of the Homeric epic for the
purpose of developing a new form of the little epic narrative, then this
linking appears almost programmatic: the Hymn to Aphrodite alludes to
its (compared to the Homeric epic) new type of narrative art by giving its
own independent form to a short epic narrative that was sketched out, but
not consistently developed, in the Homeric epic. Furthermore, by means
of the intertextual dialogue with the Demodocus-song the Hymn to Aph-
rodite was able to establish a text family that shares specific formal and
thematic features. In this sense the Demodocus-song could be understood
as a proto-epyllion. An additional observation follows: just as the Hymn to
Aphrodite creates its independent little epic narrative from the dialogue
with a narrative that can be read as an interpolation in the Homeric epic,
the narrative of Aphrodite and Anchises operates with two interpolations
whose connection with the plot has generated a great deal of discussion.24
If we include them in the above-mentioned systematic discussion of the
Hymn to Aphrodite with the narrative art of Demodocus as an example of
the creative handling of Homeric narrative technique, then both interpo-
lations are autoproductively readable as unexecuted empty spaces (Leer-
stellen) for additional epic poems, perhaps even “epyllia.” For the story of
21 Gaisser (1969) provides a list of the so-called “digressions” with references to their
possible functions.
22 The theme of adultery could for Odysseus, separated from his wife, function as a
warning and serve to build suspense in the story of his homeward journey.
23 Compare especially the marginalia to Ar. Pax 778: σημειοῦται δὲ ταῦτα ὁ Μόχθος πρὸς
τοὺς ἀθετοῦντας τὴν ἐν Ὀδυσσείᾳ Ἄρεως καὶ Ἀφροδίτης μοιχείαν.
24 See Segal (1986).
Zeus and Ganymede (verses 203–217) and the story of Eos and Tithonos
(verses 218–246) are two short stories inserted into an epyllion whose
themes (love between a godhead and a mortal human) are related to the
text which develops them. Likewise in dealing with myths not realised in
epic form this text could refer analeptically to independent, nonextant
(cult) songs similar to Hymn to Aphrodite or songs that have the potential
in this (epyllic) way to be executed poetically. Read in this manner, the
Hymn to Aphrodite would not only refer analeptically to a proto-epyllion
as a literary transparency, but would also refer proleptically to additional
possible epyllia. These new texts would share the theme of seemingly
impossible love relationships between humans and gods, and—at least in
the case of Aphrodite and Eos—thematise a scandal that from the point
of view of the figures involved ought not to be put into words: for just as
Eos encloses the perpetually ageing Tithonos in the bed chamber she has
long since abandoned and counts upon the gods as well as humans to
forget this love relationship that is so shameful for her, Aphrodite forbids
first herself, then Anchises, to speak openly about their love. Verbalising
this holding of the peace, saying the unsaid or the unsayable, could have
been a part of the poetic programme of these earlier “epyllia.”
4. From Epyllion to Little Epic—the Boundaries and Perspectives

of Genre Discussion
For a more searching classification of the Hymn to Aphrodite within the

genre epyllion, direct reception evidence from later epyllia with intertex-
tual references to the Hymn would be helpful. However, to date no texts
that can be considered Hellenistic or imperial epyllia have been found,
so that the Hymn to Aphrodite seems not to have played any role in the
sense of a genre-memory “epyllion.”25 To be sure, authors of Hellenistic
epyllia knew and repeatedly cited the Hymn, but not specifically in those
texts that in the discussion of genre are classified as epyllia. Thus if one
does not wish to appeal only to the theoretical genre definition of the
epyllion as it has been rendered up to now in the secondary literature
and to define the Hymn to Aphrodite purely schematically on the basis
of specific formal and thematic epyllic characteristics as an archaic epyl-
lion that would expand the history of genre, then the question arises as
25 For references to Callimachus and Apollonius Rhodius, see Olson (2012) 24–25.
148 manuel baumbach
to the added value of this genre classification as compared to the tradi-

tional classification of the Hymn as belonging to the genre of the hymn.
Or to put the matter somewhat differently: do we understand the Hymn
to Aphrodite differently if we read it as an epyllion, or do we experience
for the genre of the epyllion something new if we expand it to include
the Hymn? Without providing a definite answer, our consideration of the
Hymn to Aphrodite as an epyllion in the context of both questions opens
new insights into epic narrative art in the archaic epoch and its possible
aesthetic intentions beyond established genre allocations. In the Hymn
to Aphrodite, differing genre expectations are fulfilled or discussed so
that a game is played with the rules of epic narrative whose appeal can-
not or should not be inferred precisely from a rigid allocation to a genre.
Exactly as Zeus on the thematic level manages what previously could not
be managed by making Aphrodite the victim of her own art, the Hymn to
Aphrodite as text melds different forms of epic poetry into the creation
of a little epic. The genre of epyllion is well suited to take this potential
more forcefully into account than has been done previously, but less as
an independent genre designation than as a generic term for little epic
narration whose special features only begin to emerge in a dialogue with
the large epic as well as with other little epic forms. This newly defined
epyllion finally seeks to continue this double dialogue itself by providing
intentional effects like origin, inspiration or point of departure for addi-
tional large or little epic poems:
σέο δ᾽ ἐγὼ ἀρξάμενος μεταβήσομαι ἄλλον ἐς ὕμνον. (Hymn to Aphrodite, v. 293)
After beginning from you [= Aphrodite] I will pass over to another song.
(transl. West [2003a])
Rhapsodic Hymns and Epyllia1
Ivana Petrovic
1. The Origins of Hellenistic Short Hexameter Narratives
The term ἐπύλλιον was used in various literary contexts in antiquity and
in the modern age.2 In modern classical scholarship, “epyllion” came to be
used as a technical term for a body of poetry.3 Presently it is assumed that
ancient Greek poems we call epyllia constitute a genre. We came to asso-
ciate a set of formal and thematic characteristics with this body of poetry,4
but scholars disagree in regard to the question of which characteristics are
the most important.5 However, “short hexameter narrative on mythologi-
cal subjects” seems to be a description which satisfies all tastes.
Since most transmitted poems from the Hellenistic period are short
and, to use Gutzwiller’s neat characterisation, most are “written in the
manner of the slender Muse of Callimachean poetics,”6 we tend to see the
poems we call epyllia and correspondingly epyllion as a genre as typical
1 My warmest thanks is due to the participants of the conference and to colleagues
who have read and commented on the various drafts of this paper: Egbert Bakker, Peter
Bing, Marco Fantuzzi, Barbara Graziosi, Richard Hunter, Melissa Mueller, Gregory Nagy,
and Andrej Petrovic.
2 See Tilg in this volume.
3 The body of Greek poetry classified as epyllia is by no means static. Some scholars
restrict the corpus drastically—Gutzwiller (1981) for instance discusses the following: The-
ocritus’ three poems on Heracles, Callimachus’ Hymn to Demeter and Hecale, Moschus’
Europa, and the fragmentary Epithalamium of Achilles and Deidamia. Others, like Fan-
tuzzi (1998a), are less restrictive and consider even elegiac narratives worthy of admis-
sion: Moiro’s Mnemosyne, Philetas’ Hermes, Telephos, Demeter, Alexander Aetolus’ Halieus,
Kirka; Hedyle, Skylla, Simias’ Apollon, Callimachus’ Hecale, Galateia, Glaukos; Theocritus
13, 18, 22, 24, (25), 26; Nikainetos’ Lyrkos, Eratosthenes’ Hermes, Anterinys, Erigone; works
of Euphorion, Moschos’ Europa, Parthenius’ Anthippe, Heracles, Bion’s(?) Epithalamium of
Achilles and Deidamia.
4 Cf. Baumbach in this volume, pp. 144–145.
5 Scholars have singled out the following characteristics as specific for epyllion: long
speeches (Crump [1931] 22); ecphrasis and/or digression (Crump [1931] 23; 100; Hollis
[22009] 25; Toohey [1992] 10). Some see the emphasis on female characters and their plight
and emotions as specific for epyllion (Jackson [1913] 41; 46–50; Merriam [2001]); others still
emphasize the humorous tone (Crump [1931] 6–7; Fantuzzi [1998a] 32) and subversion
(Gutzwiller [1981]).
6 Gutzwiller (1981) 5.
150 ivana petrovic
products of the Hellenistic period.7 So circular arguments abound and

could be summarized as:
– Transmitted Hellenistic poetry is slender, refined, allusive, short(ish).

– Epyllion is slender, refined, allusive, short.
– Epyllion is a typical product of the Hellenistic period.
Each of three lines can be used as first, middle and last.

The fact that there is a fair number of transmitted hexameter narra-
tive poems from the Hellenistic period brings Cameron (1995) 447–453
to an entirely different conclusion. Taking inscriptional evidence into
account as well, he concludes that short hexameter poems in the epic
mode on local cults and myths, encomia of local aristocrats and epitha-
lamia, epicedia and other occasional poetry must have been ubiquitous
in the Hellenistic period. Only a fraction (perhaps the best?) of these sur-
vived. If we take inscriptional evidence of the festivals into consideration,
we must conclude that many short hexameter narratives were composed
and often performed in the Hellenistic period. Are we to assume that the
whole genre of short hexameter narratives originated and spread like a
wild fire at one point in the early Hellenistic Period? Perhaps such poems
from the Hellenistic Period happen to be transmitted, whereas the textual
tradition and the sources for the Archaic and Classical Periods simply do
not provide much information about short hexameter narratives. How-
ever, there is some evidence for early short hexameter narratives, notably
the longer Homeric hymns and the ps.-Hesiodic Shield of Heracles. These
texts were sometimes mentioned as similar to Hellenistic epyllia8 or even
as possible models.9
7 Ambühl (2010) provides a sensible and balanced discussion of the generic criteria thus
far argued for “epyllia” and their methodological pitfalls.
8 Fantuzzi (1998a). Crump (1931) 7–8 and Gutzwiller (1981) 8–9 mention Homeric
hymns as possible models of Hellenistic epyllia. On the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite see
Baumbach in this volume. Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004) 193 argue that the shorter narrative
units of the rhapsodic tradition and shorter Hesiodic poems were important influences
in the genesis of the Hellenistic tradition of narrative. Tilg (this volume) has unearthed a
whole new chapter in the history of the term “epyllion.” In German scholarship, this term
was probably first applied to the Homeric Hymn to Hermes and the Batrachomyomachia
in Karl David Ilgen’s 1796 edition of the Homeric Hymns. In nineteenth-century German
scholarship, almost all short hexameter narrative poetry is referred to as “epyllia.” Modern
classical scholarship seems to have ignored this completely.
9 Cameron (1995) 447–453, Fantuzzi (1998a), and Bing in this volume discuss the
ps.-Hesiodic Shield of Heracles.
rhapsodic hymns and epyllia 151
In this paper, I will posit that the longer Homeric hymns can be viewed
as both the earliest extant examples of epyllia and important models for
the Hellenistic epyllia. In the first step, I will discuss the peculiar position
the Homeric hymns have in the body of Greek hieratic poetry and will
argue that they are essentially different from cult hymns. Subsequently, I
will posit that the Hellenistic poets embraced the longer Homeric hymns
as important—perhaps even the most important—model for their own
short hexameter compositions. Finally, I will also address the possible
reasons for this unique position which Homeric hymns had in Hellenistic
poetry.
2. The Terminology: “Epyllia” and “Prooimia”
Classical scholarship tends to regard monumental epics such as the Iliad

and the Odyssey as prime representatives of archaic Greek poetry. Short
hexameter narratives like the Homeric hymns are products of parallel tra-
ditions. It has been suggested that the Homeric hymns (save the Delian
part of the Homeric Hymn to Apollo) and Hesiodic epic belong to a con-
tinental branch of rhapsodic poetry, which is seen as separate and par-
allel to the Ionic epic branch.10 According to Janko (1982) 196–200 this
would not pertain to the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite, which he places in
an Aeolic poetic branch (together with the Cypria). These theories testify
to the readiness of some scholars to perceive the Homeric hymns not as
derivative in relationship to the Homeric epic, but as a separate tradition,
parallel to that of monumental epic poetry.11 The longer Homeric hymns
are a product of this separate tradition, but it does not stop with them.
Later short hexameter narratives—poems we call epyllia—are also its
products.
The label προοίμιον, which was sometimes in antiquity applied to the
Homeric hymns,12 aligns them with epyllia in an interesting way: the
10 Pavese (1972) 111–165, (1974), (1998) 73–84.

11 Some argue that hymns are actually prior to epic (for instance Durante [1976]), and
some that they are independent from and parallel to epic (cf., e.g., de Hoz [1964]; Pavese
[1972], [1974], [1998]; Clay [1989], [1997]). Pavese (1998) 73 n. 13 uses a neat comparison in
order to explain his view (that the rhapsodic epic poems other than Homer’s are indepen-
dent from the Homeric poems, but depend on the rhapsodic tradition as a whole): “[T]he
non-Homeric poems are related to the Homeric ones as brothers, so to speak, not as sons,
inasmuch as all the poems are sons of the rhapsodic epic tradition as a whole, the Ionic
ones of the Ionic branch and the continental ones of the continental branch.”
12 See the discussion of the term in Clay (1997) 494–498 with further literature.
152 ivana petrovic
names of both genres intimate some sort of dependence on epic poetry. In

classical scholarship, “epyllion” is taken to mean “small epic,”13 and schol-
ars employ it to label a poem which is stylistically and/or thematically a
derivative of epic poetry. Incidentally, in classical scholarship “prooimion,”
too, is taken to imply some sort of association with the epic as the term
has been interpreted as a reference to the performance context of the
hymns. F.A. Wolf proposed the still prevalent interpretation of the word
“prooimion” when he argued that the hymns were performed as preludes
to the recitation of Homer at contests and festivals.14 προοίμιον has been
interpreted as designating compositions which come before (πρό) the song
(οἴμη), or those that are the first οἴμη in a sequence.15 Others argued that
προοίμιον means “the front part of the song.”16 If we pay attention to the
way Hesiod used hymns at the beginning of his epics, we will see that a
rhapsodic hymn can both be an essential part of the composition and the
first song in a sequence: the Theogony opens with a sequence of hymns and
is itself sometimes also viewed as one elaborate hymn.17 The first 150 lines,
which are often referred to as Hymn to the Muses, cannot be separated
from the rest of the composition, since they contain the summary and
an explanation of what is to follow. Conversely, the Hymn to Zeus at the
beginning of the Works and Days seems to be less firmly attached to the
rest of the epic. Already in antiquity it was observed as detachable from
the rest of the narrative and it was left out in some editions of the poem.18
προοίμιον was obviously a fluid concept as the hymn at the beginning of
a rhapsodic performance could be more or less firmly attached to what
was to follow. The Hellenistic reception of the Homeric hymns is also a
testimony to this, as it demonstrates both a tendency to model a stand-
alone poem on a Homeric hymn19 and to place a piece closely modelled
13 For the meaning and usage of the term “epyllion” in antiquity, see Tilg in this
volume.
14 Wolf (1795/1985) 112–113.
15 Clay (1997) 495–496. Allen/Halliday/Sikes (21936) xcv propose an attractive solution
to this problem and liken “prooimion” to terms such as “prélude” or “ballade,” which have
lost their proper meaning.
16 Koller (1956) 191 and Nagy (1990) 353. Nagy (2008/09) 226–246 expands this argument
and discusses the relationship of prooimion and hymnos with the conclusion that the
word “prooimion” refers only to the start of the performance continuum, whereas the word
“humnos” refers to both the start of the continuum and the continuum itself.
17 Nagy (2008/09) 192–196 argues that the Hesiodic Theogony defines itself as one single
continuous gigantic ὕμνος that flows perfectly.
18 See West (1978) 137 (commentary at vv. 1–10).
19 See section 5 of this paper.
on Homeric hymns at the beginning of a longer narrative. For instance, it

has often been noted that the beginning of Aratus’ Phaenomena is closely
modelled on Hesiod’s Works and Days. Both works open with a Hymn to
Zeus, and both hymns are ultimately modelled on the hymnic prooimion.
Apollonius’ Argonautica opens with a hymn to Apollo. Both Aratus and
Apollonius employ the typical generic opening verb ἄρχομαι in the first
line,20 thus unmistakably alluding to the opening of the hymnic prooimia.
Apollonius, however, combines the hymn to Apollo with the hymn to the
Argonauts.21
The προοίμιον as an opening of the narrative was so popular in the Hel-
lenistic period that we even encounter a parody of it: Batrachomyoma-
chia, instead of starting with Zeus, opens with a first column: ἀρχόμενος
πρώτης σελίδος. What all interpretations of the word προοίμιον have in
common is that they pay special attention to the performance context
and align Homeric hymns with the performance of other poetry. This view
is supported by internal evidence, since many Homeric hymns close with
the promise to remember the god and a further song also. There are also
references to festivals and recitations in the hymns, mostly in the short
poems,22 which has lead some scholars to conclude that only the shorter
hymns were actually performed as preludes, whereas the longer hymns
were composed for independent performances. But this in turn begs the
question: are the long Homeric hymns expansions of the short ones, or
are the short hymns compressions of the long ones?23 Are we dealing
with Homeric hymns and “hymnyllia”? Finally, maybe the question itself
is wrong, and the long and short poems in the corpus of Homeric hymns
belong to two different genres. Maybe we need to differentiate between
prayers and hymns, as has been suggested by Koller (1956) 182. This thesis
20 Aratus, Phaen. 1: ἐκ Διὸς ἀρχώμεσθα; Ap. Rhod. Argon. 1.1: ἀρχόμενος σέο, Φοῖβε.
21 See below, p. 175.
22 See the list in Allen/Halliday/Sikes (21936) xciii.
23 Clay (1997) 497–498 argues that the longer and the short Homeric hymns are two
strands of poetry which developed side by side and experienced an evolution due to the
shift from short after-dinner presentations of heroic episodes accompanied by lyre to pub-
lic rhapsodic recitations of monumental epics. They adapted to the new circumstances of
performance in such a way that the short hymn became a prelude introducing a heroic
narrative and the long hymn claimed a central role in the performance. Rather than an
expansion of the short hymns, Clay (1997) 498 argues that the long hymns “may represent
an autonomous genre of hexameter epos, developing alongside, and complementary to,
heroic epic.” For a different view on the development of hymns, see Böhme (1937), Koller
(1956), Nagy (1990) 353–360, who argue that the hexameter hymns developed from kitha-
rodic nomos.
154 ivana petrovic
is further supported by internal evidence, since some short hymns use the
typical expressions of a prayer such as λίτομαι24 and ἵλαμαι.25 Only those
poems in the corpus of Homeric hymns which have been sufficiently
embellished and whose narrative was elaborately developed can be
observed as gifts worthy of the gods; they are the proper hymns, whereas
the four-/five-liners should be considered prayers and not hymns.26
Epyllion means “small epic.” In order for a poem from a certain poetic
tradition to be characterised as a “small epic,” the tradition in question
has to have “big epics.” Furthermore by calling a body of poetry “epyllia,”
we are automatically invited to compare and contrast it to what we char-
acterize as epic. What we gain by using the terminus “epyllion” is largely
overshadowed by what we lose: we gain an ability to refer to a body of
short hexameter narratives by a single word, but we lose the option to
include some archaic hexameter narratives in this group, simply because
these texts are not derivatives of the Homeric epics. This is why I think
that the term “epyllion” as we use it today is unhelpful and counterpro-
ductive. “Short hexameter narrative” may be clumsy and even vague, but
it focuses our attention to an important issue: these texts are extant in
Greek literature from early on, they can be followed and analysed as a
diachronic phenomenon, and are not a genre that appeared ex nihilo in
the Hellenistic period. Rather I would argue that it was the Hellenistic
period which witnessed an increase in interest for alternatives to the
monumental epic, as the Hellenistic poets themselves were displaced,
sometimes even travelling professionals in search of patrons, just like their
archaic counterparts,27 and they were writing for audiences which were
also uprooted and in search for the common denominator. This is the
time when the type of composition which addresses all Greeks and speaks
from the perspective of a travelling professional must have been in great
demand. The preference for finely composed, virtuoso small forms drives
the poets away from the monumental epic and towards shorter archaic
compositions such as Homeric hymns and the poems of the Hesiodic
24 Hymn. Hom. 16.5: λίτομαι δέ σ’ ἀοιδῇ.

25 Hymn. Hom. 21.5: ἵλαμαι δέ σ’ ἀοιδῇ; 23.4: ἵληθ’ εὐρύοπα Κρονίδη.
26 This would also explain why the only example of a request which goes beyond a
personal one in the whole corpus of Homeric hymns is to be found in one of the shortest
hymns, Hymn. Hom. 13 to Demeter, which consists of a mere three lines. In the third line, a
prayer on behalf of the whole city is to be found (τήνδε σάου πόλιν); but this is not a hymn
proper but a prayer, and the plea for the salvation of the city appears to me to be borrowed
either from a prayer or from a cult hymn proper.
27 Weber (1993).
corpus.28 The prominent poetic persona of the hymns also appealed

greatly to Hellenistic tastes.29 One additional reason why the poets of
the Hellenistic period were so interested in the archaic hexameter narra-
tive is the dissolution of other metres in this age. Dactylic hexameter and
elegiacs become the primary poetic forms.30 This development must also
have played a role in the renewed interest the Hellenistic poets display
towards the archaic hexameter and elegiac narratives.
3. Cult Hymns and the Homeric Hymns
Scholars are presently rather reluctant to discuss the longer Homeric

hymns as prime representatives of epyllia because of their main charac-
ters. Since they celebrate the gods rather than men, these narratives have
been classified as hymns. So what exactly is hymnic about the Homeric
hymns and what is the relationship between the Homeric hymns and
Greek cult hymns?
Cult hymns constituted an important part of the ritual they accompa-
nied and were composed to be performed at one particular cult-place for
a particular deity. We possess some hymns which could be classified as
lyric monody and which were probably performed at informal gatherings
such as symposia, but the majority of transmitted cult hymns are choral.
Cult hymns have formal features such as invocation, praise, and—most
importantly—prayer, which is the point of the whole hymn.31 The rela-
tionship of the worshippers, who delight the gods by praising them, and
the gods, who become well-disposed towards the worshippers since they
receive lovely gifts, is called χάρις (“reciprocal pleasure and goodwill”).
Creating a charis-filled relationship with the divinity was the main pur-
pose of the hymn.32 Recent scholarship tends to compare the cult hymns
with other gifts to the gods such as animal sacrifice and the material
dedications in the sanctuaries.33 Pulleyn (1997) pointed out that the main
28 Bing (1993) 181–182 discusses Callimachus’ extensive use of the Homeric hymns and
posits that he was the first poet to revive this genre because they suited his aesthetic
program.
29 Bing (1993) 182 makes this point regarding Calllimachus’ reception of the hymns, but
I think the same fascination with the prominent narratorial persona can be detected in
Apollonius, Theocritus and other Hellenistic poets.
30 Fantuzzi (1993) 44–46; Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004) 30–32; Hunter (1996) 3–5.
31 Furley/Bremer (2001) vol. 1, 52–63 with bibliography.
32 Race (1982).
33 Pulleyn (1997) 49; Day (2000) 46–48; Depew (2000).
156 ivana petrovic
functional difference between a hymn and a prayer is that “the former is a

sort of negotiable ἄγαλμα which generates χάρις whereas the latter is not”34
and argued that the hymn was “clearly seen as a gift or offering, an ἄγαλμα
for the god,” providing numerous persuasive ancient testimonies to this
idea.35 Not only were hymns compared to ἀγάλματα, but some ancient
poets went as far as to (almost) equate them with the animal sacrifice.36
Depew (2000) recently argued that it is precisely this function as an offer-
ing that unifies the texts we call cultic hymns with the texts such as the
Homeric hymns into a genre of Greek hymn.37
The question I pose is: if hymns can be compared to dedications, what
kind of dedication do they resemble? In my opinion, the cult hymn proper
is akin to the communal sacrifice and dedication, whereas the Homeric
hymns should be observed as more akin to private dedications. The funda-
mental difference between the transmitted cult hymns and the Homeric
hymns is that a cult hymn creates a charis-filled relationship between the
community and the god(s), whereas the Homeric hymns—being com-
posed to be performed by one singer—create such a relationship between
one person—the rhapsodic performer—and the god(s). The requests in
the closing parts of some Homeric hymns testify to this: “help me win this
contest,”38 or: “give me (sweet) song.”39 The closing formula typical of the
Homeric hymns σὺ (μὲν οὕτω) χαῖρε . . . αὐτὰρ ἐγὼ καὶ σεῖο καὶ ἄλλης μνήσομ’
ἀοιδῆς (“you rejoice (in this), and I will remember you and also another
song”) resembles the inscriptions on private dedications which invite the
divinity to accept the gift in good cheer and promise more to come in the
future. What sets this demand apart from the prayers in the choral cult
hymns is the individual relationship forged between one performer and
the divinity, not between the whole community and the divinity. In the
case of rhapsodic hymns, the local audience plays a more passive role
than that of a choral hymn. Instead of representing a community in its
communication with the god, the rhapsode of a Homeric hymn merely
34 Pulleyn (1997) 55.

35 Pulleyn (1997) 49. See also the testimonies in Day (2000) 46–48 and Depew (2000).
36 Cf. Pindar fr. 86a SnellÂ€/Â€Maehler; Eustathius, Proem. ad Pind. 31; Callimachus fr. 494
Pf.; Leonidas, Anth. Pal. 6.321; Philodamus, Paean 110–113 ed. Käppel (1992) 375–380. On
this see Pulleyn (1997) 49–50 and Depew (2000) 63–64. The closing lines of Callimachus’
Hymn to Apollo and the Reply to the Telchines both build on this idea. On this, see I.Petrovic
(forthcoming b).
37 Depew (2000), esp. 63–64.
38 Cf. Hymn. Hom. 6.19–20.
39 Cf. Hymn. Hom. 10.5; 24.5; 25.6.
represents himself. By narrating the story of the god’s first arrival, cult
foundation, or a significant episode from a god’s life, the poet did play
an important role for the local community inasmuch as he helped the
audiences shape and define their ideas about a deity. Here, too, we can
make a helpful comparison with the private dedications: those who com-
missioned statues of the gods to be given to the sanctuaries in their own
name, as their personal gifts, also drew on common Greek perceptions on
what a divinity looks like and in turn helped to shape these perceptions
and beliefs, but the actual gift was meant to be theirs only.
Cult hymns, on the other hand, pray for blessings and divine favour on
behalf of the community of worshippers. Even poets as self-conscious as
Pindar were careful to point out that they are intermediaries between the
community and the deity. In the paean he composed for the Abderites,
for instance, Pindar presents himself as a charioteer of the song, but the
paean is composed on behalf of the Ionians:
Ναΐδ]ος Θρονίας ῎Αβδηρε χαλκοθώραξ
Ποσ]ειδᾶνός τε παῖ,
σέθ]εν ᾿Ιάονι τόνδε λαῷ
παι]ᾶνα [δι]ώξω
Δη⌋ρηνὸν ᾿Απόλλωνα πάρ τ’ ᾿Αφρο[δίταν40
Abderos of the bronze breastplate,
Son of the Naiad Thronia and Poseidon,
Beginning with you I shall set in motion
This paean for the Ionian people
To Apollo Derenios and Aphrodite.41
The refrain of this paean is obviously not a prayer for Pindar only, or
only for the performers of the hymn, but a prayer uttered in the time of
need and expanding to all Abderites as Ionians (fr. 52b.35–36 = 71–72 =
107–108):
ἰὴ ἰὲ Παιάν, ἰ⌋ὴ ἰέ· Παιὰν
δὲ μήποτε λεί⌋ποι.
Iē, ie, Paian, iē ie. May Paian
never leave <us>.42
40 Fr. 52b.1–5 Maehler (1975).

41 Translation: Race (1997b).
42 My brackets.
158 ivana petrovic
The citizens of Abdera were at the time fighting the Thracians.43 At the
end of the paean, Pindar invokes the legendary hero Abderos again before
repeating the refrain for the final time, and it is made perfectly clear that
the prayer of this hymn should benefit all citizens (fr. 52b.104–108):
῎Αβδ]ηρε, καὶ στ[ρατὸν] á¼±�π̣ π̣ οχάρμαν
σᾷ] β̣ Î¯ᾳ�̣ πολέ[μ]ῳ τελευ-
ταί]ῳ προβι[β]άζοις.
ἰὴ ἰὲ Παιάν, ἰ⌋ὴ ἰέ· Παιὰν
δὲ μήποτε λεί⌋ποι.
Abderos, and in your might may you lead forth
The army that delights in horses
for a final war.
Iē, ie, Paian, iē ie. May Paian
Never leave <us>.44
It is quite hard to imagine Pindar taking part in this war against the Thra-
cians and fighting under the spiritual guidance of Abderos. The prayer is
for the local community only.
Not only Pindar’s, but all Greek cultic hymns were replete with com-
parable statements as the performers were eager to stress that they are
singing on behalf of the whole city. Moreover, the cult hymns proper
formed an integral part of the ritual ceremony and involved the whole
community, some members of it as performers and others as observers of
the performance.
However, in the case of the Homeric hymns, the song is the sole gift to
the gods and this gift is a personal one. The poets of the Homeric hymns
signal that their composition is supposed to be the gift to the god by using
the dedicatory technical term μιμνήσκoμαι, sometimes at the beginning
and almost always at the end of the hymn. It has been argued persua-
sively that the same verb is used throughout the Homeric epics to desig-
nate aoidic performance.45 Bakker (2002) & (2008) discusses the concept
of remembering by drawing attention to the cognitive aspects of archaic
Greek poetics and points out that remembering and memory are concepts
dependent on culture’s dominant medium of communication (2002). He
argues persuasively that in oral poetry, memory is
43 On references to Abderite history in this paean, see Rutherford (2001) 262–275.
44 Translation: Race (1997b), slightly modified.
45 Moran (1975); Nagy (1979) 95–97.
not a retrieval of stored facts but a dynamic cognitive operation in the pres-
ent, a matter of consciousness or, more precisely, of the activation of con-
sciousness. The verbal root -μνη in Homeric Greek is used for the actual
experience of the thing “remembered,” and -λαθ, its notional opposite, for
the absence of that experience.46
This also explains the—to our mind—curious occurrences in Homeric
Greek when the object of remembering is not in the past, but present.
However, there is a difference between the way the verb μιμνήσκoμαι is
used in the Homeric epics and how it is applied in the Homeric hymns:
only in the Homeric hymns is the name of the god or a personal pronoun
referring to the god used as direct object of this verb. In the Homeric
epics, the characters remember recent events, feelings, virtues and vices,
and even stories of old,47 but not the gods.48 I do agree that the verb
μιμνήσκoμαι designates rhapsodic performance and the ability of the
bard to “put his mind in touch with the realities of the past,”49 but there
is a difference between remembering, say, the quarrel of Achilles and
Agamemnon50 and remembering Apollo or Demeter. Bakker argues that
46 Bakker (2002) 69 (author’s emphasis).

47 See the examples discussed in Moran (1975).
48 The closest equivalent to the hymnic μιμνήσκομαι in epic is probably to be found in
the context of a lament, as the deceased is remembered in a firmly ritualized way. This
remembering is the deceased’s due share, a part of the honour reserved for the dead, just
like remembering a god in a hymn is part of the honour reserved for the gods. One thinks
of passages such as Il. 24.160–169, depicting the lamenting in the house of Priam, esp. vv.
166–168 (text: Allen [31920]): θυγατέρες δ’ ἀνὰ δώματ’ ἰδὲ νυοὶ ὠδύροντο / τῶν μιμνησκόμεναι
οἳ δὴ πολέες τε καὶ ἐσθλοὶ / χερσὶν ὑπ’ ᾿Αργείων κέατο ψυχὰς ὀλέσαντες. See also the compa-
rable usage of the verb in Il. 19.314; 19.339; 24.4; 24.9; 24.504; 24.509. Illustrative for the way
the lament can be expanded and compressed is the way Achilles is remembering Patrok-
los (Il. 24.4/7–8: κλαῖε φίλου ἑτάρου μεμνημένος / . . . / ὁπόσα τολύπευσε σὺν αὐτῷ καὶ πάθεν
ἄλγεα / ἀνδρῶν τε πτολέμους ἀλεγεινά τε κύματα πείρων). Il. 24.509–512 perhaps indicates
that lament can be even more expanded: τὼ δὲ μνησαμένω ὃ μὲν ῞Εκτορος ἀνδροφόνοιο / κλαῖ’
ἁδινὰ προπάροιθε ποδῶν ᾿Αχιλῆος ἐλυσθείς, / αὐτὰρ ᾿Αχιλλεὺς κλαῖεν ἑὸν πατέρ,’ ἄλλοτε δ’ αὖτε /
Πάτροκλον· τῶν δὲ στοναχὴ κατὰ δώματ’ ὀρώρει. Here Priam and Achilles are joined (even
grammatically!) in mourning, each mindful of his own loss—the one remembering his
son, the other his dear friend and his father, and finally also his own death, since Achilles
feels sorry for his father who will be left alone after his son’s death. The subject of this
lament is the whole of the Iliad, which can be characterized as “remembering the dead
and great warriors on both sides.” In the Odyssey, there are only two comparable passages
(4.187; 12.309), but also here we find a nucleus of a lament turning into a prolonged narra-
tive in epic style, as in the latter case, the sailors devoured by Scylla are remembered in a
lament, probably in the form of an epic narrative. Similarly, remembering a god, which is
performed in a ritualized way, can be expanded into a long narrative, the prime examples
of which are the Homeric hymns.
49 Nagy (1979) 95.
50 Cf. Il. 19.63–64.
160 ivana petrovic
every performance of a heroic song brings with it an enactment and that it

ensures of the presence of its protagonists.51 By narrating an epic story, the
rhapsode actualizes the world of heroes and brings them to the present.
By narrating the story about the god, the singer assures the ritual presence
of a deity.52 Divine epiphany is not to be taken lightly and demands acts
of reverence and worship. Once the gods are present among the humans,
tokens of hospitality are expected and gifts have to be offered. This is why
the hymns have special beginning and closing formulas which set them
apart from the epic narrative and make it clear that the performance is
meant to be a gift. This is the fundamental difference between remember-
ing a story and remembering a god, and it is precisely this difference that
is stressed at the end of most Homeric hymns, as the rhapsode promises
to remember the god and another song also (αὐτὰρ ἐγὼ καὶ σεῖο καὶ ἄλλης
μνήσομ’ ἀοιδῆς).53 This closing formula is, in my opinion, illustrative of the
idea that remembering is what the bard does, and that he can recall to
mind an (epic) story and a deity, but that these two are not quite the
same.54 To remember a god means to perform an act of worship, to hon-
our the divinity by performing a story about the god. When used with the
name of the deity or a personal pronoun referring to the god as a direct
object, μιμνήσκoμαι has a dedicatory force and signifies that one particular
story is told to a god as its primary audience, rather than to humans.55 It
51 Bakker (2002) 71 (with bibliography).

52 Bakker (2008) 67.
53 Nagy (2008/09) 232–246; 312 refers to this line as metabasis, and offers a compelling
discussion of this device, which according to him signals a shift in subject (usually from
hymnic to epic) and perspective.
54 Bakker (2002) 72 argues that the idiomatic usage of ἄλλος suggests “the rest of the
song” rather than “another song” and that the formulaic closure of the Homeric hymns
should be taken to mean “but I, I will remember you as well as the rest of the song.” Nagy
(2008/09) 235 interprets μεταβήσομαι ἄλλον ἐς ὕμνον as “extending to the rest of the per-
formance,” not “extending into another performance.” However, neither Nagy nor Bakker
discuss the ending of the cultic hymns, which use the greeting χαῖρε as a closural device. I
would agree that ἀοιδή means “performance” and that it encompasses all songs a rhapsode
offers in one sitting. However, the line which precedes the formulaic closure (σὺ μὲν οὕτω
χαῖρε) is, in my opinion, the logical closing point of the hymn, since it invites the deity
to rejoice in this particular gift it has just received. οὕτω has a deictic force and points
backwards in time, encompassing the performance of the hymn, as argued by Koller (1956)
175–178.
55 Depew (2000) arrives at a similar conclusion regarding the force of μιμνήσκoμαι via
different routes (she investigates the ways the hymns draw attention to their own perfor-
mance through deictic language and self-reference and compares them with dedicatory
inscriptions).
also signifies that the rhapsode has put his mind in touch with the deity
and has established a very intimate contact with the divine world.
It has been observed56 that in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo the verb
μιμνήσκoμαι is used to designate several ways of honouring the deity:
extolling the birth and the deeds of the god Apollo by the singer of the
hymn;57 the festivities which the Ionians organize in honour of Apollo
on Delos featuring boxing and dancing and song;58 and the remembering
of men and women of old by Delian maidens.59 The singer of the hymn
places himself almost on a par with the god by demanding from the Delian
maidens a verbal memorial—he urges them to remember him and praise
him as the best singer to the visitors of Delos.60 The singer of the Homeric
Hymn to Apollo thus reminds his own audience of the fact that the hymn
is a verbal μνῆμα, a performative memorial of the god’s magnificence, but
that the dedicator of a magnificent verbal ἄγαλμα is also capable of being
elevated to an almost godly status himself. The blind singer from Chios
thus instituted his own cult61 by the mere ability to put his mind in touch
with the god. As usual, the ancient pseudo-biographies of poets offer pre-
cious information about the reception of the poetic works: according
to the ancient biographical tradition, this particular hymn was actually
inscribed as a dedication on the wall of the temple of Artemis at Delos.62
The inscribing of the hymn is a testimony of the community’s attempt to
gain ownership of a hymn which initially did not belong to them, but to
the singer. This is also the reason for the act of conferring joint Ionian citi-
zenship on the singer. However, since the singer inscribed himself within
the hymn and has created his own memorial in it, this hymn paradoxically
56 See Depew (2000) with further literature.

57 Hymn. Hom. Ap. 1; 547.
58 Hymn. Hom. Ap. 146–150.
59 Hymn. Hom. Ap. 157–161.
60 Hymn. Hom. Ap. 166–167: χαίρετε δ’ ὑμεῖς πᾶσαιÎ⁄ ἐμεῖο δὲ καὶ μετόπισθεÂ€/Â€μνήσασθε.
61 On the cult and sanctuaries of Homer, see Clay (2004) 74–76 with Testimonia 136–143.
Obviously, the rhapsodic performer was not extolling himself directly, but was referring
to his mythic ancestor Homer, but in the moment of performance, he effectively took up
Homer’s persona. Here I follow Nagy (1996a) 61: “The rhapsode is re-enacting Homer by
performing Homer, that he is Homer so long as the mimesis stays in effect, so long as the
performance lasts.” Nagy (1979) 8 sees the figure of the bard in this hymn as “idealized
retrojection based on the poetic tradition’s sense of its own glory.”
62 Certamen 319–321 (text and translation: West [2003a]): ῥηθέντος δὲ τοῦ ὕμνου οἱ μὲν
῎Ιωνες πολίτην αὐτὸν κοινὸν ἐποιήσαντο, Δήλιοι δὲ γράψαντες τὰ ἔπη εἰς λεύκωμα ἀνέθηκαν ἐν
τῷ τῆς ᾿Αρτέμιδος ἱερῷ. “When the hymn had been recited, the assembled Ionians conferred
joint citizenship on him, while the Delians wrote out the verses on the placard and dedi-
cated it in the temple of Artemis.”
162 ivana petrovic
could be dedicated to the god both in his own name and in the name of
the Delians. Inscribing the hymn honours its poet and the god,63 whereas
the performance of the hymn is performer’s act of honouring the god.
Inscribed or not, all hymns were regarded as dedications. A verbal
μνῆμα, just like a material inscribed dedication,64 serves a twofold pur-
pose: on the one hand, it celebrates the deity, but on the other hand,
it serves as a permanent memorial of the donor to the deity and to the
human audience, be it visitors of the sanctuary or those listening to a
poetic performance. One typical verse inscription which neatly illustrates
the twofold nature of a μνῆμα is an inscription on an altar which Peisistra-
tus the Younger erected in the Athenian sanctuary of Pythian Apollo:
μνῆμα τόδ’ ἧς ἀρχῆς Πεισίστρατος ῾Ιππίου υἱός
θῆκεν ᾿Απόλλ[ωνος Πυθίου] ἐν τεμένει.65
This memorial of his rule Peisistratus, son of Hippias
has dedicated in the precinct of Pythian Apollo.
The inscription commemorates Peisistratus the Younger even more than
it celebrates the powers of Apollo, but it is in no way exceptional. Inscrip-
tions on dedications in Greek sanctuaries regularly stress the name of
the dedicator and often also commit to memory the motives behind the
dedication. Slight differences in weighing of the name of the deity and
the dedicator can be noted based on the choice of terminus technicus for
dedication: if the word ἄγαλμα is used in the inscription, the role of the
deity is stressed, whereas μνῆμα underscores the role of the donor.66
63 The scholion to Pindar’s Nemean 2.1 (3.29.9–18 Drachmann = FGrHist 568 F 5),
which West (1975), Burkert (1979b), and Janko (1982) 112–114 bring in connection with the
Homeric Hymn to Apollo, could be a further testimony to this. The scholion is about the
performers of the Homeric epics and the famous poet Cynaethus from Chios to whom one
of the Homeric hymns is attributed: ἦν δὲ ὁ Κύναιθος τὸ γένος Χῖος. ὃς καὶ τὸν ἐπιγραφομένων
῾Ομήρου ποιημάτων τὸν εἰς ᾿Απόλλωνα γεγραφὼς ὕμνον ἀνατέθεικεν αὐτῷ. Burkert (1979b) 54
offers the following interpretation of the passage: “And he wrote, among the works attrib-
uted to Homer, the hymn to Apollo and fathered it on Homer.” Martin (2000) 419 n. 58
rightly notes that the verb is also a vox propria for a dedication and reads “and dedicated it
to him (autoi = Apollo).” However, it is in my opinion also possible and in fact more prob-
able that the line should be understood as “and dedicated it to Homer (αὐτῷ = Homer).”
The hymn does, after all, contain the praise of the blind singer qua god. I understand
the statement of the scholion in the following way: the famous rhapsode Cynaethus from
Chios assumed the persona of Homer and praised Homer on a pair with the god in the
hymn to Apollo. Thus he dedicated (ἀνατίθημι) the hymn not only to the god, as all poets
do, but to Homer, too.
64 On μνῆμα as a technical term in dedicatory inscriptions see Lazzarini (1976) 101–102.
65 IG I2 761 (= I3 948); text: A.Petrovic (2007).
66 A.Petrovic (2007) 264.
In the case of dedicatory inscriptions, the name of the person dedicat-

ing an object was regularly committed to writing alongside the name of
the deity. In this way, the Homeric Hymn to Apollo completely mirrors
the model of a private material dedication, inasmuch as it commits to
memory not only the glory of the god, but also the fame of its mortal
poet by the means of sphragis. Other Homeric hymns are not as bold, but
they too, just like the material dedications, forge a special, personal rela-
tionship between their performer and the god. This intimate relationship
with the divinity was very compelling to the Hellenistic poets and one of
the reasons why they so wholeheartedly embraced the Homeric hymns
as models.
Finally, as is the case of material dedications, the dedicated object
often represents the standing and the vocation of the person dedicating
it. Soldiers dedicated weapons to the gods, women dedicated woven gar-
ments, potters dedicated pottery, and poets dedicated poetry. It is only
natural to assume that each professional would try to outdo himself and
produce an offering which would be worthy of being an ἄγαλμα.67 Note
for instance the professional pride encapsulated in the inscription on a
terra-cotta stele a potter dedicated to Heracles in Metapontion in the late
sixth century BC:
Νικόμαχός μ’ ἐπόε.
χαῖρε ϝάναξ hέρακλεςÎ⁄ ὅ τοι κεραμεύς μ’ ἀνέθεκεÎ⁄
δὸς δέ ϝ’ ἰν ἀνθρόποις δόξαν ἔχειν ἀ<γ>αθ<ά>ν.68
Nicomachos made me.
Rejoice lord Heracles: The potter dedicated me to you
And you grant him good reputation amongst the people.
If Heracles is supposed to rejoice when receiving this gift, it is implied that
the gift is special, that it is pleasing and wonderful.69
Sappho, Alkaios and Anakreon dedicated lyric poems to the gods.70 It
is thus not surprising that the rhapsode’s gift to the gods would be his
typical “product”—hexameter narratives. The poet added the invocation
and the closing dedicatory address to his composition, but the main body
of the poem—the gift for the god—was a hexameter narrative about the
67 ἄγαλμα means “pleasing/joyful gift” and is connected to ἀγάλλω “glorify, exalt, delight,
pay honour to.”
68 Text: Hansen (1983), CEG 396.
69 On the concept and meaning of ἄγαλμα see also Day (2000) with further literature.
70 On the relationship of lyric monody with religious hymns see Furley/Bremer (2001)
vol. 1, 43–44 (with bibliography).
164 ivana petrovic
deeds of the god. In this context, maybe it is worth mentioning that of

33 Homeric hymns, the Muse assists the poet in ten compositions.71 This
means that in two-thirds of the corpus, the verbal ἄγαλμα is brought forth
without even mentioning a Muse. The narratives open with statements
such as “I will be mindful of,”72 “I begin to sing,”73 or “I (shall) sing of,”74
which is a very striking and self-conscious way to begin a song. This,
too, influenced the Hellenistic poets. The narrative about the deeds of a
god which is brought forth without the help of a Muse accentuates the
role of the bard since it presents him as the sole donor of the hymn as a
verbal μνῆμα.
The performance context of the Homeric hymn also emphasizes the
role of the bard. The narrative hexameter hymn, as we have mentioned,
is a stand-alone gift for the gods. Unlike the choral hymn, which is just
one part of the religious ceremony and which does not only rely on words
and melody, but also on the carefully executed choreography, the comeli-
ness and grace of the performers, and the harmonious resounding of their
voices, the rhapsodic hymn can only rely on its own words and melody
in order to please the deity. The rhapsode, however, assumes that one
such ἄγαλμα will be enough to establish a charis-filled relationship with
the gods. There is an element of professional pride at work here which
appealed to the Hellenistic poets; an assumption that a hexameter narra-
tive is a gift worthy of the gods.
The performance context of a hexameter hymn might also have mattered
to Hellenistic poets: as opposed to a choral hymn which is firmly rooted in
a festival context and one particular locale, the hexameter Homeric hymn
is neither firmly anchored in a specific performance context nor in the
context of one specific locale. It can be performed anywhere.75 Homeric
hymns tend to remain open and even ambiguous regarding the local cults
and, even when they mention certain cult places, they do not offer local
information about them or the local versions of the legends.76 In other
71 Hymn. Hom. 4; 5; 9; 14; 17; 19; 20; 31–33.

72 μνήσομαι: Hymn. Hom. Ap.; Hymn. Hom. 7.
73 ἄρχομ’ ἀείδειν: Hymn. Hom. Cer.; Hymn. Hom. 11; 13; 16; 22; 25; 26; 28.
74 ἀείσομαι: Hymn. Hom. 10; 15; 23; 30—ᾄσομαι: 6—ἀείδω: 12; 18; 27.
75 By this I mean anywhere where there was an audience prepared to listen to pro-
longed rhapsodic performance, be it a festival or a symposion. The hymns are not attached
to specific locations in the same manner as the choral hymns, and, even when they cel-
ebrate specific cult places, they assume a Panhellenic rather than the local view. See Clay
(1989) 6–7.
76 See Norden (1913); Keyßner (1932); Meyer (1933); Fröder (1994). On the Homeric
Hymn to Demeter see Clinton (1986).
words, they mention and describe important cult places, but they do so
in a way which is relevant to all Greeks. Local traditions are treated in
the Homeric hymns in a way that more resembles the Iliad and Odyssey
than the poems of the epic cycle. As persuasively argued by Nagy (1990),
the poems of the epic cycle were oriented towards local history, and were
more regional, whereas the Iliad and the Odyssey assume the Panhellenic
perspective and speak, as it were, to all Greeks.77 The Homeric hymns also
assume a Panhellenic perspective and address all Greeks, not just local
audiences of the cult centres they praise.78
This point is still contested, despite clear supporting evidence in the
texts of the Homeric hymns. The prime example of the adaptability of the
long Homeric hymns for performance at different localities is the promise
of its idealized narrator to spread the fame of the fabulous local perform-
ers, the Delian maidens (Hymn. Hom. Ap. 174–176):
ἡμεῖς δ’ ὑμέτερον κλέος οἴσομεν, ὅσσον ἐπ’ αἶαν
ἀνθρώπων στρεφόμεσθα πόλεις εὖ ναιεταώσαςÎ⁄
οἳ δ’ ἐπὶ δὴ πείσονται, ἐπεὶ καὶ ἐτήτυμόν ἐστιν.
And we will carry your reputation wherever
we go as we roam the well-ordered cities of men,
and they will believe it, because it is true.79
Who could possibly contest that the vehicle which spreads the glory of
the Delian maidens to this day is this very hymn, which the singer clearly
envisages as performable in any Greek city?80 It is true that this hymn
offers a compelling story about the origins of Apollo’s cult at Delos and
the local audience was very pleased with it—so pleased in fact, that they
had it inscribed on the wall of the temple of Artemis81—, but I posit that
they were pleased with it precisely because it provides praise of the cult
from an outsider, like all other Homeric hymns. Homeric hymns do refer
to the local cults and mention local religious ceremonies, but they offer
a perspective of a visitor, not that of a local. This perspective allows the
poet to assume an objective stance and thus, paradoxically, to have more
credibility and to provide the deity and its cult place with praise more
77 Nagy (1990) 70–79. See also Burgess (2001) 162–166.

78 Clay (1989) 48–49 argues that the major Homeric hymns are consciously Panhellenic.
79 Text: Allen/Halliday/Sikes (21936); translation: West (2003a).
80 Miller (1986) 113; Clay (1989) 52. Nagy (2008/09) 198–208 compares the Panhelleniza-
tion of the Delian Maidens to the Panhellenization of the Heliconian Muses in Hesiod’s
Theogony.
81 See my n. 62, p. 161.
166 ivana petrovic
poignant that that of a local worshipper. We find a good example of this in

the Homeric Hymn to Apollo, too, in the section where the Ionian festival
on Delos is described. The splendour of the gathering is described from
a perspective of a chance visitor, who is notably not a member of this
congregation, but clearly an outsider (151–155):
φαίη κ’ ἀθανάτους καὶ ἀγήρως ἔμμεναι αἰεὶ
ὃς τότ’ ἐπαντιάσει’ ὅτ’ ᾿Ιάονες ἀθρόοι εἶεν·
πάντων γάρ κεν ἴδοιτο χάριν, τέρψαιτο δὲ θυμὸν
ἄνδρας τ’ εἰσορόων καλλιζώνους τε γυναῖκας
νῆάς τ’ ὠκείας ἠδ’ αὐτῶν κτήματα πολλά.
A man might think they were the unaging immortals
if he came along then when the Ionians are all together:
he would take in the beauty of the whole scene, and be delighted
at the spectacle of the men and the fair-girt women,
the swift ships and the people’s piles of belongings.82
This visitor is the singer himself. Finally, the very structure of the Hymn
to Apollo provides decisive evidence for the theory that the longer hymns
were not firmly attached to one cult place. This hymn praises two dis-
tinct cult places, Delos and Delphi. Are we to imagine its performance
in mid-air? The scholarly discussion of this hymn’s structure has been
unceasing ever since 1753, when Adrian Heringa remarked in a letter to
David Ruhnken that the hymn clearly falls into two parts.83 Current com-
munis opinio tends to divide the hymn into two parts, which were in the
Archaic age joined together, and the discussion concentrates on the ques-
tions of primacy.84 While West and Burkert deem that the Pythian part
82 Text: Allen/Halliday/Sikes (21936); translation: West (2003a).

83 Förstel (1979) 21–22. Förstel (1979) 20–83 and Miller (1986) 110–117 provide detailed
discussion and an overview of scholarship on the structure of this hymn.
84 I should note here that I am more persuaded by the “Unitarian” argumentation and
follow the views of Miller (1986), who argues that the poem’s parts follow the rhetoric of
hymnic praise and belong together, and Clay (1989) 17–94, who offers a scene-by-scene
interpretation and argues that it was one poet who incorporated Delian and Pythian tradi-
tions in his hymn which addressed a Panhellenic audience and presented a Panhellenic
ideology. She is following the remarks of Nagy (1979) 6–7. Martin (2000) compellingly
argued that the hymn is in fact a conflation of two poetic styles. He analyzed the stylistic
features of the Delian and Pythian parts of the hymn and concluded that the Pythian part
is distinctly Hesiodic in style, whereas the Delian is distinctly Homeric. Rather than to
argue that this is the proof that two separate hymns were joined together, Martin posits
that the hymn as it stands was performed at the festival of the Delia at Delos in 522 BC,
and that it dramatized the myth of the contest of Homer and Hesiod by juxtaposing two
distinct styles and versions of myths.
is older,85 Janko argued that the Delian part was composed around 660
BC and the Pythian ca. 585 BC.86 Be as it may, the important detail for
my argument is that the hymn either originated as a unified composition,
or was made into a unity already in the Archaic age.87 Both assumptions
allow the supposition that the hymn was performed in the state in which
we have it—containing in the first part an elaborate story of the god’s
birth and institution of the cult at Delos and in the second part the story
about the founding of his Delphic oracle. This hymn is by its very struc-
ture not attached to one cult place. Furthermore, it not only envisages its
own performance everywhere in the Greek world, but encompasses the
whole Greek world in its three geographic catalogues.88
This versatility of the hexameter hymn, its adaptability to various
locales and performance contexts must also have appealed to Hellenis-
tic poets. Very often, Hellenistic poets assume this particular perspective
when they are mentioning local cults. Hellenistic hexameter narratives
which are usually classified as epyllia also assume a Panhellenic vista
instead of a local one.
Finally, I conclude that the hexameter hymn can be observed as a rhap-
sode’s dedication to the gods. Its aim was also to provide an encapsu-
lation and short presentation of his powers as a performer, a preview,
as it were, of what was to follow. This is also a good explanation of its
form and content. We do not even need to postulate a common origin
of the Homeric hymns and epics in the Indo-European tradition of praise
poetry (although I think that this theory is well-worth considering) to con-
clude that the pars epica is not only a neat (modern) way to characterise
85 West (1975); Burkert (1979b). In a tour de force paper, Burkert (1979b) proposed the
Delian-Pythian games which Polycrates organized at Delos in 522 BC as the occasion
which compelled a Homerid to conflate an older hymn to Pythian Apollo with the new
addition praising his Delian shrine. Even if this theory is plausible, the hymn would still
be performed away from Delphi. However, I find the proposition that the hymn was to be
performed only once in this form improbable, since it entered the manuscript tradition
as a unity, and was even observed as a whole by Callimachus, who imitated its structure
(on this see Fantuzzi/Hunter [2004] 30). The sheer force of cumulative evidence from this
hymn testifies to the intent of poet to perform it repeatedly and in many locations.
86 Janko (1982).
87 West (1975) is sceptical regarding the date of unifying the two hymns into one, but in
(2003a) he proposes Polycrates’ festival, which he dates to 523 BC as the occasion.
88 Nagy (1979) 6–7 argues compellingly that the fusing of two traditions about Apollo
also implies a fusion of two distinct audiences and thus effectively creating of the Greek
world, as the worship of Delian Apollo was fundamental for the identity of the city-states
of Aegean Islands and the coast of Asia Minor whereas the worship of Pythian Apollo
unites the rest of Greece.
168 ivana petrovic
the narrative section of the long Homeric hymns,89 but also a very good
description of what they in fact are. Apart from the introductory and clos-
ing formulae,90 the longer Homeric hymns are—in regard to language,
style, and narrative mode91—closely related to early Greek epic,92 and
were in antiquity sometimes attributed to Homer.93 Demodocus’ song
of Ares and Aphrodite94 is a good illustration of the versatility of such
short hexameter narrative. Modern scholars often interpreted this narra-
tive as cognate with a rhapsodic hymn.95 So what stylistically separates
the longer Homeric hymns from a short epic episodeÂ€/Â€epyllion are two or
three verses at the beginning and one at the end.96 However, regarding
the content of the narrative, hymns were different from the stories about
heroes because they implied the presence of the god, divine epiphanies
which demanded certain acts of worship, but also because they depicted
the strata of time which Mircea Eliade termed illud tempus,97 the time
of origins which shaped the word as it is, the time in which every single
event was of grave and important consequences for the present. Accord-
89 This term was first used by Ausfeld (1903) 505 for the middle section of the Greek
hymn.
90 See on this Nünlist (2004) with further literature.
91 Apart from the opening and closing formulae, only the Homeric Hymn to Apollo has
sections employing “Du-Stil.” On “Du-Stil” and “Er-Stil” see Norden (1913) 143–166. On the
narrative style of Hymn. Hom. Ap. see Nünlist (2004) and I.Petrovic (forthcoming a).
92 Dating of the hymns is an important issue for establishing their relationship to early
epic. Linguistic characteristics of the long hymns have been analysed and various attempts
at dating were made by Zumbach (1955), Allen/Halliday/Sikes (21936) xcvi–cix, Hoekstra
(1969), and Janko (1982). Janko’s chronology is the currently accepted standard: he argues
that Aphrodite is the earliest of the major hymns (675 BC), followed by Delian Apollo (660
BC), Demeter (640 BC), Pythian Apollo (585 BC), Hermes (end of the sixth century BC). He
dates the Iliad and the Odyssey to 740 and 725 BC and the Theogony and Works and Days
to 675 BC and 660 BC.
93 For instance Thuc. 3.104.4; Antigonus of Carystus fr. 7; Paus. 1.38.3. See Allen/Â�Halliday/
Sikes (21936) lxiv–lxxxii.
94 Od. 8.266–366. See Hunter in this volume.
95 Already Wilamowitz (1895) 221–225 (= [1937] 10–14) suggested that this song of
Demodocus was a part of the Homeric Hymn to Hephaistos or Dionysos. See also Clay
(22006) 4–5.
96 This situation could be compared with that of archaic korai: what distinguishes a
statue of a goddess from a grave statue of a young maiden is in essence an inscription.
Position is another distinguishing marker which could have suggested that a statue rep-
resents a maiden if it were positioned at a grave site or a goddess if it were placed in a
sanctuary. Here, too, we can draw parallels with the Homeric hymns, for the performance
context of archaic poetry is lost to us as we experience the texts through the act of read-
ing, as is an indication of where the statues were once placed, since we tend to observe
them in musea.
97 Eliade (1957).
ing to Eliade, each performance of the narrative pertaining to this sacred

time allowed the audiences to access this time again. Furthermore, the
narratives about the Greek gods presented them as anthropomorphic, but
the consequences of their actions were super-human and wide-ranging.
Every single act and mood of the gods, however grievous or seemingly
unimportant, had consequences on the Greek world. The anger of Deme-
ter resulted in devastation and ultimately in founding of the Eleusinian
mysteries. The chance encounter of Hermes with a turtle resulted in the
invention of lyre and music. This anthropomorphization and thus frivol-
ization of the gods, which was already in the Archaic age criticised by phi-
losophers and poets, could even border on the grotesque and offer scenes
of fantastical eeriness—eeriness which was not lost on Hellenistic poets:
Apollo who turns into a huge dolphin and scares the Cretan pirates as
monster on board; Aphrodite acting first as a naive virgin and then turn-
ing into her true, awe-inducing divine shape; baby Hermes farting in the
hands of Apollo—these are scenes which manage to capture the gods as
both human and deeply alien, a paradox which was very influential in
Hellenistic aesthetics. On the other hand, the Hellenistic age offered close
parallels to the gods of the Homeric hymns—humans who were effectively
revered as gods. Consequences of their anger could also be devastating;
their grace meant blessing for whole cities. The Homeric hymns offered
a model for negotiating divine powers which Hellenistic poets were to
wholeheartedly embrace. The way Theocritus hymns Ptolemy is almost
on a pair with the praise Homeric hymns bestow on the deities, and the
hymns of Callimachus, closely modelled on the Homeric hymns, are often
interpreted as thinly veiled depictions of the Ptolemaic royal family.
4. The Long Homeric Hymns as Epyllia
The long Homeric hymns to Demeter, Apollo, Hermes, and Aphrodite, and
some of the “middle-sized” Homeric hymns (7 [to Dionysos]; 19 [to Pan]),
can be perceived as early “epyllia,” since they are in fact short narratives in
hexameter. But do they display stylistic and compositional characteristics
we have come to associate with an epyllion?98 I would argue that some
of these pertain to all early epic narratives, long and short: hexameter,
ecphrasis, long speeches, and chronological story-telling. Some of these
98 See my n. 5, p. 149.
170 ivana petrovic
characteristics pertain to most of what we have from early Greek epic

(mythology as topic, gods acting like humans, irony). We are left with cri-
teria such as shortness, concentration on a few characters and a particular
action, and compression of the narrative. These are characteristics of all
short narratives in hexameter. Finally, criteria such as mixing of genres,
tendency towards psychologisation, prominent female characters, hints
pertaining to the future of the protagonists (or rather concentration on
the childhood of heroes and gods), tendency to present rare or local ver-
sions of myths, and humour and irony are usually perceived as general
characteristics of Hellenistic poetry. We can find glimpses of these in
some longer Homeric hymns, but they should not be regarded as consti-
tutive and essential for all short hexameter narratives.
5. The Influence of the Homeric Hymns on Hellenistic Poetry
The poets of the Hellenistic period display a vivid interest in the Homeric
hymns and employ them as models for both the beginnings of the lon-
ger poems and for short, independent compositions. The reasons for the
appeal of the Homeric hymns were many. Their performance context was
similar to the monumental epic, but they were short enough to appeal to
the adherents of Hellenistic aesthetics. They were not firmly attached to
specific cult-places and were thus more flexible than many other archaic
and classical poetic genres. The role of the poet in the Homeric hymns
must have interested the Hellenistic poets as well since they glorify the
poet by presenting themselves as virtuoso compositions, ἀγάλματα worthy
of the attention of a god; they are arguably the earliest examples of Greek
poetry which features a poet who accomplishes his works without the
help of a Muse; they forge an intimate relationship between the poet and
a god. The hymnic form also enabled Hellenistic poets to treat the rulers
as gods, as the mere employing of the generic characteristics of a hymn in
a poem which essentially praises a ruler hints at the ruler’s divine status.
The manifestations of the influence of Homeric hymns in the Hellenis-
tic era fall into three main groups: on the one hand, in the performance
context of the Homeric hymns, their role as προοίμια exerted an influence
on those poets who composed longer poems. On the other hand, the for-
mal characteristics of the hymns—the fact that they are basically stories
on a mythological subject, concentrating on a select number of protago-
nists and one specific deed narrated in chronological sequence in hexam-
eters—were often adopted in the Hellenistic period. Finally, their status
as dedications, poetic gifts to the gods, appealed to Hellenistic poets as

well, who also dedicated their own compositions to the gods, thus elevat-
ing them to the status of a verbal ἄγαλμα.
5.1 The Formal Influence of the Homeric Hymns

Formal characteristics of the longer Homeric hymns—the hexameter nar-
rative concentrating on one episode in the life of mythological characters
narrated in the third person—were extremely influential in the Hellenis-
tic period. Some authors modelled their narratives on specific Homeric
hymns. We know of Eratosthenes’ Hermes (CA 1–16; SH 397–398; 922),
which was a reworking of the Homeric Hymn to Hermes, since it dealt
with the birth of the god and the invention of the lyre. The emphasis was
on a description of the cosmos provided by the god himself.99 Philitas’
Demeter (CA 1–4; SH 673–675; 5a-21 Spanoudakis) was more experimental,
as it was composed in elegiacs but had a subject matter similar to that of
the Homeric Hymn to Demeter.
The long Homeric hymns were a major stylistic and compositional
influence on Callimachus’ hymns.100 Some of Theocritus’ poems were also
heavily influenced by Homeric hymns.101 The concept of a poem as a gift
to the god played an important role in his poetry. In Id. 17, which is a
hymn to Ptolemy Philadephus and is composed like a Homeric hymn, the
poet even picks up on the motif of verbal ἄγαλμα and spells it out more
clearly than archaic poets ever did (1–8):
ἐκ Διὸς ἀρχώμεσθα καὶ ἐς Δία λήγετε Μοῖσαι,
ἀθανάτων τὸν ἄριστον, ἐπὴν † ἀείδωμεν ἀοιδαῖς·
ἀνδρῶν δ’ αὖ Πτολεμαῖος ἐνὶ πρώτοισι λεγέσθω
καὶ πύματος καὶ μέσσος· ὃ γὰρ προφερέστατος ἀνδρῶν.
ἥρωες, τοὶ πρόσθεν ἀφ’ ἡμιθέων ἐγένοντο,
ῥέξαντες καλὰ ἔργα σοφῶν ἐκύρησαν ἀοιδῶν·
αὐτὰρ ἐγὼ Πτολεμαῖον ἐπιστάμενος καλὰ εἰπεῖν
ὑμνήσαιμ’· ὕμνοι δὲ καὶ ἀθανάτων γέρας αὐτῶν.
99 See Geus (2002) 110–128.

100 Literature on this topic is considerable; Bing (1988), Hunter/Fuhrer (2002), Fantuzzi/
Hunter (2004) 350–370, Vamvouri Ruffy (2004), Ambühl (2005) 225–233, Ukleja (2005),
and I.Petrovic (2007) 114–247 are just some of the recent discussions of the reception of
Homeric hymns in the hymns of Callimachus.
101 On the influence of Homeric hymns on Theocritus in general see Hunter (1996)
46–52.
172 ivana petrovic
From Zeus let us begin, and with Zeus in our poems, Muses,
Let us make end, for of immortals he is best;
but of men let Ptolemy be named, first,
last and in the midst, for of men he is most excellent.
The heroes who of old were sprung from demigods,
when they had accomplished noble deeds, found skilled poets to honour
them,
but I who know how to praise must sing of Ptolemy;
and songs are the meed even of the immortals themselves.102
The poem opens like the typical Homeric hymns, while the narrative style
is the mixed “Du-/Er-Stil” of the Homeric Hymn to Apollo. This poem is
extremely interesting since it displays the self-consciousness and pro-
fessional pride that matches and even surpasses that of the poets of the
Homeric hymns. The poet emphasizes his own skill (7: ἐπιστάμενος καλὰ
εἰπεῖν) and the function of the hymns, which are described as “the gift for
the immortals” (ἀθανάτων γέρας αὐτῶν) in one breath.
The closure of the poem also evokes the typical endings of the Homeric
hymns (135–137):
χαῖρε, ἄναξ Πτολεμαῖε· σέθεν δ’ ἐγὼ ἶσα καὶ ἄλλων
μνάσομαι ἡμιθέων, δοκέω δ’ ἔπος οὐκ ἀπόβλητον
φθέγξομαι ἐσσομένοις· ἀρετήν γε μὲν ἐκ Διὸς αἰτεῦ.
Farewell, Prince Ptolemy, and of thee no less than of other
demigods will I make mention, and I will utter, methinks,
a word which men hereafter shall not reject; but for excellence pray thou
to Zeus.
Also heavily influenced by the Homeric hymns is Theocritus 22, the hymn
to Castor and Pollux. It employs the typical opening of a Homeric hymn103
and reads like an expansion of Hymn. Hom. 33 to the Dioscuri.104 It
announces the new start with an invocation (vv. 24–25) reminiscent of the
design and invocations in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo.105 At the end of
this poem, the poet is even more precise regarding the status of the hymns
as gifts to the gods, for he posits that the hymns are “the most beautiful of
all the gifts to the gods” (v. 223: γεράων δὲ θεοῖς κάλιστον ἀοιδαί).
102 All texts and translations of Theocritus are from Gow (21952b).

103 Id. 22.1–2: ὕμνέομεν Λήδας τε καὶ αἰγιόχου Διὸς υἱώ, / Κάστορα καὶ φοβερὸν Πολυδεύκεα.
“We hymn the two sons of Leda and of aegis-bearing Zeus, Castor and Polydeuces.” See
Sens (1997) 13.
104 Hutchinson (1988) 162; Hunter (1996) 50–57.
105 Hutchinson (1988) 162. On the influences of Homeric hymns on language and style
of Id. 22, see Hunter (1996) 46–76.
The mythological narrative of Theocritus 24 (Heracliscus) seems to

have been partly indebted to the Homeric Hymn to Demeter,106 and it
concluded with a hymnic ending.107 The poem is often interpreted as an
encomium to Ptolemy II Philadelphus.108 The poet is offering his poem as
a gift to the ruler in the same manner that the archaic rhapsodes used to
offer their compositions as gifts to the gods.
The other short hexameter narratives which are usually listed among
the epyllia also bear striking resemblance to the Homeric hymns. Moschus’
Europa merges the representations of Nausicaa from the Odyssey and
Persephone from the Homeric Hymn to Demeter109 (among other sources
and models); the motif of enamoured Zeus (74sqq.) is reminiscent of the
beginning of the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite.110
Callimachus’ Hecale is a difficult case, as so much of it is lost, but the
theme of a pious human who entertains a god/hero is reminiscent of the
Homeric Hymn to Demeter and Hymn to Aphrodite.
5.2 Poetry as a Verbal ἄγαλμα

In the first part of this paper, I have argued that the relationship of the
rhapsode with the god he is performing a hymn to is similar to that of a
deity and a donor of a material ἄγαλμα—that of reciprocal gratitude and
goodwill (χάρις). The poet delights a deity with a splendid hymn, and a
deity is expected to provide something in return. The idea of poetry as a
gift to the gods finds a broad reception in Hellenistic poetry. A tantalizing
fragment of Callimachus is a testimony to this:
ἄκαπνα γὰρ αἰὲν ἀοιδοί / θύομεν.111
We bards always offer smokeless sacrifices.
Boiskos of Cyzicus, the author of an innovative poem in catalectic iambic
octameter, proudly signed it and dedicated his innovative composition as
a gift to Apollo (SH 233):
106 Hunter (1996) 51.

107 Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004) 201 compare the final section of this poem to Hymn. Hom.
6.19–20.
108 Koenen (1977) 79–86; Stephens (2003) 123–146; Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004) 201–204.
109 See the list of parallels in Richardson (1974) 71.
110 See Faulkner (2008) 51 for further parallels with the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite.
111 Fr. 494 Pf.
174 ivana petrovic
Βοίσκος ἁπὸ Κυζικοῦ, καινοῦ γραφεὺς ποιήματος,

τὸν ὀκτάπουν εὑρὼν στίχον, Φοίβῳ τίθησι δῶρον.
Boiskos of Cyzicus, the author of the innovative poem,
Inventor of octameter verse, dedicates it as a gift to Apollo.
Philicus’ Hymn to Demeter (in choriambic hexameters) is an inversion of
the topos. Philicus first seems to offer the hymn as a gift to Demeter and
Kore (SH 676), but then qualifies it as “a gift for the scholars” (SH 677):
καινογράφου συνθέσεως τῆς Φιλίκου, γραμματικοί, δῶρα φέρω πρὸς ὑμᾶς.
Grammarians, I bring gifts for you, a poem of Philicus written in a new style.
However, like those pious worshippers who dedicated material gifts or sac-
rificed animals to the gods, the poets, too, expected something in return
for their gifts. The requests in some Homeric hymns explain more pre-
cisely what this return gift should be: “help me win this contest”;112 “give
me (sweet) song.”113 The rhapsode is asking for professional success in
return for a verbal ἄγαλμα. This “charis-filled exchange” (χαρίεσσα ἀμοιβή)114
is at the core of every hymn, but the Homeric hymn, unlike the choral
hymns, create an intimate relationship between a deity and a rhapsode.115
This is why a rhapsode is able to ask for a personal favour (“help me win
the contest”) rather then for a favour which would benefit the whole com-
munity (“help the best rhapsode win vel sim.”).
χαρίεσσα ἀμοιβή (“graceful exchange”) is an idea picked up by Hellenis-
tic poets who present their works as gifts for the gods and ask for χάρις in
return. Ιn this context, χάρις is often identified as favourable reception of
their work by the audiences, present and future. Apollonius’ Argonautica
is a good example. Its hymnic invocation of Apollo at the beginning (1.1–2)
and of the Argonauts at the end (4.1773–1781) not only closely resemble
the opening and closing sections of Homeric hymns,116 but, even more
interestingly, allude to the prayer for the success of the song in some
112 Cf. Hymn. Hom. 6.19–20.

113 Cf. Hymn. Hom. 10.5; 24.5; 25.6.
114 The phrase is used in a dedicatory inscription on the statue consecrated to Apollo
by a certain Mantiklos (CEG 326.2).
115 A good illustration of a charis-filled exchange a choral hymn implies is Pindar fr.
94b.3–5 Maehler (my translation): ἥκε]ι γὰρ ὁ [Λοξ]ίας / π]ρ[ό]φρω[ν] ἀθανάταν χάριν /
Θήβαις ἐπιμείξων. “For Loxias has come gladly to share his immortal grace with the The-
bans.” The whole of Thebes benefits from this hymn, whereas the sole beneficiary of a
Homeric hymn is the rhapsode.
116 On the hymnic form of the beginning and the end of Argonautica see Hunter (1993)
119–129.
hymns. Apollonius treats the Argonauts like heroes capable of securing

success for his epic, not at a competition, but with its audience from year
to year (Argon. 4.1773–1775):
ἵλατ’ ἀριστῆες, μακάρων γένος, αἵδε δ’ ἀοιδαί
εἰς ἔτος ἐξ ἔτεος γλυκερώτεραι εἶεν ἀείδειν
ἀνθρώποις.
Be gracious, heroes, offspring of the blessed gods, and may these songs year
after year be sweeter for men to sing.117
Callimachus seems to be offering the Aetia to the Graces in a similar fash-
ion: after a direct address of the Graces, the narrative voice invites them
“to wipe their oily hands on his elegies, so that they might endure for
many a year”:
ἔλλατε νῦν,⌋ á¼’�⌊̣ λέ⌋γ̣ ο̣ισ̣ ̣ ι ̣ ⌊δ⌋’ ἐνιψήσασθ⌊ε⌋ λιπώσ⌊ας
χεῖρ⌋α̣ ς ἐμ̣ ⌊οῖς, ἵνα μο⌋ι πουλὺ μένωσ⌊ι⌋ν ἔτος.118
Callimachus uses the dedicatory hymnic invocation in a very sophisticated
way: instead of addressing a divinity in order to establish a charis-filled
relationship and then ask for success of the song, he asks the Charities
for success directly. Furthermore, he ingeniously mixes the idea of divine
and quite practical, down-to-earth help and protection by asking the
Graces to protect his verses with oil, a substance which was in antiquity
actually used for protection and preservation of book-rolls.119 Finally, if
Callimachus composed the epigram 51 Pf. as a real or fictional introduc-
tory epigram for the Aetia,120 then here we find another suggestive pre-
sentation of a book as dedication.
Οn the Roman side, too, we find similar passages. Catullus’ Carmen 64,
often singled out as the perfect representative of an epyllion, contains a
salute to the heroes which resembles the closing parts of the Homeric
hymns and Apollonius’ Argonautica (vv. 22–24):
O nimis optato saeclorum tempore nati
heroes, salvete, deum genus! O bona matrum
progenies, salvete iterum, salvete, bonarum!
Vos ego saepe mero, vos carmine compellabo.
117 Text: Fränkel (1961); translation: Race (2008).

118 Aet. I, fr. 7.13–14 Pf.
119 For the widespread use of cedar oil as protection of book-rolls see Vitr. 2.9.13; Mart.
3.2; Ov. Tr. 1.1.7.
120 As Andrej Petrovic and I have argued: see I.Petrovic/A.Petrovic (2003).
176 ivana petrovic
O heroes, born in an age of time all too desirable—

Hail, race of gods! O goodly offspring of good mothers,
hail again!
You will I often address with my song.121
This passage alludes to the typical closure of a Homeric hymn (“I will
remember you and another song also”) and could indeed be seen as a
prooimion, since the poet goes on to another topic, the wedding of Peleus
and Thetis. The end of the poem could be seen as an inversion of a typical
hymnic ending. The gift of song is meaningless if the gods are not present
when it is performed. This is why most hymns end with a salute to the
god, who is imagined as present and rejoicing in the gifts. Catullus’ com-
position, however, ends with an explanation why gods will not come—the
human race is too wicked and they do not deem their gatherings worthy
of visiting.122
By alluding to the hymns in so many different ways, the poets of the
Hellenistic period not only aligned themselves with the Greek poetic tra-
dition, but also invited their readers to compare and contrast older poetry
with their own. Short hexameter narrative in the Hellenistic period looks
back at the archaic models in such a way that is it difficult not to talk
about a genre. What we should call it is an open question.
121 Text and translation: Godwin (1995).

122 Catullus c. 64.381–408.
A Proto-Epyllion?
The Pseudo-Hesiodic Shield and The Poetics of Deferral*
Peter Bing
People of the Hellenistic era consumed poems in a variety of ways and in

markedly different contexts. Most discussions of the literature of this age
focus on an elite readership of poets and scholars that received the tradi-
tion chiefly as text. Such a focus is not surprising, inasmuch as it is this
audience that has left us palpable traces (written traces) of its encounter
with earlier literature, whether in the form of scholarly commentary or
in new poems attesting to the poets’ close study and detailed knowledge
of antecedent texts. At the same time, however, as Cameron (1995) in
particular has stressed, people received verse by means of performance
at private, civic and religious occasions, and such reception remained
an important feature of communal life across the oikoumene. Thus, for
example, epigraphic sources from throughout the era attest to innumer-
able festivals—agones mousikoi—at which spectators gathered to listen
and watch as performers presented poetry old and new—a “popular
reception” parallel to the “learned reception” that remained the privileged
domain of scholars and poets.
Whether elite poets of the Alexandrian Museum wrote for and per-
formed at such agones mousikoi remains an open question.1 It seems likely,
however, that they knew the poetry performed at these occasions—in
part doubtless from first hand experience—and were influenced by it. For
to judge by the sources traceable in their works, poets like Callimachus
or Theocritus did not distinguish between high culture and low, popular
genres and elite ones, technical treatises or refined verse: everything was
grist for their mill. Literary omnivores, they would hardly have restrained
* Many thanks to the editors for their helpful criticism, as well as to the participants
in the Zurich colloquium out of which this volume grew, especially Profs. Glenn Most,
Andrej and Ivana Petrovic, and Regina Höschele. I am grateful also to my colleague, Prof.
Garth Tissol, for assisting me at a later stage with valuable comments, a careful eye, and
fine sense of style.
1 Personally, I doubt it happened much. None of the preeminent poets of the Hellenis-
tic Age appears in any of the numerous victor lists from agonistic inscriptions or literary
sources. My guess is that they shied away from such competitions because the style and
difficulty of their poems made it unlikely that they would be popular favorites.
178 peter bing
their appetites before such abundant and ubiquitous fare as that pre-
sented at festivals. Whether they considered it haute cuisine or junk food,
they devoured it all.2 In what follows, I want to focus on a genre that
may have influenced learned Hellenistic poets both through the medium
of the textual tradition and as possibly encountered in performance, the
small-scale epic. And I will examine that genre’s reception especially as
embodied in one work, the Hesiodic Aspis. My analysis proceeds in two
steps: In the first, I look at the Hellenistic Nachleben of small-scale epic
like the Aspis both in recital and as text, what elements of the Aspis and
comparable poems may have appealed to Hellenistic authors (e.g. brev-
ity, allusiveness, ecphrasis, digression), and by which means—written or
performed—each of those elements might have had an impact. In a sec-
ond step, I look in more detail at the ecphrasis of the Aspis, seeing in it
a model for later interest in digression that checks narrative momentum
and dislodges epic’s traditional focus on heroic action.
In the textual tradition, the Aspis was leading a double life by the time
it reached the Hellenistic era. On the one hand, as its ancient hypothesis
tells us, the first 56 verses appeared in Book 4 of Hesiod’s Ehoiai—forming
there the Ehoie of Alkmene with its account of how Zeus had deceived the
heroine so as to beget Herakles while Amphitryon was away;3 on the other
hand, the whole poem—comprising 480 verses, with its long ecphraÂ�sis on
Herakles’ shield embedded within the tale of the hero’s combat against
Kyknos—circulated separately as well. This double transmission, accord-
ing to the hypothesis, led Aristophanes of Byzantium to suspect that “the
Aspis did not belong to Hesiod, but to someone else who had chosen
to imitate the Homeric Shield” (διὸ καὶ ὑπώπτευκεν ᾿Αριστοφάνης ὡς οὐκ
οὖσαν αὐτὴν ῾Ησιόδου, ἀλλ᾿ ἑτέρου τινὸς τὴν ῾Ομηρικὴν ἀσπίδα μιμήσασθαι
προαιρουμένου)—a shrewd observation, since the Hesiodic work clearly
begs to be compared with the Homeric in its themes, its structure, and
even the details of its wording. At the same time, the scholia to Dionysius
Thrax (p. 124.4 Hilgard) reasonably suggest a motive for why the poem
2 Martin (2005) discusses the Hesiodic Aspis as “trash” produced according to a “pulp”
aesthetic. See below, p. 197.
3 The inclusion of the first part of the poem in the Ehoiai has been confirmed by the
presence of its opening in that context in papyri, cf. fr. 195 MW.
the pseudo-hesiodic shield and the poetics of deferral 179
would want to present itself as being by Hesiod: it was “in order that it
would be judged worth reading because of that poet’s proven authority”
(ἵνα διὰ τῆς ἀξιοπιστίας τοῦ ποιητοῦ ἄξιον κριθῇ ἀναγνώσεως). The attribution,
however, can be traced right back to the Archaic era. For the hypothesis
tells us that Stesichorus—plausibly active in the mid-sixth century BC,
and himself the composer of a song about the fight between Herakles and
Kyknos (PMG 207)—“said that the poem was by Hesiod” (καὶ Στησίχορος
δέ φησιν ῾Ησιόδου εἶναι τὸ ποίημα).4 Given that the Hesiodic color of the
work appears chiefly in the formal characteristics of its opening section,
which are drawn from the Ehoiai, and that its main intertext apart from
this is Homer, it seems likely that Stesichorus’ attribution of the Aspis
occurred in his own treatment of the Kyknos and Herakles legend and
so referred to the Aspis as a whole.5 This squares nicely with the modern
scholarly consensus that the poem’s diction,6 relation to contemporary
art,7 and probable historical context,8 place it roughly in the first third of
the sixth century BC.
Such a date situates the poem firmly in the heyday of those itinerant
performers of epic known as rhapsodes, and of their inclusion in (or occa-
sional exclusion from) the program of major festivals.9 It thus points us
to a performative tradition, parallel to the textual one, in which we may
fruitfully locate the Aspis. Both traditions, as we will see, lead us squarely
into the Hellenistic age. Let us defer examining the Aspis more closely for
4 Stesichorus’ mention of Hesiod has been doubted by scholars, but convincingly

defended by Janko (1986) 41–42.
5 That is, the Hesiodic note sounded at the start would have been construed as extend-
ing to the heroic narrative as a whole. As Russo (21965) 35 puts it: “Il nostro rapsodo [scil.
the poet of the Aspis] rese omaggio ad Esiodo e ad Omero, dell’ uno assumendo a proemio
un’ Eoea e dell’ altro riprendendo dei ‘temi’.” The only other section with Hesiodic coloring
is the temporal digression of vv. 393–401, which recall Works and Days vv. 582–588. On this
latter passage, see below.
6 Cf. Russo (21965) 34; Janko (1982) 225–228 and (1986) 42–43.
7 Cf. Cook (1937) 212–213 (580–570 BC), Russo (21965) 32; Shapiro (1984) demonstrates
that starting around 565 BC Athenian black-figure vase painters (especially Lydus) depend
on the Hesiodic narrative in their depictions of the battle of Herakles and Kyknos.
8 The obliteration of Kyknos’ tomb has been linked with the destruction of Krisa in the
1st Sacred War in 591, cf. Russo (21965) 33 n. 35 and Janko (1986) 47. Jeffrey (1976) 74–75
views the historical context as the Boeotian-Thessalian hostility in the wake of the 1st
Sacred War; cf. also Guillon (1963).
9 Cf. Herington (1985) 10–15 and esp. 167–176 (Appendix II) for a useful collection of
sources on rhapsodes (which, however, neglects epigraphic evidence). For further discus-
sion of rhapsodes, see Schadewaldt (41965) 54–60, Pfeiffer (1968) 8–12, West (1970b). Mar-
tin (2009) 98–103 sees as “the essence of rhapsodic performance” (98) the Life of Homer’s
depiction of how the bard, traveling to ever new locations and working for diverse patrons,
creates different sorts of poems tailored to the circumstances of each.
180 peter bing
a bit—the wait will allow us to see it better in context—so as to dwell

on the history of these performers, the rhapsodes, and the setting of their
performances. Herodotus (5.67.1) tells us that Kleisthenes, tyrant of Sikyon
in the first third of the sixth century BC, “when going to war with Argos,
put an end to the rhapsode contests in Sikyon because of the Homeric
epics; for in them the Argives and Argos are celebrated almost everywhere”
(Κλεισθένης γὰρ ᾿Αργείοισι πολεμήσας τοῦτο μὲν ῥαψῳδοὺς ἔπαυσε ἐν Σικυῶνι
ἀγωνίζεσθαι τῶν ῾Ομηρείων ἐπέων εἵνεκα, ὅτι ᾿Αργεῖοί τε καὶ ῎Αργος τὰ πολλὰ
πάντα ὑμνέαται). Thus, rhapsodic competition at the agones mousikoi must
have been well-established already in the seventh century, prior to Kleis-
thenes. This is also about the time when the rule was established for the
Panathenaia at Athens that in their competition the rhapsodes should go
through the poems of Homer in order, each picking up where the previous
one had left off (Ps.-Plato, Hipparchus 228b).10 The establishment of this
rule suggests that earlier the custom had been for the rhapsodes to recite
independent episodes from the larger epic cycles. That is the picture con-
veyed by Aelian, who reports that “people of old used to sing the epic
poems of Homer in discrete parts” (ὅτι τὰ ῾Ομήρου ἔπη πρότερον διῃρημένα
ᾖδον οἱ παλαιοί). Aelian then proceeds to name the various episodes later
subsumed into the Iliad and Odyssey (Varia Historia 13.14).11 S.West (1988)
40 likewise makes the point that “the use of the term rhapsoidia for what
we call each ‘book’ of Homer indicates that the system was based on rhap-
sodic practice.”
10 While the ps.-Platonic passage attributes this rule to Hipparchus, in the latter part
of the Peisistratid tyranny, Diogenes Laertius (following Dieuchidas) reports that it was
already Solon who established it. “If that information is accepted,” as Herington (1985) 86
remarks, “the rhapsode-contests at the Great Panathenaia must date back to the earliest
years of the festival, if not to its very beginning.”
11 Interestingly, these do not necessarily correspond to the ancient Homeric book-
divisions or order:
οἷον ἔλεγον Τὴν ἐπὶ ναυσὶ μάχην καὶ Δολώνειάν τινα καὶ ᾿Αριστείαν ᾿Αγαμέμνονος καὶ Νεῶν
κατάλογον καὶ Πατρόκλειαν καὶ Λύτρα καὶ ᾿Επὶ Πατρόκλῳ ἆθλα καὶ ῾Ορκίων ἀφάνισιν.
ταῦτα ὑπὲρ τῆς ᾿Ιλιάδος. ὑπὲρ δὲ τῆς ἑτέρας Τὰ ἐν Πύλῳ καὶ Τὰ ἐν Λακεδαίμονι καὶ
Καλυψοῦς ἄντρον καὶ Τὰ περὶ τὴν σχεδίαν καὶ ᾿Αλκίνου ἀπολόγους καὶ Κυκλώπειαν καὶ
Νέκυιαν καὶ Τὰ τῆς Κίρκης καὶ Νίπτρα καὶ Μνηστήρων φόνον καὶ Τὰ ἐν ἀγρῷ καὶ Τὰ ἐν
Λαέρτου.
For example, they recited “The battle over the ships,” “The Story of Dolon,” “The
Aristeia of Agamemnon,” “The Story of Patroclus,” “The Ransoming,” “The Funeral
Games of Patroclus,” and “The Breaking of the Oaths.” These were in place of the
Iliad. In place of the other poem there were “The Events at Pylos,” “The Events at
Sparta,” “The Cave of Calypso,” “The Story of the Raft,” “The Stories told to Alcinoos,”
“The Story of the Cyclops,” “The Underworld Journey,” “The Story of Circe,” “The
Bath,” “The Killing of the Suitors,” “The Events in the Countryside” and “The Events
at Laertes’ Home.”
No doubt rhapsodes also performed shorter self-contained works.

Besides the poetry of Homer, that of Hesiod is attested in rhapsodic per-
formance (Plato, Ion 531a,b,c and 532a; Leges 658d; Isocr. Panath. 17–18;
Schol. Pind. Nem. 2.1d). One can thus well imagine poems ranging in
length from the 1020 verses of the Theogony, through the 828 of the Works
and Days, and on to the 480 of the Aspis, as falling within the spectrum of
what a rhapsode might perform. If, moreover, something like Demodocus’
song of Ares and Aphrodite (Od. 8.266–366) at all reflects what might be
possible in epic recitation, that brings us down to a poem of just 100 lines.12
In this light, massive works such as the Iliad and Odyssey—what Martin
(2005a) 156 calls “big-ticket organic epic”—appear atypical. Indeed, there
is no evidence apart from that cited for the Panathenaia that the Homeric
poems were ever recited straight through at any other festival.13 Martin
(ibid.) aptly reminds us that
study of oral traditional literature in other cultures . . . will easily show that
the single episode, lasting a few hours in performance, and chosen by the
singer to fit the mood and politics of his immediate audience, is the basis
for live composition in performance. Or in other words, the 480 line Aspis
looks much more like an oral poem than does the Iliad.
Such small-scale epic will then have been characteristic of rhapsodic per-
formance. And it is striking that their size—ranging anywhere from c.
1000 lines to c. 100—corresponds to the spectrum attested for the small-
scale epic of the Hellenistic era commonly called “epyllion” (from e.g. Cal-
limachus’ Hecale with its c. 1000 verses, the 408 of Catullus 64, the 280 of
Theocritus’ Herakles the Lion-Slayer, to the 166 of Moschus’ Europa).
Though the best-known instances of rhapsodic performance belong
to the Archaic and Classical eras—beyond those referring to the Panath-
enaia, one thinks of the vivid portrait in Plato’s Ion—, recitations by rhap-
sodes remained a staple of festival programs throughout the Greek world
well into the Hellenistic age and beyond.14 Plutarch, for instance, in his
Life of Alexander (4.11), reports that “Alexander instituted great numbers
of contests, not only for tragic poets, auletes and kitharodes, but also for
rhapsodes” (πλείστους γέ τοι θεὶς ἀγῶνας οὐ μόνον τραγῳδῶν καὶ αὐλητῶν καὶ
12 See Baumbach in this volume, pp. 146–147, who considers this song as a possible
instance of small-scale epic already in Homer. See also Bierl in this volume, pp. 113–116.
13 Pace Taplin (1992) 39–41, who sees “the burgeoning panegyric festivals” of the seventh
century BC as the settings in which the grand epic of Homer could have grown. On the
unlikelihood that the Homeric epics were generally performed whole, see Ford (1997b).
14 For a useful discussion of the literary evidence (without the epigraphic sources), see
Nagy (1996a) 153–186.
182 peter bing
κιθαρῳδῶν, ἀλλὰ καὶ ῥαψῳδῶν). The Ptolemies, always eager to follow in the
footsteps of their great forerunner, also apparently made use of rhapsodes.
One of them even performed at the wedding of Ptolemy and Arsinoe Phil-
adelphus and attained instant notoriety. For as Plutarch (Quaest. Conv.
736e) reports, the rhapsode, present “at the wedding of Ptolemy who, in
marrying his own sister was considered to be committing a strange and
unlawful deed, began his performance with the words: ‘And Zeus sum-
moned Hera, his sister and wife’ [Il. 18.356]” (καὶ ὁ μὲν ῥαψῳδὸς εὐθὺς ἦν
διὰ στόματος πᾶσιν, ἐν τοῖς Πτολεμαίου γάμοις ἀγομένου τὴν ἀδελφὴν καὶ
πρᾶγμα δρᾶν ἀλλόκοτον <νομιζ>ομένου καὶ ἄθεσμον ἀρξάμενος ἀπὸ τῶν ἐπῶν
ἐκείνων ‘Ζεὺς δ᾿ ῞Ηρην ἐκάλεσσε κασιγνήτην ἄλοχόν τε’). Moving somewhat
beyond the confines of the Ptolemaic palace, Athenaeus (620c) recounts
how, according to Jason in the third Book of his work The Sacred Institutions
of Alexander, “Hermophantos performed the poetry of Homer in the great
theater at Alexandria”—this in Athenaeus’ section on rhapsodes (620b–c).
Epigraphic sources fill out the picture: At the penteteric Mouseia of
Thespiae, for instance, a festival possibly founded in the third century
BC and in any case newly prominent due to the special patronage of
the Ptolemies,15 there were agones mousikoi whose victor lists (trace-
able from the late third / early second centuries BC through the early
third century AD) regularly include the category “rhapsode.”16 Indeed
Boeotian agones mousikoi in general are particularly well attested in the
epigraphic record, revealing a veritable festival circuit in which a whole
range of artists participated, prominent among them the rhapsodes.17
The inscriptions range in date from the first half of the second century
BC through the early third century AD and include, in addition to the
Thespian Mouseia, the Amphiareia at Oropus (IG VII 415.3, 416 col. 1.11,
418.6, 419.17, 420.13), the Sarapieia of Tanagra (IG VII 540.5), the Soteria at
Akraiphia (IG VII 2727), the Ptoïa at Akraiphia (IG VII 4147.10, 4151.5), and
the Chariteisia (i.e. festival of the Graces) at Orchomenos (IG VII 3195.11,
15 Feyel (1942) 88–117, followed by Fraser (1972) vol. 1, 313 with vol. 2, 467 n. 55, and
Bernand (21998) 128–129, date Ptolemaic interest in the festival especially to the reign of
Ptolemy IV Philopater and his queen Arsinoe III. Cameron (1995) 142 argues on the basis
of Pausanias 9.31.1 that Arsinoe II Philadelphus may already have been instrumental in
the reorganization of the games. Cf. also Lamberton (1988), Barbantani (2000) 128–136,
Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004) 52.
16 IG VII 1762.4, 1760.17, 1773.18, 1776.17, 2726; SEG 32.436.15, 437.22, 498.21.
17 For itinerant performers generally in the Hellenistic era, especially poets and musi-
cians—but not rhapsodes—, see the fundamental study of Guarducci (1929), esp. 629–640,
644–648. For rhapsodes in the guilds of Διονύσου τεχνίται at this time, see Aneziri (2003)
207–208 with n. 30. For Boeotian agones mousikoi in particular, see Manieri (2009).
3196.6, 3197.7). Given that the rhapsodes named in these inscriptions were
not only ethnic Boeotians, but artists also from such places as Athens,
Corinth, Thessaly, and even Antiocheia on the Pyramos (in Cilicia), it is
clear that rhapsodes were at home in many places and that their perfor-
mances would have remained a vital part of festival programs in many
parts of the Greek world.18
The anecdote about the rhapsode at the wedding of Ptolemy and
Arsinoe Philadelphus suggests that episodes from Homer still formed a
standard part of rhapsodic repertoire.19 What other small-scale epic they
performed in Hellenistic times we do not know. Yet the Mouseia of Thes-
piae, with its strong Hesiodic connection, could hardly have been without
its Hesiod. And there is no reason to suppose that other poets attested
as being performed by rhapsodes in earlier periods, such as Archilochus,
Solon, Xenophanes, Empedocles and Antimachus, were now suddenly out
of bounds.20 Certainly the frequent juxtaposition of a winning ῥαψῳδός
and a ποιητὴς ἐπῶν as separate categories in the Boeotian victor lists21 sug-
gests that rhapsodes were chiefly performers of earlier works while the
“poets” created something new. At the same time, I would not rule out the
possibility that rhapsodes performed newly minted little epics as well.22
In all, then, despite the preeminence of the Iliad and Odyssey as mon-
umental texts in their totality, in which form they came to embody the
exemplary epics for the Hellenistic era, the ongoing reality of rhapsodic
18 For rhapsodes at the Delphic Soteria starting c. 275, cf. FD III 4.356.12, 1.477.5, 4.126.7,
4.127.7, 4.128.6; SIG 424.10; SEG 2.260.6.
19 Note that Plutarch says the rhapsode “began” his performance from the line about
Zeus summoning his sister/wife (ἀρξάμενος ἀπὸ τῶν ἐπῶν ἐκείνων 18.356). Did he go on to
recite the episode about Achilles’ shield, which follows immediately after? Revermann
(1998) 37 has suggested that the Homeric ῾Οπλοποιία was “ideal for separate recitation.” The
Ptolemaic wedding indicates the sort of occasion at which that could have happened.
20 See Herington’s list ([1985] 174–175, Appendix II D) of poets whose works are known
to have been performed by rhapsodes.
21 Thus IG VII 416, 418, 419, and 420 from the Amphiareia at Oropus, 2727 for a Soteria
at Akraiphia, and 4147 for the Ptoïa at Akraiphia.
22 A different interpretation of the pairing of victorious ῥαψῳδός and ποιητὴς ἐπῶν men-
tioned above would be to take them as performer and author respectively, just as the vic-
tor lists sometimes juxtapose a victorious τραγῳδός and κωμῳδός with a ποιητὴς τραγῳδίας
and a ποιητὴς κωμῳδίας (e.g. IG VII 416.23–29). The idea, however, that rhapsodes at these
festivals characteristically or, at Oropus at least, even exclusively performed new work flies
in the face of the image of rhapsodes in texts from the late Classical period as largely repro-
ductive performers. Still, the possibility of their also sometimes performing new works is
suggested by testimony such as that about Xenophanes (Diog. Laert. 9.18), who “also used
to perform his own works as a rhapsode” (ἀλλὰ καὶ αὐτὸς ἐρραψῴδει τὰ ἑαυτοῦ), or about
Antimachus’ competing (as a rhapsode?) against Nikeratos at the Lysandreia in Samos
(Plut. Lysander 18.4); cf. Herington (1985) 165.
184 peter bing
performance makes it likely that small-scale hexameter poetry remained

available as an alternative paradigm in this period. Indeed, contempo-
rary epigraphic evidence for rhapsodes suggests that small-scale epic was
ubiquitous—or “ten a penny,” as Cameron (1995) 451 puts it. With their
well-known preference for brief poetic forms, the Hellenistic poets would
scarcely have ignored such a model. Rhapsodic performances may thus
have been one route through which these poets encountered the Aspis
and comparable works.
Thus far we have been dealing with small-scale epic in its popular
context, that is through the medium of performance before a large-scale
public at religious festivals or important “private” occasions such as a
Ptolemaic wedding. That is one part of the picture; the textual tradition is
the other. And here we return to the Hesiodic Aspis, a most precious piece
of evidence inasmuch as it is the only complete small-scale heroic epic to
survive from the Archaic era.23 It can thus give us a sense of the sort of
poem that learned Hellenistic authors might have looked to (in addition
to what they may have heard rhapsodes perform) in devising their own
short hexameter poetry. It is helpful in this regard to recall that the Aspis
was clearly well-known to major poets of the third century BC—it had not
sunk into an abyss of forgetting.24 Rather, the poem had become both an
object of study and a literary model for the poets of the age. I suspect the
23 Unlike Petrovic and Baumbach in this volume, I would insist that Homeric hymns
constitute a different genre, set apart from heroic epic by clear generic markers at the
hymns’ most prominent points, their beginnings and their ends (at the one, the singer’s
statement of intent to celebrate the divinity; at the other, a personal appeal for the divin-
ity’s good will). These, as Petrovic points out, clearly establish the relationship between
singer and divinity. The hymns’ narrative content, with its focus on the particular divinity,
is entirely consistent, moreover, with those generic markers.
This is not to say that the hymns are unrelated to the epic tradition, whether embodied
in such monumental works as the Iliad or Odyssey, or in such small-scale epics as the Aspis.
Clearly they share most of epic’s stylistic and narrative traits. I have no doubt, further,
that the genres continually influenced each other, and am sure that the Homeric hymns
had significant impact on small- and large-scale hexameter narrative right on through the
Hellenistic era. In my view, the hymns (even the longer ones) are to be seen as “preludes”
(προοίμια) to epic recitation, as they are sometimes called in our earliest sources (Pind.
Nem. 2.3, Thuc. 3.104), and as they themselves seem to indicate in their closing references
to a further song to come (αὐτὰρ ἐγὼ καὶ σεῖο καὶ ἄλλης μνήσομ᾿ ἀοιδῆς, Hymn. Hom. Ap.
546, Hymn. Hom. Merc. 580, Hymn. Hom. Cer. 495, etc.; or σεῦ δ᾿ ἐγὼ ἀρξάμενος μεταβήσομαι
ἄλλον ἐς ὕμνον, Hymn. Hom. Ven. 293, Hymn. Hom. 9.9, 18.11). Homeric hymn and epic are
thus closely linked and parallel phenomena, which shared a common performer as well
as performance context. On the Hellenistic poets’ revival of the Homeric hymns, cf. Bing
(1993) 182 = (2009) 34–35.
24 For its later influence also on Catullus and Vergil, see respectively Konstan (2000/01)
and Faber (2000).
same could be said of other small-scale heroic narratives of the rhapsodic

tradition, if only they had survived.
As for the Aspis, we already noted Aristophanes of Byzantium’s famil-
iarity with the poem, for the hypothesis registers his doubts about its
Hesiodic authorship. That same source names another prominent Helle-
nistic figure who knew the Aspis: “Apollonius of Rhodes says in Book 3
that it is his [scil. Hesiod’s] because of the style and because he finds
Iolaos elsewhere in the Catalogue driving the chariot for Herakles.” That
is, Apollonius knew the poem well enough to judge it both stylistically
against the rest of the Hesiodic corpus and thematically within the larger
context of the Ehoiai.
Comparable familiarity can be seen when it comes to poetic influence.
For instance, it is generally acknowledged that the ecphrasis of the shield
in the Aspis (vv. 139–320) had an impact on Theocritus’ description of
the rustic cup in Idyll 1. Most strikingly, the image of the aged fisherman
casting his net from the rocks (vv. 39–44) unambiguously recalls the simi-
lar scene at Aspis 213–215. But Ott (1969) 99–105 has made a convincing
case for a more pervasive relationship between the two ecphrases.25 Cal-
limachus, too, evidently knew and used the Aspis in his poetry: Reinsch-
Werner (1976) 360–363 shrewdly observed its influence in his Hymn to
Artemis. There it appears—with typical Callimachean wit—precisely in the
passage describing the Amazons’ “Shield-Dance” (περὶ πρύλιν ὠρχήσαντο /
πρῶτα μὲν ἐν σακέεσσιν ἐνόπλιον vv. 240–241). And the word Callimachus
uses for “shield” here is, I would add, exactly that used throughout the
Hesiodic poem: not, as one might expect, ἀσπίς (which occurs only in the
title), but rather σάκος. In this section, as Reinsch-Werner demonstrates,
Callimachus recalls both famous shields, the Homeric Shield of Achilles
and the Hesiodic Aspis. As for the latter, we hear it distinctly in the Helle-
nistic poet’s description of the clear-sounding syrinxes that accompanied
the Amazons’ dance (Hymn. Dian. 242–243 ὑπήεισαν δὲ λίγειαι / λεπταλέον
σύριγγες). These evidently pick up the clear-sounding syrinxes to whose
tunes the youths on the Hesiodic shield raise their voices (τοὶ μὲν ὑπὸ
λιγυρῶν συρίγγων ἵεσαν αὐδὴν v. 278). But more, Callimachus marks his
recollection with a metapoetic “echo”: the echo of his Amazons’ dance
reverberates throughout the region (v. 245 ἔδραμε δ᾿ ἠχώ) just as that of
the youths’ song in the Aspis spreads around them (περὶ δέ σφισιν ἄγνυτο
25 See also Petrain (2006) 261–262.

186 peter bing
ἠχώ v. 279).26 Callimachus’ echo of his source is assured because the word
ἠχώ itself appears only twice in early epic, both times in the Aspis, and
each time at verse-end as in Callimachus—a self-conscious echo indeed.27
Going a step beyond Reinsch-Werner, it may even be that Callimachus got
the idea for this allusion from a similar echo within the Aspis: it has long
been noted that the temporal digression at Aspis 393–401 that situates the
combat between Herakles and Kyknos in high summer recalls the famous
description of summer’s heat in Hesiod’s Works and Days 582–596.28 In
particular, each passage commences with the cicada, the ἠχέτα τέττιξ of
v. 393 echoing that at Works and Days 582 (ἠχέτα τέττιξ). Given the very
different circumstances of poetic allusion in the largely oral culture from
which the Aspis emerged in the early sixth century BC, I am not sure that
its poet self-consciously played with the idea of a literary “echo” when
he incorporated a reference to another poem within his own.29 But I feel
certain that from the bookish perspective of the Hellenistic age Callima-
chus thought he did,30 and so included an appreciative nod to his source
by means of this “echo” of his own. That is all the more likely considering
that in the prologue to his Aetia Callimachus’ fondest wish was to be a
cicada, singing for those who love this creature’s “clear echo” (ἐνὶ τοῖς γὰρ
ἀείδομεν οἳ λιγὺν ἦχον / τέττιγος . . . ἐφίλησαν vv. 29–30, cf. 32–35). The echo-
26 See also Aspis v. 348, where the same phrase occurs in connection with the neighing
of horses.
27 It also occurs in the Homeric Hymn to Pan (19.21), likewise in the same position.
Given the subject of the hymn, however, it is probable that it was composed after 490,
i.e. post-Marathon, when the cult of Pan grew to prominence. In a recent talk, Andrew
Faulkner has suggested that Callimachus may be alluding here to this passage as well.
28 As Russo (21965) 21 notes concerning this passage, “[u]na situazione ‘epica’ fu rinno-
vata con spirito esiodeo; anzi questo è l’unico passo dello Scutum in cui Esiodo ha operato
sullo stile dello pseudo-Esiodo.” This passage from the Works and Days was also imitated
by Alcaeus (fr. 347 LP). See n. 29 below.
29 Another passage concerned with echoing in the Aspis (vv. 380–382) makes me won-
der, though, whether there might not indeed be a metapoetic element at play: “The whole
city of the Myrmidons and famous Iolkos, and Arne and Helike and grassy Anthea greatly
resounded with their voices.” The list of places in this passage is, as Russo suggests ([21965]
ad vv. 380–382), tantamount to saying “near and far”—prodigiously far, however, since
their proximity to the story’s setting ranges from nearby localities, such as Iolkos, to those
in the middle distance, like Arne in Boeotia, to quite remote towns like Helike on the other
side of the Gulf of Corinth in Achaea, or Anthea in Messenia. Could the poet of the Aspis
have here described the anticipated range of dissemination for his poem—the regions in
which his Battle of Herakles and Kyknos would resound? It is intriguing, too, to consider
a shield-poem resounding in the city of the Myrmidons, home of Achilles, the subject
par excellence of a shield-poem. On poetic allusion in the still largely oral culture of the
Archaic era, see Bing (2009) 151–155 with n. 6 and n. 12 (on Alcaeus’ self-conscious adapta-
tion in fr. 347 LP of this very same passage, Works and Days vv. 582–588).
30 Finding such allusion in an Archaic poem would not have been alien to Hellenistic
practice. See below.
ing tettix is a marvelous image of the Hellenistic poet in relation to his

literary past: can there be any doubt that an author who envisions himself
thus would have heard the resonance of the ἠχέτα τέττιξ from the Works
and Days as it reappeared in the Aspis? If I am right that Callimachus
would have discovered such self-conscious allusive artistry in the Aspis, it
gives us an inkling of how his contemporaries, too, might have responded
to this short epic, and deemed it congenial to their undertaking.
Of course that complex associative web between texts that we call
intertextuality would itself have meant something quite different in the
third century BC than it had in the sixth: the relationship between these
works in their original Archaic setting might have been less a matter of
one fixed text’s allusion to another than of each poem’s dependence upon
a common reservoir of formulae and themes within a still-fluid oral tradi-
tion. By Hellenistic times, however, the pervasive intertextuality between
the Aspis, Hesiod, and Homer came to be understood in terms of delib-
erate emulation of one written work by another, a later piece modeling
itself on a specific antecedent; that much is clear from the report in the
ancient hypothesis that Aristophanes of Byzantium doubted the Hesiodic
authorship of the Aspis because it was the work of someone attempting
to imitate the Homeric shield (διὸ καὶ ὑπώπτευκεν ᾿Αριστοφάνης ὡς οὐκ
οὖσαν αὐτὴν ῾Ησιόδου, ἀλλ᾿ ἑτέρου τινὸς τὴν ῾Ομηρικὴν ἀσπίδα μιμήσασθαι
προαιρουμένου). Hellenistic readers, in other words, reinterpreted the rela-
tionship between these poems in terms of their own readerly preoccupa-
tions, amongst which imitation and allusion were prominent.
We see such assumptions at work in the ancient interpretation of a
passage such as Aspis vv. 156–159, which duplicates word for word the
memorable lines at Iliad 18.535–538 where the Ker drags three different
men across a battlefield: one wounded, one unhurt, another one dead.
Eustathius (1160.46) here comments that “anyone encountering it will
know that Hesiod’s Aspis includes such spirits mingling in the battle
῾Ομηρικῷ ζήλῳ,” that is, out of the desire to imitate Homer (ὅτι δὲ ῾Ομηρικῷ
ζήλῳ καὶ ἡ τοῦ ῾Ησιόδου ᾿Ασπὶς τοιαῦτα δαιμόνια ἔχει ὁμιλοῦντα τῇ μάχῃ, ὁ
ἐντυχὼν εἴσεται). Modern scholars have been less tolerant of this verbatim
recurrence of a whole cluster of lines, judging it not in terms of imitation,
but as an “intolerable” rhapsodic interpolation.31 That, however, does not
31 Thus Russo (21965) ad loc. It has been bracketed in modern editions since that of
K.F. Heinrich in 1802. On rhapsodic interpolations generally in the Aspis, see Wilamowitz
(1905) 116–122, Janko (1986) 39–40. For a positive appreciation of such passages, including
the many doublets within the text, see Martin (2005a) 168–169: “The key to a sympathetic
understanding is to admit that the composer of the Aspis wanted at every turn to make
188 peter bing
appear to have been the ancient reading of the passage. Indeed, given
that it comes near the start of the Hesiodic ecphrasis, Hellenistic readers
might well have taken it to signal programmatically the desire to set this
shield beside its Homeric counterpart for comparison. Certainly the very
pronounced structural/thematic similarities between the shields (such as
the inclusion of scenes of a City at War followed by a City at Peace) would
have encouraged such a response.32
In addition, then, to that brevity which we already emphasized as a
function of rhapsodic performance, and which the Hellenistic poets prized
for their own purposes, the issues of allusion raised in the Aspis would
doubtless have appealed to them, preoccupied as they were with literary
emulation—the strong intertextual link not just between the Aspis and
Hesiod, but also (and particularly) with the Homeric shield.33 But what
other aspects of this work would have interested them as they were devis-
ing their own variations on the small-scale epic? One element that would
doubtless have grabbed their attention was its prominent ecphrasis.
Hellenistic interest in such embedded descriptions has been well-
studied in modern scholarship. And the instance in the Aspis is especially
notable because of its great elaboration—at 181 verses, it is some 50%
longer than the 129 verses of the Homeric Shield.34 It would thus have
sparked the interest of Hellenistic poets not only qua ecphrasis, but as a
a bigger, more detailed, often gorier, usually livelier poem. And if that meant hauling out
his best lines and puffing them up with good lines from other rhapsodes he had heard, all
the better: no expansion is too bad to venture.”
32 Lamberton (1988b) 141 notes how the position of the two cities within the ecphrases
in Homer and Hesiod is reversed, coming at the start in the former, at the close in the
latter. Such structural inversions would have been congenial to Hellenistic poets, who
often mark the difference between their poems and a given pre-text in this way. See, for
instance, Bing/Uhrmeister (1994) 25–26 on Callimachus’ inversion of the “City of the Just”
and the “City of the Unjust” from Hesiod’s Works and Days (vv. 225–247) in his Hymn to
Artemis (vv. 122–137).
33 In this connection, it is worth mentioning the strong structural, thematic and lexi-
cal resonances (detailed by Russo [21965] ad vv. 325sqq.) between the scene in the Aspis
where Athena aids Herakles in wounding Ares and the comparable episode from the Ili-
adic aristeia of Diomedes (cf. esp. Aspis vv. 325–340 and 458–466 ~ Il. 5.792–813, 825–858,
and 864–868). Hellenistic readers would certainly have seen the relationship in terms of
model and imitation. But they would also doubtless have been charmed by how the text
which they viewed as the imitator, the Aspis, provided a model in terms of narrative chro-
nology for events described in the earlier text, the Iliad: Diomedes’ wounding of Ares was
nothing new; its prototype lay in what Herakles had done already a generation before. The
later text provides a prequel; that was a gambit that the Hellenistic poets loved.
34 The difference in length is highlighted by Lamberton (1988b) 141, who observes that
“the difference in bulk . . . points to an important difference between the two texts, specifi-
cally the expansiveness of the Hesiodic text, its inclusiveness and elaboration.”
digression. For set in the context of a far shorter, self-contained work, of

which it comprises well over a third, this ecphrasis is—proportionate to
Homer’s—one whopper of a digression! What was its function within the
Archaic poem? Might it have played into the interests of the Hellenistic
poets, who favored digression in their small-scale hexameter poem35 for
its capacity to delay, displace and marginalize themes that would other-
wise form the heart of epic narrative—notably, heroic combat?36 Before
attempting to answer these questions—our task for the second part of this
essay—let us first draw a balance from what we have discussed thus far.
In all, the Hellenistic elite could find in the Aspis an early prototype for
many of their pet concerns: small-scale epic, conspicuous intertextuality,
ecphrasis, and narrative displacement through digression. In giving prom-
inence to such literary features, it now appears that the Hellenistic poets
were not so much innovating vis-à-vis the monumental poems of an ear-
lier age, but choosing an alternate model available to them both through
the ubiquitous performance-culture of the rhapsodes and through manu-
script transmission. I have tried to suggest that each of these two strands
of the tradition could in its different way, and in tandem, have influenced
the Hellenistic poets as they developed their own highly polished version
of small-scale epic (what modern scholars like to call epyllion): a Calli-
machus could, for instance, have encountered works like the Aspis at a
festival, been stimulated by what he heard (features such as ecphrasis and
digression would, after all, have had as great an impact aurally as on the
page), and then gone back to the books to subject a poem to analytical
scrutiny that its fleeting reception in performance would not allow (mak-
ing it, for instance, yield up its allusive texture). Alternatively, perhaps
he could have known short epics such as the Aspis from earlier reading,
had his interest reignited by a rhapsode’s performance, after which he
returned to his study to work through it in earnest. Did Callimachus actu-
ally hear the Aspis at a festival? We do not know. But an anecdote in Vit-
ruvius (De arch. 7, Preface 4–7)37 envisions precisely the scenario we have
imagined for Callimachus, where a poem is experienced first in writing,
then performance, then in writing once again. The tale recounts how king
Ptolemy, needing a seventh judge for a poetic contest at the Alexandrian
festival of the Muses and Apollo, chose Aristophanes of Byzantium, who
35 We need not agree with Toohey (1992) 100 that the typical Hellenistic epyllion’s
“prime trait is the ‘digression’ ” to recognize that it is indeed an important feature.
36 Examples in such poems as Hecale and the Victoria Berenices spring to mind.
37 I am grateful to Prof. Regina Höschele for drawing my attention to this passage.
190 peter bing
was considered a good choice because he “read each book in the library
systematically day by day with comprehensive ardour and diligence”
(7 pref. 5).38 On the day of the festival, the poets performed their poems,
and when they had finished all the judges voted for the one who had
most pleased the audience—except Aristophanes. He demurred, giving
first place instead to the one whose performance had had the least popu-
lar acclaim. When the king and all assembled expressed indignation, Aris-
tophanes explained that only his choice was worthy of the name “poet,”
since he alone had performed his own work: the others had simply stolen
the work of earlier poets and palmed it off as their own. Aristophanes
then “produced a large number of papyrus rolls from certain bookcases,
and comparing these with what had been recited, he compelled [the
poets] to confess they were thieves” (7 pref. 7).39 This incident documents
in the most forceful way how both performance and reading were impor-
tant and complementary components in the reception of poetry in the
high Hellenistic period. It also provides the aition, according to Vitruvius,
for Aristophanes’ elevation to the post of librarian at the great Library of
Alexandria. No less than Aristophanes, Callimachus and his elite contem-
poraries were rabid consumers of poetry, literary omnivores, who took
their inspiration wherever they could find it, whether on the shelves of the
library or in the Odeon. Small-scale epics like the Aspis were all around
them whenever they attended agones mousikoi. Such works could have
inspired them to adapt this form into a refined literary genre.
In this second part of the essay, I will examine the description of Herakles’
shield in the Aspis in greater detail. I do not, however, want to look at this
ecphrasis qua ecphrasis:40 rather than scrutinize its descriptive technique
or formal structure, I will consider it in terms of a digression. The impact
of this digression within the Aspis has been aptly described by David Kon-
stan (2000/01) 64+66:
La écfrasis de Hesíodo interrumpe el avance de la narración que la
enmarca . . . Pero se diferencia de las digresiones ordinarias y de las écfrasis
38 Qui summo studio summaque diligentia cotidie omnes libros ex ordine perlegeret.
39 Certis armariis infinita volumina eduxit et ea cum recitatis conferendo coegit ipsos
furatos de se confiteri.
40 That has been well done for instance by Becker (1992).
tardías que se parecen a digresiones porque no introduce una narrativa

secundaria como contrapunto al movimiento primario del relato, sino que
tiene, más bien, el efecto de suspender el movimiento progresivo del recital,
y sustituye el ímpetu temporal de la narrativa por una construcción verbal
de un tipo diferente.
In thus delaying the straightforward completion of the story (how Herak-
les fought and killed Kyknos) in such a striking way, the ecphrasis raises
in a particularly urgent manner the question: why does it do so? What,
in other words, is the relationship between the description and its fram-
ing narrative? How are these two connected, if at all, and what role does
the ecphrastic digression play within the Aspis? Such questions would
doubtless have tantalized and delighted learned Hellenistic poets who, as
already mentioned, were fond of using digression to displace and delay
traditional heroic themes, resettling them in the margins. Does the digres-
sion already serve a comparable function here in the Archaic age?
As noted earlier, the Aspis is transmitted in two forms: verses 1–56
appear as the Ehoie of Alkmene in Book 4 of Hesiod’s Catalogue of Women,
while the whole poem of 480 verses circulated separately. Since ancient
times scholars have disagreed about whether the section up through verse
56 was by the same poet as that coming after it. I see no definitive solu-
tion to this problem. What seems clear to me, however, is that the poet
of the second part, even if different from that of the preceding portion,
very carefully harmonized his segment so as to bring it thematically into
line with the first.41 That is evident, I think, in how the formal element of
digression, so prominent in the second part of the poem (in the ecphrasis,
41 There are many features in which we can see this, of which I mention only a few. For
instance, the emphasis in both parts of the poem on Thebes as an ideally tolerant, nurtur-
ing, and harmonious city is striking: it is the haven where the exiled Amphitryon can raise
his family (vv. 13–14 and 80–89, cf. also v. 105), and also features as the idealized “City at
Peace” in the ecphrasis of the shield—its unmistakable ἑπτὰ πύλαι at v. 272 recalling the
description of the city at v. 49 as Θήβῃ ἐν ἑπταπύλῳ. Further, Zeus begets Herakles “so
as to plant a protector against ruin both for gods and for men who live on bread” (ὥς ῥα
θεοῖσιν / ἀνδράσι τ᾿ ἀλφηστῇσιν ἀρῆς ἀλκτῆρα φυτεύσαι vv. 28–29). Significantly, this charac-
terization of Herakles looks ahead to his encounter with Kyknos in the second part of the
poem, since Kyknos fits perfectly what Zeus had in mind: he offends both gods and men,
forcibly robbing hecatombs from pilgrims on their way to Delphi (vv. 478–480). But more,
in calling Herakles an ἀρῆς ἀλκτῆρα, “a protector against ruin,” the poem also evidently
plays on the name of the god ῎Αρης, who must be defeated in the latter part of the poem
along with his son Kyknos.
In other words, whether we conclude that the author of the second part was different
from that of the first or the same, what is clear is that its action is carefully disposed so as
to instantiate Zeus’ purpose in begetting Herakles. As Janko (1986) 39 astutely observes,
in such ways it resembles the careful thematic and structural harmonizing of the Pythian
192 peter bing
but elsewhere too), grows organically from its thematic equivalent drama-
tized in the earlier section: namely the theme of delay or deferral. Indeed,
it may not be going too far to say that the first 56 verses of the Aspis are
all about delay. In sounding this theme right from the start, the Aspis sets
the agenda for the rest of the poem: an agenda of delay, deferral, digres-
sion. What do I mean by this?
The Aspis begins by describing what would seem to be the conventional
journey of a bride, Alkmene, from her home and fatherland to the house
of her new husband, Amphitryon (ἢ οἵη προλιποῦσα δόμους καὶ πατρίδα
γαῖαν / ἤλυθεν ἐς Θήβας μετ᾿ ἀρήιον ᾿Αμφιτρύωνα vv. 1–2).42 The poem con-
tinues with traditional praise of the bride’s good sense, sex-appeal (which
wafts from her head and eyes as from Aphrodite’s, vv. 7–8), and loyalty
to her husband (vv. 3–10). But this is no ordinary marriage, and the jour-
ney to her husband’s house is not the standard nuptial transition. For
Amphitryon had killed Alkmene’s father, Elektryon, in a quarrel, and so
was forced to come to Thebes as an exile and suppliant (vv. 11–13). What
is more, the bride had set a remarkable condition: there would be no sex
in their marriage until Amphitryon had taken vengeance on the Taph-
ians and Teleboans for the deaths of her brothers. Indeed, the poem self-
consciously plays with the paradoxical nature of this stipulation. For even
as it describes how Amphitryon lived with his bride without the sex he
yearned for, and prevented from mounting his marriage bed (νόσφιν ἄτερ
φιλότητος ἐφιμέρου, οὐδέ οἱ ἦεν / πρὶν λεχέων ἐπιβῆναι vv. 15–16), it nonethe-
less calls him his wife’s “bedfellow” (ἀκοίτην v. 9), and she his (παρακοίτι
v. 14).43 “Strange bedfellow,” you might say. Yet Amphitryon had vowed
to accomplish his wife’s demand, and the gods had been the witnesses
(v. 20). So theirs is a case of delayed gratification: the oddly abstinent new-
lyweds defer the fulfillment of their desires, and meanwhile their union
hovers in a state of suspension.44
portion of the Homeric Hymn to Apollo with its Delian portion, likewise poems of the sixth
century BC.
42 On the bridal connotations of the opening, see Heckenlively (2004) 69.
43 On the paradox, see Russo (21965) ad v. 14.
44 That this delay constitutes a suspension of normal activity is vividly brought out
in the two similes that describe Amphitryon’s joy at finally finishing his task and being
able to return to his wife: he is like a man who has escaped a dread illness or the strong
constraint of imprisonment (ὡς δ᾿ ὅτ᾿ ἀνὴρ ἀσπαστὸν ὑπεκπροφύγῃ κακότητα / νούσου ὑπ᾿
ἀργαλέης ἢ καὶ κρατεροῦ ὑπὸ δεσμοῦ vv. 42–43). Both these conditions involve putting one’s
life on hold. Interesting, too, the participle at the conclusion of the simile characterizing
how Amphitryon finally ended his labors: he was like one “winding off ” a ball of wool
As throughout the Aspis, however, what is truly essential takes place in

the delay. And here one may speak of a veritable “poetics of deferral,” first
introduced at this point but paradigmatic for the rest of the poem. Amphi-
tryon rushes off as fast as he can (ἐπείγετο δ᾿ ὅττι τάχιστα) to accomplish
his great work according to what Zeus requires (vv. 21–22) so as to be able
to consummate his marriage; upon returning he is so desperate that (in
a bit of slapstick comedy possibly foreshadowing the tone of what is to
come) he will not even stop to greet his servants and herdsman before
hopping into the sack (οὐδ᾿ ὅ γε πρὶν δμῶας καὶ ποιμένας ἀγροιώτας / ὦρτ᾿
ἰέναι, πρίν γ᾿ ἧς ἀλόχου ἐπιβήμεναι εὐνῆς vv. 39–40). Yet this digression—
Amphitryon’s detour, his roundabout route to the bed of his bride—is
indispensible for giving Zeus sufficient time to perform the crucial deed:
begetting Herakles by impregnating Alkmene. The creative act resides in
the digression.
In this regard it is interesting to note just how Zeus’ plotting is por-
trayed: at verse 28 we hear that “he wove a cunning plan” (μῆτιν ὕφαινε). In
commenting on this passage, Heckenlively (2004) 113–114 astutely observes
that “the weaving of Zeus suggests the action of the poet himself. Zeus
conceives Herakles (in both senses of the word) . . . In like manner, the
poet weaves a song about Herakles.” The analogy between Zeus and the
poet does not occur just here, however. It is present also in the latter part
of the poem, where once again the creative act lies in the digression—
this time in the ecphrasis of the shield, which is itself the product of the
creative act. As has often been suggested, ecphrasis may serve as a meta-
phor for poetry,45 and the creator of the artwork described may stand as
a figure for the poet. And just as it was through Zeus’ skill as a weaver of
plots that Herakles came to be, so it is through this same god’s plans—οὗ
διὰ βουλὰς—that his shield was fashioned (θαῦμα ἰδεῖν καὶ Ζηνὶ βαρυκτύπῳ,
οὗ διὰ βουλὰς / ῞Ηφαιστος ποίησε σάκος μέγα vv. 318–319). Hephaestus may
have been responsible for executing the design, but Zeus is its ultimate
author, the ποιητής, both of Herakles and of his shield.46 In either case,
(ἐκτολυπεύσας v. 44), a circuitous and potentially entangling process. His was a life that
had scarcely proceeded along a straight path.
45 On this aspect of ecphrasis, see Becker (1992) 6 n. 7 and 21–24.
46 In the case of the shield, the βουλαί of Zeus (v. 318) do not simply represent his
abstract will, but a master-plan. Such an authorial role for Zeus in the creation of an arti-
fact has a good Hesiodic pedigree, for it is familiar from Hesiod’s account of the creation
of Pandora in Works and Days (vv. 59–80). There, the gods follow Zeus’ specifications
(Κρονίδεω διὰ βουλάς v. 71, Διὸς βουλῇσι v. 79) in endowing Pandora with her various abili-
ties and characteristics. Indeed, the god stipulates precisely what materials to use, how his
194 peter bing
the straightforward thrust of the narrative is suspended, conspicuously

delayed so as to call attention to the more pressing focus in the poem,
the maker’s handiwork.
One could point to numerous scenes in the ecphrasis of the shield that
stress the suspension of narrative. In part, this is due to the fundamentally
static nature of visual art, particularly that of the Archaic Era, where the
multiple scenes depicted in a work (e.g. in the François Vase) tend to be
unrelated tableaux rather than parts of a narrative sequence.47 Yet I want
to point to a couple of instances from the ecphrasis that seem to dwell
on this quality for its own sake. The first, lying at the numeric center of
the shield and so occupying an emphatic position (vv. 216–237), describes
Herakles’ great ancestor, Perseus, in flight from the Gorgons and bearing
the head of Medusa.48 What the narrator highlights as especially artful and
noteworthy in the depiction is how the hero appears to float, suspended in
the air, “with his feet not touching the shield’s surface, but not far from it
either, a great wonder to observe, since he was nowhere supported” (οὔτ᾿
ἄρ᾿ ἐπιψαύων σάκεος ποσὶν οὔθ᾿ ἑκὰς αὐτοῦ, / θαῦμα μέγα φράσσασθ᾿, ἐπεὶ
οὐδαμῇ ἐστήρικτο vv. 217–218); instead, “he hovered like a thought” (ὃ δ᾿ ὥς
τε νόημ᾿ ἐποτᾶτο v. 222).49 That was how the lame god had fashioned him
creation should look, and what characteristics she should have (vv. 60–68), while the other
deities simply carry out his plan (οἳ δ᾿ ἐπίθοντο Διὶ Κρονίωνι ἄνακτι v. 69). No doubt, Zeus’
role in designing the Aspis’ shield is less explicit, but the case of Pandora leaves no doubt
that Hesiodic usage invites us to construe the god’s βουλαί as referring to a master-plan
in making an artifice. It is worth noting that Zeus’ role in the shield’s creation stands out
more than it otherwise might due to a difference vis-à-vis the Homeric shield: the Hesiodic
armor is already made—prêt-à-porter—, so the process of its making by Hephaestus is
downplayed relative to the shield of Achilles, where we observe the smithy god in the act
of creation.
In both the conception of Herakles and the making of his shield, the poem stresses the
marvelous aspect of Zeus’ designs: what the god has plotted with regard to Alkmene and
Herakles are “wondrous acts” (θέσκελα ἔργα v. 34); similarly the hero’s shield—an artist’s
creation—is described as θαῦμα ἰδέσθαι or θαῦμα ἰδεῖν, the two phrases emphatically fram-
ing the ecphrasis (vv. 140 and 318 respectively, cf. θαυματὰ ἔργα v. 165). Cf. Heckenlively
(2004) 130 for a comparable interpretation.
47 Konstan (2000/01) has particularly highlighted how this aspect of Archaic art is
reflected in the Hesiodic shield. Petrain (2006) reads the ecphrasis of Moschus’ Europa
as a reflection of new artistic trends in the Hellenistic era, where artists start presenting
tableaux in narrative sequence instead of juxtaposing unconnected images.
48 The episode is preceded by 77 verses in the ecphrasis and followed by 80—hence my
characterization of it as occupying the numeric center of the shield.
49 See Lamberton’s (1988b) 142 appreciation of this passage: “About the image of Per-
seus pursued by the sisters of Medusa and escaping by the use of his winged shoes we
are told that ‘he was suspended [in the air] like a thought’ (222), a simile whose daring
juxtaposition of the archaic immediacy of the mythic scene with an extreme psychologiz-
ing abstraction is stunning. The idea is by no means foreign to Homer—in fact a Homeric
through his arts (v. 219). The miraculous image of Perseus floating aloft,
detached from his material surroundings with the freedom of a thought,
marvelously conveys how the artist can, by placing his subject in a state
of suspension, evoke in his audience an aesthetic response: the sense
of wonder. An action suspended is where the true action resides in this
poem when it comes to artifice (whether an “artifice of eternity” like the
representation of Perseus on the immortal shield, or that of Zeus in beget-
ting Herakles). The other instance I want to single out comes in the final
scene of the shield, just prior to the rim depicting the ocean stream. Here
we observe the clattering spectacle of a chariot race (vv. 305–313), where
the contestants strain to the limit in vying for the prize. Yet, as the poem
describes, “they were engaged in a never-ending labor, nor had victory
yet been achieved by them, but their contest remained undecided. And
set before them within the racecourse was a great tripod made of gold”
(οἳ μὲν ἄρ᾿ ἀίδιον εἶχον πόνον, οὐδέ ποτέ σφιν / νίκη ἐπηνύσθη, ἀλλ᾿ ἄκριτον
εἶχον ἄεθλον. / τοῖσι δὲ καὶ προύκειτο μέγας τρίπος ἐντὸς ἀγῶνος / χρύσειος
vv. 310–313). Here the outcome of the race remains hanging perpetually
in the balance, the prize tantalizingly close but forever out of reach. As in
the opening tale of Amphitryon and Alkmene, gratification is delayed—
this time indefinitely. By thus insistently deferring the outcome, the poem
compels us to concentrate our gaze on the run-up. What is remarkable
here—and different from anything in the Homeric shield—is how the text
underscores and comments on that state of suspended animation within
the scene: the competitors’ exertion was “never-ending” (ἀίδιον) and vic-
tory never achieved by them (οὐδέ ποτέ σφιν / νίκη ἐπηνύσθη). As our gaze
lingers on this point in time, the run-up displaces the photo-finish as the
main event. In this way the prelusory moment becomes the chief focus.
The same is true of the narrative framing the ecphrasis. At verse 57,
the hinge between the opening section of the Aspis (the part also belong-
ing to the Ehoiai) and the latter portion of the poem, we find a one-verse
summary that boils down the plot to its barest, most basic component:
“He [scil. Herakles] slew Kyknos, the great-hearted son of Ares” (ὃς καὶ
Κύκνον ἔπεφνεν, ᾿Αρητιάδην μεγάθυμον v. 57). So at least we know how it
ends. But that is about the last straightforward movement in the story-
line—this in a narrative whose trajectory ought to be clear-cut, Â�describing
simile closely parallels it (Il. 15.80–83)—but its incorporation into this ekphrasis, or arti-
fact-description, is nevertheless a beautiful and suggestive adaptation of the traditional
material.”
196 peter bing
as it does a simple journey from point A to point B: Herakles and his

nephew Iolaos are on a road-trip, driving their chariot to visit king Keyx
in Trachis (vv. 353–354). Why are they doing this? We never find out. They
are simply on their way. But wait! Kyknos and his father Ares block the
heroes’ path at the shrine of Pagasaian Apollo, and thus trigger delay. Now
the parties seem poised to attack, on the verge of combat right from the
start: “What mortal would have dared to rush forward against him, except
Herakles and glorious Iolaos?” (τίς κεν ἐκείνου / ἔτλη θνητὸς ἐὼν κατεναντίον
ὁρμηθῆναι / πλήν γ᾿ ῾Ηρακλῆος καὶ κυδαλίμου ᾿Ιολάου; vv. 72–74). But wait!
Before anyone “rushes forward,” there are lengthy speeches, first Herakles
exhorting Iolaos, then Iolaos Herakles, then Herakles Iolaos again.50 In
these we repeatedly hear that combat is imminent. Iolaos to Herakles:
the descendants of Alkaios [scil. Herakles and Iolaos] “are close to Kyknos
and itching to begin the clamor of battle” (οἳ δή σφι σχεδόν εἰσι, λιλαιόμενοι
πολέμοιο / φυλόπιδα στήσειν vv. 113–114). Herakles to Iolaos: “the rough
encounter is no longer far off ” (οὐκέτι τηλοῦ / ὑσμίνη τρηχεῖα vv. 118–119).
But wait! Despite these textual signposts, not a single blow is actually
exchanged for another almost 300 verses (at vv. 413–420). The signs are
misleading—deliberately so, no doubt. For the discrepancy between what
they signal and what actually transpires makes us all the more conscious
of the combat’s deferral.
In the meantime, there is the long digression of the shield. Here it is
striking that, after diverting our gaze from the epic tale of Herakles and
Kyknos for 175 verses to linger on static images of this marvelous artifact,
the poem brings us finally to the shield’s enclosing boundary (vv. 314–318),
the Ocean stream, where we find—kyknoi. It is as though Kyknos had
literally been marginalized in the digression, relegated to the periphery.
There he is transfigured into his namesake, the swan, and his image mul-
tiplied into objects of wonder, charming creatures that sing as they fly or
chase after fish as they swim (οἳ δὲ κατ᾿ αὐτὸν / κύκνοι ἀερσιπόται μεγάλ᾿
ἤπυον, οἵ ῥά τε πολλοὶ / νῆχον ἐπ᾿ ἄκρον ὕδωρ· παρὰ δ᾿ ἰχθύες ἐκλονέοντο
vv. 315–318). Kyknos’ transformation on the shield, moreover, changes him
from Apollo’s enemy (he desecrates the god’s shrine at Pagasai by robbing
pilgrims on their way to Pytho, vv. 479–480) into the singing birds, the
special creatures of this god. The metamorphosis of Kyknos into a work
50 In this epic we hear only the speeches of the “good guys”: Herakles, Iolaos, and
Athena. While Kyknos and Ares are directly addressed and have the chance to speak, they
do not do so. Instead, they are characterized by their furious screams.
of art is paralleled by what ultimately happens to him: as the final act of

the poem, Apollo scatters all trace of his remains—destroying all physical
evidence of the combat—by making the Anaurus wash away his tomb
(τοῦ δὲ τάφον καὶ σῆμ᾿ ἀιδὲς ποίησεν ῎Αναυρος / ὄμβρῳ χειμερίῳ πλήθων· τὼς
γάρ μιν ᾿Απόλλων / Λητοίδης ἤνωξ᾿ vv. 277–279). Kyknos survives solely as
a character in song.
The digression of the shield is followed by more speeches (Athena’s and
Herakles’), and a welter of similes. In a brilliant discussion of the Aspis as
“trash,” seen through the “pulp” aesthetic, Martin (2005a) 162 has argued
that similes in general act “like a freeze-frame, pausing the action.” “What
makes the Aspis different,” however, “trashier than the Iliad, is a mat-
ter of degree: the simile overload.” This represents “a different aesthetic,
privileging obvious manipulation and suspense” (ibid. 163). While I totally
agree that the poem privileges “obvious manipulation,” I would not say
that the similes create “suspense”: such delaying tactics are so extensive
that the artifice of delay itself becomes the focus and indeed the topic of
the poem. Martin (2005a) 164 observes that “pulp poetics depends on a
simple overriding rule: more is more . . . The entire Aspis is excessive,” rev-
eling in macabre scenes of horror, over-the-top bloodshed, gore, tumult
and depravity. To all this again I say “yes,” except that the excess of the
Aspis is all in quotation marks. The narrative proper is sober, restrained,
and swift; the excess occurs in the digressions that hold up the narrative
thrust: in the ecphrasis, the similes, and speeches—that is, everywhere
that the text adds a layer pointing to its own artifice: one mimetic work
within another, extended comparisons, narratives within the narrative.
These are indeed so excessive that they supplant the basic subject of the
poem. West (1970a) 511 is right on target in stressing disproportion as the
Aspis’ basic feature:
It takes its title from the disproportionately long description of Heracles’
shield . . . Disproportion is characteristic of the work; the Homeric apparatus
of arming, divine machination, brave speeches, and long similes is lavished
on an encounter in which two blows are struck in all.
While West clearly disapproves of what he sees here, the poets of the Hel-
lenistic era, who developed their own version of small-scale epic, most
likely did not. For them, that disproportion was congenial and productive.
Their tastes and literary values enabled them truly to appreciate the Aspis,
remote as was its origin from the culture of their own time.
Part 3
The Hellenistic Period

Pindaric Narrative Technique in the Hellenistic Epyllion
Christine Luz
From our knowledge about the ancient epyllion—I use this term to
describe a short hexametric poem with mythical subject1—, it seems that
this poetic form flourished in the Hellenistic period. Not only do we pos-
sess a fair number of extant texts such as the mythical poems by Theocritus
or Moschus’ Europa; there are many more attested by title or preserved in
fragments, among these most prominently Callimachus’ Hecale.2 In addi-
tion, we find mythical narrative in other generic frames, e.g. the hymns
of Callimachus or Bion’s Epithalamium for Achilles and Deidameia, or in
other metrical forms such as elegiac couplets or even iambic as in the
Alexandra by Lycophron. These poems can, if not be called epyllia them-
selves, at least be considered as related to them.
The earliest surviving Hellenistic epyllia are Theocritus’ mythical
poems. In this study I will focus on these works for two reasons: first, I
will discuss a particular kind of narrative technique, which seems to me
specific to the Hellenistic epyllion. An investigation into the narrative
technique of a text is only possible if we have extant passages of suffi-
cient length or ideally complete poems to look at; otherwise we cannot
judge in what way the poet shaped his or her narrative. And since there
are no poems earlier than Theocritus’ of which enough text for this kind of
investigation has survived, I will concentrate on these. Second, the kind of
1 “Short” in this context is usually supposed to mean up to a few hundred lines; though
I would not exclude Callimachus’ Hecale from the corpus of epyllia. However difficult and
even unspecific the term “epyllion” may be, I do not see sufficient reason to abolish it
entirely. I think we can easily continue using it as long as we are aware of its definitional
problems, and to avoid descriptive definitions like “short hexameter poem with mythical
subject.” Besides, by abandoning the term we risk transferring the problem to the term
“epic,” for if we call “epic” all poetry that was called “epyllion,” we may have to rethink that
term as well. As a consequence of the definitional difficulty of the term epyllion, however,
we may agree that discussions about whether a particular poem is an epyllion or not are
entirely pointless.
2 A good number of poets from the late forth, the third and second centuries BC are
known to have written hexameter poems with mythical subjects: Philetas of Cos, Simias
of Rhodes, Eratosthenes of Cyrene, Alexander Aetolus, Moero of Byzantium, Euphorion of
Chalcis et al. Furthermore there are a series of anonymous poems from that period which
seem to belong to the same type, cf. Powell (1925) 71–80.
202 christine luz
narrative technique I am looking at can be observed in Theocritus’ mythi-

cal poems. I will argue that Theocritus might be the first Hellenistic poet
who adopted this way of storytelling for the purpose of the epyllion, and
that his poems became a model for later compositions of the genre.
It has long been noticed that the snake scene of Theocritus’ Idyll 24,
the Heracliscus, is modelled on the myth section of Pindar’s First Nemean
Ode.3 In the following, I will provide a close comparison of the two texts
in order to show how they relate to each other.4
Pindar’s ode celebrates the chariot race victory of Chromius of Syra-
cuse. It begins with the praise of the victor and his hometown, which
leads to the account of baby Heracles killing the snakes as an example of
prowess. This mythical section comprises the second half of the poem to
the very end (vv. 33–72). The narrative starts with the birth of Heracles
and his brother Iphicles. Immediately after Hera, who has noticed the
event, sends two snakes in her jealousy and wrath to destroy the infants.
The beasts enter the open door of the thalamos (vv. 41–43):
τοὶ μὲν οἰχθεισᾶν πυλᾶν
ἐς θαλάμου μυχὸν εὐρὺν ἔβαν, τέκνοισιν ὠκείας γνάθους
ἀμφελίξασθαι μεμαῶτες.5
When the doors had been opened,
they went into the deep recess of the bedroom, eager to wrap their darting
jaws
around the babies.6
Theocritus chooses a different starting point of the story. In his version,
the twins are ten months old. The poem starts with an ordinary good-
night scene: Alcmene puts the children to bed after having fed and bathed
them and rocks them to sleep in the big shield that serves as their cradle
(vv. 1–10). The snakes approach in the dead of the night, which takes the
Hellenistic poet two lines to describe (vv. 11–12). From here the two nar-
ratives run parallel. Theocritus too tells us how the beasts enter the bed-
room and approach the babies (vv. 13–19):
3 Cf. Gow (21952b) vol. 2, 415; Dover (1971) 251–253. The episode seems also to have been
the subject of Paean 20, cf. Snell/Maehler (1989) 63–64. However, this poem is preserved in
such a fragmentary shape that we cannot gain an insight into its narrative structure.
4 The First Nemean Ode is written in dactylo-epitrites. However, since I am looking at
the narrative method, the metre is insignificant for my investigation.
5 The text follows the edition of Snell/Maehler (1987).
6 Translation by Race (1997b).
pindaric narrative technique in the hellenistic epyllion 203
τᾶμος ἄρ’ αἰνὰ πέλωρα δύω πολυμήχανος ῞Ηρα,

κυανέαις φρίσσοντας ὑπὸ σπείραισι δράκοντας,
ὦρσεν ἐπὶ πλατὺν οὐδόν, ὅθι σταθμὰ κοῖλα θυράων
οἴκου, ἀπειλήσασα φαγεῖν βρέφος ῾Ηρακλῆα.
τὼ δ᾿ ἐξειλυσθέντες ἐπὶ χθονὶ γαστέρας ἄμφω
αἱμοβόρους ἐκύλιον· ἀπ᾿ ὀφθαλμῶν δὲ κακὸν πῦρ
ἐρχομένοις λάμπεσκε, βαρὺν δ’ ἐξέπτυον ἰόν.7
Cunning Hera dispatched two terrible monstrous serpents
with arching dark blue coils
towards the broad threshold where the palace’s latticed doorposts
stood, with strict instructions to devour the infant Heracles.
They twisted and writhed their way over the ground on bloodthirsty bellies,
evil fire flashed from their eyes, and their jaws spat lethal poison.8
Theocritus adds more details to the scene as given by Pindar. The door,
just mentioned en passant in the First Nemean Ode, is paid closer atten-
tion: Theocritus takes note of the threshold and the doorposts, i.e. the part
of its construction the snakes will have to pass. This is the view the door
must have had from the snakes’ own perspective and, more importantly,
the part of the door the spectator is looking at while observing the snakes’
entrance. Furthermore, Theocritus elaborates the description of the ser-
pents: their coiling, scaly bodies moving along the floor and their flashing
eyes and poisonous mouths constitute a lively picture.
The narrative continues with the fight between Heracles and the
snakes and their eventually being killed by the boy. Pindar establishes
the sequence of events: Heracles notices the intruders, grabs their necks,
and strangles them to death (vv. 43–47):
ὁ δ᾿ ὀρθὸν μὲν ἄντεινεν κάρα, πειρᾶτο δὲ πρῶτον μάχας,
δισσαῖσι δοιοὺς αὐχένων
μάρψαις ἀφύκτοις χερσὶν ἑαῖς ὄφιας.
ἀγχομένοις δὲ χρόνος
ψυχὰς ἀπέπνευσεν μελέων ἀφάτων.
But the boy lifted his head straight up and engaged in his first battle,
grasping the two snakes by their necks
in his two inescapable hands,
and, as they were being strangled, the passage of time
exhaled the life from their monstrous bodies.
7 The text follows the edition of Gow (1952a).

8 Translation by Verity (2002).
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Pindar lays the emphasis on Heracles’ alertness, his strength and tenacity:
the boy reacts instantly to the danger; his powerful grip does not slacken
before the snakes are dead. Theocritus adopts this narrative pattern again,
embellishing the scene to make it more vivid: Zeus steps in and wakes the
boys; sudden light shines forth through the palace. The narrative focuses
first on Iphicles, who screams in terror and tries to get away. Whereas in
Pindar the younger brother is only mentioned at the beginning of the nar-
rative, Theocritus gives him a role as an acting character: the boy’s panic
provides a foil, which forms a contrast to the more hero-like behaviour
of the elder brother. Theocritus also elaborates the actual fight: we see
Heracles choosing the right point on the beasts’ neck for his grip and get
a glimpse at the snakes’ attempt at resistance, how they wriggle in the
fruitless struggle to free themselves (vv. 20–33):
ἀλλ᾿ ὅτε δὴ παίδων λιχμώμενοι ἐγγύθεν ἦνθον,
καὶ τότ᾿ ἄρ᾿ ἐξέγροντο, Διὸς νοέοντος ἅπαντα,
᾿Αλκμήνας φίλα τέκνα, φάος δ᾿ ἀνὰ οἶκον ἐτύχθη.
ἤτοι ὅγ᾿ εὐθὺς ἄυσεν, ὅπως κακὰ θηρί᾿ ἀνέγνω
κοίλου ὑπὲρ σάκεος καὶ ἀναιδέας εἶδεν ὀδόντας,
᾿Ιφικλέης, οὔλαν δὲ ποσὶν διελάκτισε χλαῖναν
φευγέμεν ὁρμαίνων· ὁ δ᾿ ἐναντίος ἵετο χερσίν
῾Ηρακλέης, ἄμφω δὲ βαρεῖ ἐνεδήσατο δεσμῷ,
δραξάμενος φάρυγος, τόθι φάρμακα λυγρὰ τέτυκται
οὐλομένοις ὀφίεσσι, τὰ καὶ θεοὶ ἐχθαίροντι.
τὼ δ᾿ αὖτε σπείραισιν ἑλισσέσθην περὶ παῖδα
ὀψίγονον, γαλαθηνὸν ὑπὸ τροφῷ, αἰὲν ἄδακρυν·
ἂψ δὲ πάλιν διέλυον, ἐπεὶ μογέοιεν, ἀκάνθας
δεσμοῦ ἀναγκαίου πειρώμενοι ἔκλυσιν εὑρεῖν.
But when they were close to touching the boys with their flickering tongues,
Alcmena’s sons awoke—for Zeus sees everything—
and the house was flooded with light.
When Iphicles saw the evil snakes
rearing above the hollow shield with their cruel teeth, he let out a scream
and kicked the woollen blanket off his legs
in a frenzy to get away. But Heracles
stood his ground and shot out his hands and clamped them
fast in a crushing grip, tight on the creatures’ throats, at the point where
deadly snakes keep their vile venom, which even the gods abominate.
At this they wrapped their coils around the child,
this infant, still at his mother’s breast (though never one to weep);
they clenched their spines, then let them go limp, in agonized attempts
to break from his tenacious grasp.
Next Pindar turns to the household. Alcmene and her women become
aware of what is going on in the cradle and are at first struck with fear.
The queen, however, jumps off her bed, undressed as she is, and hurries to
rescue her children. Immediately after, the Cadmeian leaders appear with
Amphitryon, who is brandishing his sword (vv. 48–53):
ἐκ δ᾿ ἄρ᾿ ἄτλατον δέος
πλᾶξε γυναῖκας, ὅσαι τύχον ᾿Αλκμήνας ἀρήγοισαι λέχει·
καὶ γὰρ αὐτὰ ποσσὶν ἄπεπλος ὀρούσαισ’ ἀπὸ στρωμνᾶς ὅμως ἄμυνεν
ὕβριν κνωδάλων.
ταχὺ δὲ Καδμείων ἀγοὶ χαλκέοις σὺν ὅπλοις ἔδραμον ἀθρόοι,
ἐν χερὶ δ᾿ ᾿Αμφιτρύων κολεοῦ γυμνὸν τινάσσων <φάσγανον>
ἵκετ᾿, ὀξείαις ἀνίαισι τυπείς.
Unbearable fear
struck all the women who at the time were attending Alkmene’s bed,
and even in her condition she sprang from her couch to her feet
without any robe and began warding off the beasts’ attack.
And swiftly the Kadmeian chieftains came running in a group with their
bronze arms,
and Amphitryon arrived brandishing his unsheathed sword in his hand,
stricken with piercing anguish.
In Theocritus too, Alcmene is the first to react. She hears the screams of
her younger son, wakes Amphitryon and urges him to go and see what is
wrong. Her fear does not render her heroic like Pindar’s heroine: she does
not herself attempt to help but sends her husband. This variation in the
plot smoothes the gap between the events in the women’s chamber and
the bursting in of Aphitryon and his followers, which we have in the Pin-
daric story.9 Theocritus’ poem gives a reason for the appearance of both
the king—he is sent by his wife—and the servants (rather than warriors in
the more domestic setting of the Hellenistic poem): they were summoned
by their master and woken by the old Phoenician slave (vv. 34–53):
᾿Αλκμήνα δ᾿ ἄκουσε βοᾶς καὶ ἐπέγρετο πράτα·
‘ἄνσταθ᾿, ᾿Αμφιτρύων· ἐμὲ γὰρ δέος ἴσχει ὀκνηρόν·
ἄνστα, μηδὲ πόδεσσι τεοῖς ὑπὸ σάνδαλα θείης.
οὐκ ἀίεις, παίδων ὁ νεώτερος ὅσσον ἀυτεῖ;
ἢ οὐ νοέεις ὅτι νυκτὸς ἀωρί που, οἱ δέ τε τοῖχοι
πάντες ἀριφραδέες καθαρᾶς ἅπερ ἠριγενείας;
ἔστι τί μοι κατὰ δῶμα νεώτερον, ἔστι, φίλ᾿ ἀνδρῶν.’
ὣς φάθ᾿· ὃ δ᾿ ἐξ εὐνᾶς ἀλόχῳ κατέβαινε πιθήσας·
9 Only in vv. 58–59 do we learn that Amphitryon was summoned by a messenger.

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δαιδάλεον δ᾿ ὥρμασε μετὰ ξίφος, ὅ οἱ ὕπερθεν

κλιντῆρος κεδρίνου περὶ πασσάλῳ αἰὲν ἄωρτο.
ἤτοι ὅγ᾿ ὠριγνᾶτο νεοκλώστου τελαμῶνος,
κουφίζων ἑτέρᾳ κολεόν, μέγα λώτινον ἔργον.
ἀμφιλαφὴς δ᾿ ἄρα παστὰς ἐνεπλήσθη πάλιν ὄρφνας.
δμῶας δὴ τότ᾿ ἄυσεν ὕπνον βαρὺν ἐκφυσῶντας·
‘οἴσετε πῦρ ὅτι θᾶσσον ἀπ᾿ ἐσχαρεῶνος ἑλόντες,
δμῶες ἐμοί, στιβαροὺς δὲ θυρᾶν ἀνακόψατ᾿ ὀχῆας.
ἄνστατε, δμῶες ταλασίφρονες· αὐτὸς ἀυτεῖ’,
ἦ ῥα γυνὰ Φοίνισσα μύλαις ἔπι κοῖτον ἔχουσα.
οἱ δ᾿ αἶψα προγένοντο λύχνοις ἅμα δαιομένοισι
δμῶες· ἐνεπλήσθη δὲ δόμος σπεύδοντος ἑκάστου.
Alcmena first heard the scream, and woke with a start:
“Amphitryon, get up! I’m dreadfully scared!
Get up, don’t wait to put your sandals on.
Did you not hear those loud screams—it’s our younger boy.
And look: it’s deep midnight, but we can see the walls
as clearly as if it was bright dawn.
Dear husband, there is something wrong in the house—there must be.”
So she spoke, and Amphitryon did as she said and got out of the bed.
He seized his decorated sword, which hung as always
from a peg above the cedar bed.
As he reached for his newly-plaited belt,
and with his other hand pulled down his great scabbard of lotus wood,
the spacious room grew dark again.
At this he called to his slaves, who were snoring in heavy sleep:
“Quick, get light from the hearth and bring it here!
Shove the great bars back from the doors!”
A Phoenician slave-woman, who slept in the place where the corn was
ground, shouted:
“Stout-hearted slaves, get up! It’s the master who is calling you!”
So the slaves lit their lamps and came at a run,
and the palace was filled with people bustling about.
Theocritus’ elaboration of the scene introduces new elements and creates
a most vivid picture of the organisation of the royal household. As in the
case of Iphicles, details mentioned by Pindar en passant are given fuller
attention. For instance, four verses are dedicated to the description of
Amphitryon’s sword: the passage looks like the beginning of an ecphrasis
that is stopped short by the vanishing light and return of the darkness.10
Despite these variations, Theocritus’ version clearly reflects the Pindaric
10 The reader would not be able to see any more, so the sword need not (and indeed
cannot) be further described.
model. The Hellenistic poet adopts all Pindaric elements: Alcmene as the
first to react, her fear, the rushing in of the crowd, Amphitryon’s sword.
Yet he elaborates them in order to achieve a smoother course of events;
he heightens the dramatic tension by retarding the narrative pace;11 he
increases the ironic colouring and highlights the domestic setting.
In both stories the next scene shows how Amphitryon and his crew
encounter the victorious Heracles. Pindar focuses on the father’s emotions
at the unexpected sight (vv. 55–59):
ἔστα δὲ θάμβει δυσφόρῳ
τερπνῷ τε μιχθείς. εἶδε γὰρ ἐκνόμιον
λῆμά τε καὶ δύναμιν
υἱοῦ· παλίγγλωσσον δέ οἱ ἀθάνατοι
ἀγγέλων ῥῆσιν θέσαν.
He stood there, stunned with wonder both painful
and joyous, for he saw the extraordinary
determination and power
of his son, since the immortal gods had
reversed the messengers’ report to him.
Amphitryon’s painful expectation on approaching the children’s chamber
turns into amazement and pleasure when he becomes aware of his son’s
extraordinary strength and courage. Theocritus describes the confronta-
tion between father and son from the latter’s point of view: he does not
dwell on the father’s emotions but demonstrates the son’s playful joy in
presenting to him the victims of his first fight (vv. 54–63):
ἤτοι ἄρ᾿ ὡς εἴδονθ᾿ ὑποτίτθιον ῾Ηρακλῆα
θῆρε δύω χείρεσσιν ἀπρὶξ ἁπαλαῖσιν ἔχοντα,
ἐκπλήγδην ἰάχησαν· ὃ δ᾿ ἐς πατέρ᾿ ᾿Αμφιτρύωνα
ἑρπετὰ δεικανάασκεν, ἐπάλλετο δ᾿ ὑψόθι χαίρων
κουροσύνᾳ, γελάσας δὲ πάρος κατέθηκε ποδοῖιν
πατρὸς ἑοῦ θανάτῳ κεκαρωμένα δεινὰ πέλωρα.
᾿Αλκμήνα μὲν ἔπειτα ποτὶ σφέτερον βάλε κόλπον
ξηρὸν ὑπαὶ δείους ἀκράχολον ᾿Ιφικλῆα·
᾿Αμφιτρύων δὲ τὸν ἄλλον ὑπ᾿ ἀμνείαν θέτο χλαῖναν
παῖδα, πάλιν δ᾿ ἐς λέκτρον ἰὼν ἐμνάσατο κοίτου.
When they saw the infant Heracles
holding the snakes in his soft hands with a vice-like grip,
11 Another moment of tension is created by the fact that Theocritus has not yet told at
this stage of the story that Heracles will eventually kill the snakes and be victor.
208 christine luz
they cried out in amazement. But the boy held the creatures up for his father
to see,
and danced with childish joy at what he had done;
he laughed, and laid the dreadful monsters,
sluggish with the sleep of death, at Amphitryon’s feet.
Iphicles was stiff with fear and hysterical,
and Alcmena hugged him to her breast;
but Amphitryon put Heracles to rest again under his lambswool blanket
and returning to his own bed composed himself for sleep.
Again, Theocritus follows the Pindaric pattern by ending the episode with
the encounter of father and son. As before, the Hellenistic poet highlights
the contrast between Heracles and his brother: while the elder delights
in the challenge he has just mastered, Iphicles is still petrified and needs
the comfort of his mother. Amphitryon’s satisfaction is not expressed by
words but implied in his action. It is he, a warrior himself, who puts his
victorious son back to sleep and retires to bed: all is well again.
In Pindar as well as in Theocritus, the snake episode is followed by
a prophecy of the seer Teiresias, who predicts the glorious future of
Heracles’ heroic career and his eventual immortalisation as the husband
of Hebe on Olympus.
I have tried to show in the comparison of the two texts in what way
Theocritus makes use of the narrative of his predecessor. It appears that
the Hellenistic poet does not only borrow the Pindaric theme but also
adopts his plot and mise en scene. The arrangement and sequence of the
scenes are the same in both poems: Hera’s wrath leads to the sending of
the snakes, we see them enter the bedchamber, they attack the babies
in the cradle, Heracles undertakes the defence and strangles the beasts,
Alcmene reacts first, then Amphitryon bursts in with a crowd, and finally
the episodes ends with the encounter of father and son. Despite the fact
that Theocritus adds details and elaborates the scenery where this con-
tributes to its vividness and the characterisation of his acting personae,12
the basic narrative structure of the episode is still prominent. Theocri-
tus’ adaptation of the Pindaric model pays more attention to particular
aspects of the story, e.g. it stresses its domestic environment, develops
its ironic potential, smoothes occasional gaps in the course of action, etc.
These are characteristics that are common in Hellenistic narrative poetry
12 In particular this happens in the direct speech of the queen and the matrimonial
scene, which shed light on the characters of Alcmene and Amphitryon; Heracles’ heroic
character gains by being contrasted with that of his brother.
and can be attributed to the taste of the time.13 Thus we may say that
Theocritus presents Pindar’s story in a new—that is, Hellenistic—outfit.
Yet, it is still Pindar’s story.
From Theocritus’ way of adopting Pindar’s narrative it follows that the
Hellenistic poet finds not only the story itself attractive for his own poem
but also the Pindaric manner of telling it. Certainly the infant’s fight with
the two serpents makes an effective and entertaining story, but this does
not explain why Theocritus adopts the narrative pattern as well, instead of
creating an entirely new presentation of the hero’s childhood adventure.
Hence we are left with the question why Pindar’s way of telling the story
is as interesting for Theocritus as the story itself. The answer to this can
perhaps be found when we look more closely at the Pindaric ode in par-
ticular and his poetological concept in general.
In the First Nemean Ode, the episode of Heracles’ strangling of the
snakes is part of a larger context. The ode celebrates the victor with a
variety of topics: it praises his hometown Syracuse14 as well as Sicily in
general (vv. 13–18), points out that great achievements deserve celebra-
tion and memorisation in song (vv. 7–12), celebrates the hospitality and
wealth of the victor’s family (vv. 19–24), and expounds in an extended pas-
sage of gnomic argument that every man has his qualities and it is best to
use one’s own (vv. 25–33). This last point is followed by the myth, which
serves as an example to show what Heracles is best at: his strength. Thus
the poem combines a range of subjects which all contribute to the dem-
onstration of the victor’s triumph and glory.15 The myth is, in its function
as an example, just one of them.
By means of this kind of combination and variation of a whole range
of topics, Pindar creates a dense and colourful fabric of images and ideas.
This compositional structure corresponds to the way Pindar speaks about
the character of his epinician poetry. Pindar repeatedly breaks off a narra-
tive passage by stating that he is getting too long-winded, that he has no
time, or that it is simply impossible to tell everything.16 His poetry does
not dwell long on one topic; it rather jumps from subject to subject just
like the bee—as Pindar describes it himself in one of his odes—that flies
from flower to flower to gather honey from each of them:
13 For typical “Hellenistic” features in epyllia of the period cf. Crump (1931) 54–57; Gutz-
willer (1981) 5 and 9; Merriam (2001) 25–43 passim.
14 Vv. 1–6, the opening lines, praise in particular Ortygia, the oldest part of Syracuse.
15 For the composition of the ode see Kirkwood (1982) 245–246; Braswell (1992) 29–32.
16 Cf. Nem. 4.33–34; 71–72; Nem. 10.19–20, with Henry (2005) 98–99.
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ἐγκωμίων γὰρ ἄωτος ὕμνων

ἐπ᾿ ἄλλοτ᾿ ἄλλον ὥτε μέλισσα θύνει λόγον.17
For the finest of victory hymns
flit like a bee from one theme to another.18
This metaphor reflects the poetics of Pindaric epinician poetry. Like the
bee, the poet picks the best and choicest of everything and unites these
elements into his song. The jumping and picking applies also to the way
Pindar treats his mythical sections. It is not Pindar’s intention to write
long continuous mythical narrative just for the sake of telling it; his myths
are always closely connected to their context: they serve to illustrate a
point (as here in the First Nemean Ode); they celebrate the victor’s genea-
logical background of his hometown or are part of a hymn etc. Like all
the other components of his epinicians, the mythical passages are part
of the close-woven fabric and contribute to the purpose of the song: the
praise of the victor. Thus in his mythical sections, Pindar applies a nar-
rative technique that allows him to present his myth in a most effective
way without using too much space and risking becoming tedious and so
ruining the glamour of his composition.
By what means Pindar achieves this aim can be observed in his treat-
ment of the story about little Heracles’ encounter with the snakes in the
First Nemean Ode. The poet picks one deed out of the long series of splen-
did achievements of his hero, his very first, which is all the more aston-
ishing as it was performed when he was still a newborn infant. He tells
this moment of his hero’s life vividly, at a certain length, and not without
picturesque and comical effects. At the same time, he does not lose sight
of the context of the myth: in the prophecy of Teiresias which follows the
actual narration of the deed, the poet foreshadows the whole career of his
hero and ends with his immortality and glorious ascent to Olympus. Thus
Pindar chooses two different kinds of narrative modes, each of which in
their own way enlighten an aspect of Heracles’ heroic qualities, and com-
bines them in order to obtain a more comprehensive picture than one
alone could have given. In the description of the fight with the snakes,
the poet provides his audience with the possibility to observe the hero
in action, to admire his vigour and strength, and to engage emotionally
into the events at the king’s palace; in the catalogue-like enumeration of
Heracles’ later deeds in Teiresias’ prophecy, the recipient is confronted
17 Pind. Pyth. 10.53–54.

18 Translation by Race (1997a).
with the endless series of his heroic feats which lead to his eventual dei-
fication. The combination of these two narrative modes helps the poet to
achieve two things at once despite the limited space he has in his poetic
frame: he is able to present a vivid and engaging portrait of his hero in
action and at the same time to include much more material from his
heroic life than the narration of one single scene would allow. So Pindar
uses a narrative technique which enables him to present his hero in his
full greatness in comparatively short space.19
In writing Idyll 24, Theocritus is confronted with a similar problem as
Pindar in the First Nemean Ode. The Heracliscus is a relatively short poem
containing mythical narrative and ending, as it seems, with an address
to the god. It is not possible to do justice to Heracles’ whole heroic life
in about 170 hexameters; so Theocritus solves this problem by telling
Heracles’ first deed in detailed narrative and giving a preview of his later
achievements. Like Pindar he combines his narrative with a catalogue of
future deeds and foreshadows in this way what he has no space to tell. By
this means he manages to present his hero in full action in a vivid and
graphic description, which enables the recipient to picture the greatness
and disposition of the hero, and at the same time allows him to include a
much more comprehensive portrait of his hero than a single episode from
his early life would allow. The Pindaric narrative form which Theocritus
finds in the First Nemean Ode provides him with what he needs for his
own poem: the Hellenistic poet can simply adopt the narrative technique
of his predecessor in order to achieve the same aim, i.e. a comprehensive
picture of his hero in a limited space frame.20
19 Pindar’s way of telling his myth can be described in terms of modern cinematogra-
phy as a movement of a film camera. The long heroic life of Heracles in the prophecy is
only glanced at from afar, we learn no details, and the deeds remain distant, whereas in
the snake episode the camera moves closer and shows it in full-size format: the recipient
sees the action, hears the screams, experiences the panic of the women, etc. In an earlier
version of this paper I called this form of narrative design “zoom-technique” according to
the movement of the camera that zooms in to show a close-up picture or zooms out to
present a broader perspective from a distance. Pindar uses this narrative technique not
only in the First Nemean Ode but in several of his longer mythical passages. An illustrative
example is the myth of Iamos in the Sixth Olympian Ode, where the story of the hero’s
birth is shown in vivid colours whereas his genealogy and later career as a seer are but
briefly summarised.
20 This technique differs fundamentally from the narrative mode of epic as we find
it, for example, in the Homeric songs. The Homeric poems tell a story that consists of a
long sequence of episodes that follow one after the other, each as the consequence of the
previous one. The mode of narration and the degree of immediateness do not change in
the way they do in the Theocritean poem discussed above. The difference from Theocritus’
212 christine luz
Theocritus uses this narrative technique of contrasting close-up scenes

with events that are briefly touched upon from a more distant perspective
not only in Idyll 24; we find it, in one way or another, in all his poems that
contain mythical narrative. An illustrative example is Idyll 13, the Hylas.
The narrative of that poem provides an example for the initial claim of the
narrator that not only mortals but also immortal gods suffer love. As in the
Pindaric example mentioned above, Theocritus’ myth illustrates a point,
i.e. the poet chooses a gnomic frame for his story. The narrative starts
with the description of Heracles’ love for Hylas and points out how the
hero takes care of his beloved’s education (vv. 5–15). This portrayal of the
two men’s intercourse forms the background for the following episode:
it shows how inseparable they were and explains why Heracles reacts so
un-heroically to the eventual disappearance of Hylas.
The actual episode begins with the gathering of the Argonauts, whom
Heracles and Hylas join (vv. 16–24). This passage foretells in short refer-
ences the quest for the Golden Fleece and the voyage through the SymÂ�
plegades. Thus its function is similar to that of Teiresias’ prophecy in Idyll
24: it outlines the context in which the episode that is going to be told
takes place.
In the next lines the Argo sets off and reaches the Propontis where
the sailors anchor for the night (vv. 25–31). Of the seven verses, two are
dedicated to the description of the time when the excursion takes place,
two describe the embarking, only one deals with the three days of the
voyage itself, and the last two introduce the place in the Propontis where
the heroes land. In this passage, Theocritus prepares his recipient for the
following narrative about Hylas and the Nymphs and gives him the back-
ground data, i.e. the time, the place, and the circumstances in which the
unhappy encounter is going to take place. The actual episode has not yet
started, but we are coming closer: the place is reached, the preparatory
information is given, and the action is about to begin.
A last delay before the protagonist appears: we are first told what his
companions are occupied with (vv. 32–35), i.e. they prepare the meal and
their bed. Then the narrative focuses entirely on Hylas (vv. 36–45): the
boy appears with a water jar and leaves the landing place in search of a
spring. This is soon found. Theocritus describes its surroundings in detail:
way of telling myth is that he picks one episode out of a sequence that could be the plot
of a long epic poem (cf. below on Hylas and the Argonauts) and presents just this single
episode, whereas all the others that belong to the whole story remain untold and/or only
alluded to.
the flowers that grow nearby and the Nymphs who inhabit it. The lat-
ter’s names are mentioned and we see them preparing to dance. At this
moment the spectator’s attention is fully drawn to the event at the spring.
We have lost sight of the Argonauts and their quest; the focus is entirely
on Hylas’ encounter with the Nymphs. The tension increases in the next
lines when Hylas leans over the water in order to fill his jug—apparently
not aware of the danger—and the Nymphs, stricken by love,21 grasp his
hand and draw him down into the spring. This is the climax of the narra-
tive; Theocritus dedicates five and a half verses to the description of this
moment and embellishes it with the simile of a shooting star that plunges
into the sea (vv. 46–51a):
ἤτοι ὁ κοῦρος ἐπεῖχε ποτῷ πολυχανδέα κρωσσόν
βάψαι ἐπειγόμενος· ταὶ δ᾿ ἐν χερὶ πᾶσαι ἔφυσαν·
πασάων γὰρ ἔρως ἁπαλὰς φρένας ἐξεφόβησεν
᾿Αργείῳ ἐπὶ παιδί. κατήριπε δ’ ἐς μέλαν ὕδωρ
ἀθρόος, ὡς ὅτε πυρσὸς ἀπ’ οὐρανοῦ ἤριπεν ἀστήρ
ἀθρόος ἐν πόντῳ.
As the boy reached down in haste to dip his capacious
pitcher into the pool, they all seized his hand,
their tender hearts driven to madness with desire
for the Argive boy. Down he fell with a rush
into the dark pool, just as a shooting star falls
with a rush into the sea.
At this point, the very climax of the narrative tension, the spectator’s
attention is abruptly drawn away by a short change of scene of a line and
a half: one of the Argonauts calls his companions to depart (vv. 51b–52).
This interruption brings the recipient back to the context of the episode.
He realises that the adventure of the boy Hylas is only a minor event in
the long myth of the quest for the Golden Fleece and hence that it is,
although here the theme of a whole poem, rather insignificant compared
to the great adventures of the Argonauts. Its outcome depends on their
interest in the affair: time is short, for if the ship leaves, Hylas will be
abandoned, and there is no rescue for him.
This is, however, not the intention of Heracles, who, driven by his love,
goes in search of his friend. From this moment, the narrative’s focus on a
single event at a time is given up in favour of a more or less simultaneous
21 Although Theocritus does not explicitly say so, the passion of the Nymphs is a second
instance which proves that immortals suffer from love. Hylas is the object of two passions
of immortal beings at once, Heracles’ and the Nymphs’.
214 christine luz
telling of three intertwining plot lines. We see Hylas guarded by the

Nymphs, who seek in vain to comfort the weeping boy (vv. 53–54), Hera-
cles in his full armour in quest of his friend (vv. 55–57), and their fruitless
exchange of shouts that lead the hero astray rather than bringing him
nearer to his beloved (vv. 58–60). In consequence, the loving hero moves
more and more away from his aim and disappears from the view of the
narrative, lost in his passion and the wilderness (vv. 62–67; 70b–71). In a
third scene of action, we see the Argo ready to set off where the sailors wait
in vain for Heracles and eventually defer their departure (vv. 68–70a).
The poem ends with an epilogue of four verses that summarise the
conclusion of the events: Hylas is made immortal and Heracles reaches
Colchis on foot where he meets his companions and is mocked by them
as a deserter (vv. 72–75).
Like in Idyll 24, Theocritus tells in the Hylas poem an episode from the
life of Heracles. In both poems he embeds it in the context of a longer
myth: there, the heroic career of Heracles, here, the quest of the Argo-
nauts. This context is only referred to briefly though never really—or
only for moments—lost out of sight. In contrast, the main episode is told
in rich detail, the portrait of the acting characters is drawn in vivid and
impressive colours, and the attention and emotional involvement of the
audience is fully claimed. The combination of these two different narra-
tive modes defines the relation between the episode the poet focuses on,
the encounter of Hylas and the Nymphs, and its mythical background, the
quest for the Golden Fleece. It allows the poet to let his story gradually
emerge from its context and to resume the framework narrative after its
completion.
A short glimpse will show in what way Theocritus makes similar use
of this narrative technique in his other mythical poems. Idyll 22, Dioscuri,
and Idyll 26, Bacchae, have a hymnic setting;22 within this frame they tell
a comparatively short episode taken from a longer myth, which is referred
to in short references. In Idyll 22, the background of the fight between
Polydeuces and Amycus is again the quest of the Argonauts, which is
mentioned at the beginning of the actual episode. The fight between
Castor and Lynceus belongs to the longer myth about the abduction of
the daughters of Leucippos. In Bacchae we learn the context from the
explanatory section that follows the actual episode where the poet makes
22 On hymns and epyllia see Petrovic in this volume.

clear that Dionysus ordered the women to kill Pentheus because he was
his enemy.
In Idyll 11, Cyclops, there is no actual narrative, but we have the same
kind of focussing on the character of Polyphemus in his predicament: we
follow him in his song through several states of unhappy love until his
actual cure from it. The song repeatedly contains references to the future
events the recipient is familiar with from the Odyssey: v. 53 alludes to
the blinding of the eye, v. 61 to the arrival of a stranger’s ship. So here
too Theocritus plays with the mythical background of his story, which is
yet to happen, and he does it in an even more sophisticated way than in
Heracliscus, since in Cyclops the “prophet” who utters the ominous words
does not understand their prophetic meaning.
A very peculiar case is the pseudo-Theocritean Idyll 25, Heracles the
Lion-Slayer. The poem adopts the narrative technique we have observed
in the poems discussed above, but in a very special way. It narrates three
scenes that take place near or on the grounds of the king Augeas in a
detailed and elaborated way. In all three of them Heracles appears as the
protagonist; we learn in the first that the hero is in search of the king
on a particular business, we see in the second the immense herds of the
king, and we are told in the third scene as a story within the story how
Heracles killed the Nemean lion. However, we never hear what we are
expecting throughout the whole poem: the story of the cleaning of the
Augean stables. The poet plays with the expectation of the erudite recipi-
ent who knows what he should be told in this context; eventually he hears
of one of Heracles’ famous tasks, the fight with the Nemean lion, but not
the one he has been waiting for.23 So the whole poem is based on the
interplay with scenes actually told and a context always present but never
made explicit. The poet makes use of the Theocritean narrative technique
illustrated above by giving it an unexpected turn: he never even mentions
the background he is evidently drawing from.
23 The three scenes have in common that they all show Heracles in an encounter with
animals. The first two are not canonical and prepare the well-known fight with the Nem-
ean lion in the last scene, which forms the climax of the three episodes. In the first scene,
the dogs are relatively harmless and Heracles himself is not even involved in an actual
fight. The encounter with the bull proves more dangerous, but still Heracles easily remains
the victor. Eventually, in the third scene, the hero relates his fight with the Nemean lion
in retrospective. It is also the motif of the lion-skin that prepares the account of the last
scene: it is mentioned in the first episode where the herdsman takes note of it, it provokes
the attack of the bull in the second, and is finally the prize won in the last.
216 christine luz
So far I have argued that a) in Idyll 24, Theocritus adopts Pindar’s nar-
rative technique from the First Nemean Ode, b) Theocritus uses this nar-
rative technique in all his mythical poems and c) he has poetological
reasons to do so. If these reflections are correct, they imply consequences
for the history of the epyllion. But before we come to this, another group
of texts requires consideration: the pre-Hellenistic epyllia or, more gener-
ally, short hexameter poems from earlier periods that contain mythical
narrative.
There has always been long and short epic poetry, i.e. hexameter narra-
tive with mythical subject. In fact, we may assume that short epic—“short”
meaning a poem that can be performed in the course of a few hours at
the longest—was originally the common form. For in a time when oral
performance of poetry was the rule, this must have been the length of
regular epic pieces. In this context it is rather the long Homeric poems
which seem to have been the exception, and which by becoming over the
centuries the standard epics must have changed this relation.
However that may be, some short epic narrative from the Archaic
Period has survived, so we can gain an impression how such poems may
have looked like. These texts are discussed in other contributions to this
volume, so I mention them here only briefly and in view of my question.
The song of Demodocus in the Odyssey (8.266–369) tells the affair of
Ares and Aphrodite without referring to any larger mythical context. It
is a complete story whose poet does not use allusions to evoke a broader
background. He does not aim at either giving a comprehensive picture
of his characters or presenting his narrative as a particular episode that
belongs to a longer context. The story as told by the Homeric bard is self-
sufficient.
The pseudo-Hesiodic Shield is a very peculiar poem as regards its nar-
rative structure.24 Like two of Theocritus’ idylls discussed above, it tells
an episode from the life of Heracles. The poet chooses the fight between
Heracles and Cycnus for his narrative, but, rather than focusing on the
actual event, he devotes almost half of the poem to the description of Her-
acles’ armour, in particular his shield. This immense excursus distracts the
reader or listener from what is going on and lessens the narrative tension.
The encounter and fight between the two opponents, which should have
24 I refer here to the second part of the poem. The first part is insignificant for the pres-
ent discussion; it tells the story of Alcmene in a rather brief summary without focusing on
a particular scene.
been the climax of the story, take little space at the end of the poem and
seem almost insignificant compared to the long speeches in the begin-
ning and the extended ecphrasis. The poet’s way of telling his episode is
almost the opposite of what Theocritus does in the idylls discussed above:
he seems to be using the narrative as a framework for the ecphrasis of
the shield.25
Finally, we have narrative passages in the longer Homeric hymns.26 The
hymns can be compared to Pindar’s epinician poetry as they too aim at
celebrating an individual, in their case a god. The difference is, however,
that in the Homeric hymns the myths are about the god to be praised
rather than serving as an example of a gnomic sentence or being vaguely
connected with the victor through his ancestors or his hometown. The
dwelling on a story about the god is therefore not surprising: it is part
of the hymnic repertoire and the language of praise27 and does not need
justification as the god and his faculties and deeds are the subject of the
hymn. Accordingly, we do not find poetological statements that explain
the presence of a myth or tell us why it is treated in a particular way.
Furthermore, most hymns contain several episodes about the god rather
than picking one and referring to others by allusions. They often tell the
deity’s birth story and some other deeds as in the hymns to Hermes and
to Apollo; in the hymn to Demeter two aetiological myths, the rise of
the seasons and the cult of Eleusis, are intertwined. We do not find in
the Homeric hymns the Pindaric (or Theocritean) playing with fore- and
background. The Homeric hymns certainly offer a store of material for a
poet looking for a mythical episode to relate, but they do not provide a
model for the treatment of their myth in the way the Pindaric epinician
odes do.
What Theocritus finds in Pindar and not in any other extant short
mythical narrative from the pre-Hellenistic period is the conscious deal-
ing with the problem of how to treat extensive myth and the greatness of
mythical characters within a limited frame of space. If the Hellenistic poet
was looking for a way to achieve this aim, he found a model in Pindar’s
epinicians. Theocritus’ innovation is the adaptation of this Pindaric model
to the epyllion: by doing this he created a new form of short hexameter
narrative.
25 On the peculiar narrative technique of the Shield see Bing in this volume.
26 For a more detailed discussion of the Homeric hymns see Petrovic in this volume.
27 Cf. Furley/Bremer (2001) vol. 1, 56–60.
218 christine luz
Given that this new form of telling myth provided an excellent solution
for the dealing with long myths in short space, we would assume that
other poets recognised the advantage of this technique and imitated The-
ocritus’ writing. If this be the case, it would prove that Theocritus’ mythi-
cal poems played a significant role for the development of the Hellenistic
epyllion. Thus I turn briefly to some other exponents of the genre.
Judging from the fragments of the Hecale, it appears that the poem
related a rather extensive story about Theseus, which included a whole
range of episodes, such as the encounter with Hecale, the slaying of the
bull, the establishment of the cult, etc. However, there seem to be indi-
cations that Callimachus paid much attention to relatively insignificant
scenes such as the night in Hecale’s hut and told them in great detail
whereas others were summarised.28 This may imply an awareness of The-
ocritus’ narrative technique even if in its general outlines the much longer
Hecale is not an epyllion in the Theocritean style.
The Europa of Moschus presents a different picture. Like Demodo-
cus’ song in the Odyssey, the poem about Zeus’ abduction of Europa is
shaped as a complete story which does not need any further references
to a broader mythical context. However, the poet does not seem to be
satisfied with this narrative form. He uses the ecphrasis of the girl’s basket
in order to evoke the myth of Io and place his composition within a tradi-
tion of other bull-and-cow-stories.29 Like Theocritus in the prophecy of
Teiresias, Moschus invents a means to provide his episode with a mythical
background and thus combines detailed narrative with the foreshadowing
of future events.
Finally, we find a reminiscence of the Theocritean narrative technique
in a Roman context: in Catullus’ poem 64. Catullus combines a variety of
scenes and narrative styles, some of which recall Theocritus’ way of tell-
ing myth. In particular, the song of Ariadne, which carries her through
her memories and displays her varying emotions, resembles the lament
of the lovesick Cyclops in Theocritus’ Idyll 11. Furthermore, the song of
the Parcae connects the present event, the wedding of Peleus and Thetis,
with the future of their son.30 Catullus adapts Theocritean features and
develops them to a new and unique composition.
28 Hollis (22009) 25–26; Gutzwiller (1981) 6.

29 On the relation between Europa and Io (and more stories of the kind) see Höschele
in this volume.
30 Another example is the initial description of the Argo and the effect her appearence
produces: the scene is taken from the myths of the Argonauts, whose quest serves as the
background for the meeting of Peleus and his future bride.
In this contribution I have tried to show what is special about the way
Theocritus presents mythical stories in his epyllia as compared to earlier
short epic narrative. Theocritus’ innovation does not pass unnoticed but
influences the narrative shape of later epyllia. Hence I would like to pro-
pose the following sketch of the development of the narrative form of the
epyllion.
Short hexameter narrative with mythical subject was common at all
times. Poets used different narrative styles as we have seen from the song
of Demodocus in the Odyssey or the pseudo-Hesiodic Shield. Now Theocri-
tus introduces a new narrative technique into the epyllion, which he bor-
rows from Pindar; he adopts the Pindaric model because he finds there a
conscious dealing with the problem how to treat extensive myth on short
space and a narrative form that provides a solution to it. Thus Theocritus
creates a new form of short epic which combines the detailed and vivid
narration of comparatively short episodes or even single scenes with allu-
sive references to a broader context. Later poets adopt the Theocritean
technique, as does Moschus, or develop it further, as does Catullus.
The Hecale and Hellenistic Conceptions
of Short Hexameter Narratives
Kathryn Gutzwiller
The nineteenth-century scholars who began using the term “epyllion” to

designate short hexameter narratives did so because of a perceived gap
in the ancient system of genre classification. In the traditional categoriza-
tion in place during the classical age, some poetic categories, such as epic
and elegy, were named for metrical patterns, in which a range of subjects
were treated in variable lengths, while others, such as tragedy, comedy,
and dithyramb, were based on performative function. Only in the literary
critical awakening of the fourth century (as it seems) did length become
a factor in establishing generic norms and assessing comparatively the
quality of genres.1 In the early Hellenistic period, as shown by program-
matic passages in poetry and critical statements from prose texts, length,
always tied to style and choice of subject matter, became a factor in the
judgment of what constituted good poetry. It is not, then, an accident of
transmission that short hexameter narratives are known from this period
in some numbers and that they seem to have served as models for Latin
narrative poetry from the late Republic through the Augustan age. Rather,
evaluative judgment of short versus long in genres of variable length such
as epic and elegy was related to the development of Hellenistic literary
critical theories—advanced in prose treatises, illustrated in poetic prac-
tice, and always subject to debate and controversy.
The most famous of the Hellenistic epyllia, as they are commonly
called, was Callimachus’ Hecale. Ancient descriptions and a large number
of fragments give us fair knowledge concerning the plot and style of this
lost poem, which focused on an encounter between the young Theseus on
his way to subdue the Marathonian bull and the poor and elderly Hecale
who provided him kind hospitality in her hut. It is the earliest known
1 In the Poetics Aristotle defines the best length for tragedy as the greatest that is in
accordance with clarity of plot structure (1451a 9–15) and sets epic up as distinct in “size
of its structure” (τῆς συστάσεως τὸ μῆκος, 1459b 17–18). He grants the possibility of epics
shorter than the ancient ones, of a length equivalent to a group of tragedies presented at
one performance, but also commends epic for its ability to extend length (τὸ ἐπεκτείνεσθαι
τὸ μέγεθος πόλυ τι) to enhance weightiness (ὄγκος) (1459b 18–28).
222 kathryn gutzwiller
short epic composed in a strictly narrative style, that is, not accompanied
by a catalog introduction (like the Hesiodic Shield), hymnal features (like
the Homeric Hymns, Callimachus’ narrative hymns, and Theocritus’ Idylls
22, 24, and 26), or an admonitory frame (like Idyll 13). It was read, admired,
commented upon, and sometimes imitated throughout antiquity and per-
haps beyond.2 In this essay I consider the Hecale within the ancient criti-
cal climate in which it was written and received, in order to examine how
traditional generic norms interacted with new poetic theories in the Hel-
lenistic period to favor short epic narratives as a locus for the display of
artistic ability and critical sophistication.
A well-known scholium on the conclusion to Callimachus’ Hymn to
Apollo connects the length of the Hecale with critical disputes of Callima-
chus’ day (T 1 Hollis, ad Hymn 2.106):
ἐγκαλεῖ διὰ τούτων τοὺς σκώπτοντας αὐτὸν μὴ δύνασθαι ποιῆσαι μέγα ποίημα,
ὅθεν ἠναγκάσθη ποιῆσαι τὴν ῾Εκάλην.
In this section he casts blame on those who were making fun of him for
his incapacity to compose a large poem, because of which he was forced to
compose the Hecale.3
The scholiast is here commenting on the hymn’s programmatic coda
(2.105–12), where Phthonus whispers in Apollo’s ear to criticize the poet
for not singing “as much as the sea,” and the god responds by defend-
ing the hymn because it is not filled with refuse like the “great stream”
(μέγας ῥόος, 108) of the Euphrates but is pure and undefiled like “small
drops from a holy spring” (πίδακος ἐξ ἱερῆς ὀλίγη λιβάς, 112). Callimachus’
message is that the god of song privileges the refined excellence that can
be achieved in a small-scale composition over the grandeur of more sub-
stantial poetry. Despite its brevity, the scholiast’s comment clearly links
the critical debate evoked at the end of the Hymn to Apollo with the com-
position of the Hecale where, it is implied, instead of composing a poem
of the type represented by the hymn, Callimachus chose to answer the
criticism about limitations to his poetic ability by composing a narrative
poem on a larger scale.
2 For the testimonia, see Hollis (22009) 57–60. Hollis (22009) 37–40 traces the survival of
the Hecale in the Byzantine age to Michael Choniates (late 12th / early 13th cent.), whose
prose and verse seem to contain allusions to the poem. For the influence of the Hecale on
later epyllia, see Hollis (22009) 32–34.
3 All translations are my own.
the hecale and hellenistic conceptions 223
Once a staple of scholarly assessments of Hellenistic poetry, this scho-

lium is now largely ignored or discounted. Hollis, for instance, dismisses
it as a concoction of the scholiast based solely on the length of the Hecale
and Callimachus’ evident involvement in literary quarrels.4 It is much
more probable, however, that the scholiast’s comment preserves remnants
of the ideas about poetry held by Hellenistic literary theorists and the
contemporary poets who put such beliefs into practice, prominently Cal-
limachus.5 Given our growing knowledge about Hellenistic poetic theory,6
I propose to consider what links remain, even in this brief scholium, to the
terminology used by the critical theorists of the period.
There is no reason to doubt that the scholium descends from an ancient
source. In Pfeiffer’s analysis, all the significant witnesses to the text of the
comment derive from a common archetype of the twelfth or thirteenth
century, in which Callimachus’ hymns were combined with Homeric and
other hymns.7 The archetype had in turn harvested the hymns from a
comprehensive collection of Callimachus’ works dating to the sixth cen-
tury or possibly later.8 The scholia in this manuscript tradition are for
the most part only brief explanations or glosses; the comment on Hymn
2.106 is unusual for both its literary content and its reference to another
Callimachean poem. A strong indication that the Hecale scholium goes
back to an ancient discussion is its structural resemblance to other com-
ments on Callimachus’ detractors known from papyri.9 In the Florentine
4 Hollis (22009) 3; cf. Lefkowitz (22012) 117. Cameron (1995) 357, however, at least gives
the scholium credit as an “acknowledgment that the Hecale was considered a long poem.”
5 Only recently have scholars begun to pay serious attention to ancient literary criti-
cism in scholia; see, for instance, Richardson (1980) and Nünlist (2009).
6 The most important contributions are new editions of Philodemus: Janko’s edition
of On Poems 1 (2000), Mangoni’s edition of On Poems 5 (1993), and Delattre’s edition of
De Musica (2007). Fragments from the other books of Philodemus’ On Poems have been
available only in Sbordone (1976); Books 3 and 4 are now published by Janko (2011). For
synthetic summary with some application to poetic practice, see Gutzwiller (2010).
7 Pfeiffer (1953) lv, lxxix–lxxxvi. Sources for the scholia to Hymn 2 are four manuscripts
of the 15th century—Ambros. 120 (F), Paris. Gr. 2763 (E), Ambros. 734 (e), and Mutinensis-
Estensis 164 (Q)—and the uncertain sources for Lascaris’ editio princeps (La), c. 1496, on
which see Pfeiffer (1953) lvi–lvii, lxiii–lxiv, lxvi–lxvii, lxviii–lxix.
8 Pfeiffer (1953) lv, lxxxiv. The evidence for this comprehensive collection of Callima-
chus’ works is an epigram attesting to its contents, preserved in later manuscripts (test. 23
Pf., in vol. 2: xcviii–xcix); according to the epigram, the six hymns were followed directly
by the Hecale.
9 Explanatory notes to Callimachus were an early practice. Interlinear comments have
been found on the Lille papyrus (containing the so-called Victoria Berenices) dated to the
third century or first half of the second century BC (SH 255, 258, 261). The more extensive
comments on papyri or in manuscripts are, in all likelihood, related to the ὑπομνήματα
written by learned scholars; see Bastianini (2006) 150. The earliest known commentator
scholia to the Aetia prologue (PSI 1219, fr. 1, 2nd–3rd cent. AD), the com-
mentator gives the names of those whom Callimachus calls Telchines,
adding τοῖς με]μφομ(έν)ο[ι]ς αὐτοῦ τὸ κάτι̣σ[χνον τῶν ποιη]μάτ(ων) κ(αὶ) ὅτι
οὐχὶ μῆκος . . . (“who find fault with the extreme thinness of his poems and
because not length . . .,” 8–9, Pf. 2: p. 3).10 The accusations here are that
Callimachus composes in an excessively plain or dry style and that he fails
to do something that involves “length.”11 The commentator then explains
(after a lacuna of two lines) how Callimachus responds to these detractors
(12–15), that is, by comparing the short poems of Mimnermus and Philitas
with their longer poems.12 Similarly, the Diegesis to Iambus 13 (P. Med. 18,
IX 32–38, 1st–2nd cent. AD) summarizes that poem as follows: ἐν τούτῳ
πρὸς τοὺς καταμεμφομένους αὐτὸν ἐπὶ τῇ πολυειδείᾳ ὧν γράφει ποιημάτων
ἀπαντῶν φησιν . . . (“against those faulting him for the many forms in which
he wrote all his poems, he here claims . . . ,” 33–35). The word πολυείδεια
refers to Callimachus’ mixture of dialects and meters, and likely also
generic types and poetic styles; critical objection to such innovative mix-
ing of generic features, attested in other sources, cannot be doubted.13
The scholiast continues by stating the defense that Callimachus makes in
Iambus 13 to the criticism of his πολυείδεια (his mixture of generic types,
on Callimachus is Theon, an interpreter of Hellenistic poetry working in the Augustan

age; he wrote on the Aetia and quoted the Hecale (fr. 42 Pf.; ad frs. 45.1 and 71.1–2 Hollis).
A commentary on the Hecale was composed by the undated Salustius (ad fr. 9.1–2, ad fr. 29,
fr. 179 Hollis), who apparently also wrote on the hymns (Steph. Byz. s.v. ῎Αζιλις; cf. Hymn
2.89). On the commentaries, see Pfeiffer (1953) xxvii–xxx, liv; Hollis (22009) 35–37.
10 Based on photographic enlargement of the beginning of the scholiast’s comment,
Bastianini (2006) 161 reconstructs the beginning of the scholium as follows: πολεμεῖ τοῖς
Τελχῖσι, τουτ(έστι)] τ̣οῖ̣ς δ(ια)[βÎ¬�̣ λ̣λ[ο]υ̣σι τ(ὴν) τέχνην αὐτοῦ] . . . (2–3). Cf. the structure of
ἐγκαλεῖ διὰ τούτων τοὺς σκώπτοντας αὐτὸν . . .
11 The plain style is called ἰσχνός, as in Demetr. Eloc. 36, 190; Dion. Hal. Pomp. 2.2; cf. Phld.
Rhet. 1.165.3–4 Sudhaus. The much rarer κάτισχνος, normally referring to emaciation, may
here suggest that Callimachus is accused of a defective use of the style; cf. too Callim. AP
12.150.3 = HE 3.3 = Epigr. 46.3 Pf., αἱ Μοῖσαι τὸν ἔρωτα κατισχναίνοντι. Callimachus’ view on
how to avoid the tedium of μῆκος in narrative is suggested by SH 264.1, where he encour-
ages the reader to fill in the gaps in the story he is relating and cut short its “length.”
12 The sense of the original text is disputed, and some scholars prefer to attribute the
long poems to Antimachus. For a summary of scholarship on the issue, see Massimilla
(1996) 206–212.
13 Objection to innovative mixing of generic features existed already in the fourth
century, as shown by Aristotle’s complaint about Chaeremon’s use of mixed meters
(Poet. 1460a 1–2; cf. Plat. Ion 534b–c). The third-century euphonist Heracleodorus champi-
oned poetic creativity free from the restrictions of formal rules, for which he was criticized
by Philodemus (Poet. 1, cols. 191.3–193.3, 210.20–22 Janko). Janko (2000) 164 points out that
Heracleodorus’ “advocacy of the mixture of dialects, styles, and genres . . . finds its anteced-
ent in the practice of poets like Callimachus and Lycophron.” On what πολυείδεια meant
in the Diegesis to Iambus 13, see Acosta-Hughes (2002) 82–89.
dialect, and meters), and that is the precedent set by Ion of Chios who
composed in diverse genres and the model of the carpenter who makes
objects of many types (πολυειδῆ).
The scholium on the Hecale has a similar linguistic and semantic struc-
ture. In all three scholia the speech act of the detractors is reported with
a participle (τοῖς με]μφομ(έν)ο[ι]ς; τοὺς καταμεμφομένους; τοὺς σκώπτοντας)
followed by the third-person pronoun (αὐτοῦ; αὐτὸν; αὐτὸν) and then the
substance of the accusation. In each, the scholiast next summarizes Cal-
limachus’ response, either by paraphrasing the defense he makes in the
poem under discussion or, in the case of the Hymn, by claiming that he
was thus forced to demonstrate his poetic competence by composing the
Hecale.14 The similarities between these three scholia strongly suggest
that they descend from the same or similar ancient commentaries, which,
given the dates of the Aetia and Iambi papyri, must have been written no
later than the second century AD and perhaps as early as the Hellenistic
or Augustan eras.
In accusing Callimachus of lacking the ability to compose a μέγα ποίημα,
or something of that ilk, just what might his detractors have had in mind?
Although the phrase μέγα ποίημα does not occur elsewhere with refer-
ence to literary works, a passage from Philodemus’ On Poems shows that
forms of μέγας were used in poetic criticism by the early Hellenistic age.
In Book 5 Philodemus discusses an unidentified literary critic who made a
threefold categorization of ποιήματα that includes τὰ στερεώτατα καὶ μείζω
(“the most solid and rather large” ones, col. 7.25–8.34 Mangoni).15 The
collocation of the two adjectives suggests that μείζω refers here to both
length and style. Philodemus’ summary follows a discussion of Heraclides
of Pontus, and this fourth-century critic, aligned with both the Academic
14 Similar too is an anecdote in Pliny about the fourth-century artist Pausias, who
painted miniatures and especially children. Pausias’ rivals blamed his choice of topics on
his slow method of painting, and in response he demonstrated his facility by painting a
portrait of a boy in a single day, named the One-Day Boy (hoc aemuli interpretabantur
facere eum, quoniam tarda picturae ratio esset illi. quam ob rem daturus ei celeritatis famam
absolvit uno die tabellam, quae vocata est hermeresios, puero picto, Hist. Nat. 35.124). Here
again, the anecdote has a similarity to the scholium on the Hecale, both in form and in
substance, since the avoidance of grand subjects is at issue in each case. Likewise too,
Pausias disproves the criticism with a painting, just as Callimachus responds to his critics
with the Hecale.
15 The phrase τὰ στε[ρε]ὰ καὶ μεί[ζω . . . ποιήμ]ατα (col. 8.6–7), a bit later in the passage,
is apparently Philodemus’ paraphrase of the same description; see Mangoni (1993) 203.
The choice between translating μείζω “grander” or “larger” is difficult, since size is often
associated with the grand style; on μέγας as a descriptor of the qualities of the grand style,
see my n. 46.
and Peripatetic schools, may remain under discussion in the section at

issue. It is also possible that Philodemus has moved on to discuss a some-
what later critic. Whatever his identity, the theorist’s interest in classifying
types of poetry is consistent with the critical thought of the late fourth
or third centuries.16 His threefold division of poems, based at least partly
on subject matter, parallels the three rhetorical genera loquendi and the
fourfold division of style for prose and poetry in Demetrius’ On Style.17 The
following categories can be extracted from Philodemus’ typically hostile
treatment of his opponent’s views: (1) the “most solid and rather large”
(στε[ρ]εώτατα καὶ μ[εί]ζω) poems which have richness (πολυτελ[ῶς]) and
weight (ἐμβριθῶς), but not simplicity (ε[ὐ]τελῶς) and lightness (ἐλαφρῶς),
and to which the poet brings as raw material richness of characteriza-
tion (προσ[ώπω]ν) and of ethical dispositions (ἠθῶν), attention to stories
(μύθων) and plots (ὑποθέσεων) as well as truth (ἀληθείας) and the poet’s
own uniqueness ([ἰδιό]τητος); (2) intermediate (τὰ μέσα) poems which
share with the first type richness ([πολυτελεί]ας)18 and, to a lesser extent,
plot (ὑπόθεσ[ιν); and (3) poems described as simple (ε]ὐτ[ελές) and light
(ἐλαφ[ρόν), which seem to be devoid of characterization, story, and plot.
What this passage from Philodemus tells us, most importantly, is that in
the third century, or even before, there existed a classification of poetic
types that was not based just on the traditional generic categories but on
subject matter and style tied to length, and that μέγας, here in the compar-
ative form, was used in a technical sense in describing these categories.
It is reasonable to conclude that the reference to a μέγα ποίημα in the
scholium on the Apollo hymn preserves something of the linguistic ter-
minology used by Callimachus’ contemporary opponents in attacking him
for not composing poems of the longer/grander type. Well known are Cal-
limachus’ own expressions of dislike for some kinds of long poetry, appar-
ently because the composers fail to maintain stylistic refinement. In one
epigram he states his contempt for the “cyclic poem” (2 HE = Epigr. 28
Pf.), which falls into the class of “common things” (τὰ δημόσια),19 and in a
16 For the difficulties in identifying the theorist(s) discussed in cols. 1–12 of Book 5, see
Mangoni (1993) 36–44 and Dorandi (2009) 9–15. Janko (2000) 137–138 allows that discus-
sion of Heraclides may continue through col. 12, though also raising the possibility that the
critic discussed in our passage may be the euphonist Heracleodorus.
17 The invention of the three styles is often ascribed to Theophrastus, but is not a uni-
versally accepted opinion; for a discussion of the evidence, see Innes (1985).
18 Also possible is [ἐμβριθεί]ας (“weightiness”); Mangoni (1993) 208.
19 The epigrammatist Pollianus interprets this as an objection to trite thefts from Homer,
such as αὐτὰρ ἔπειτα (AP 11.130.1–2). Cyclic poetry is apparently that which presented
fragment of another he criticizes Antimachus’ Lyde, a long mythical nar-

rative in elegiac meter, as “fat” (παχύ) and “unclear” (οὐ τορόν, fr. 398 Pf.).
As Pfeiffer noted, Callimachus uses μέγας in several of his critical state-
ments: the Assyrian river is a μέγας ῥόος (Hymn 2.108), ἡ μεγάλη . . . γυνή is
negatively contrasted with Mimnermus’ short poetry (fr. 1.12 Pf.), and he
equates a μέγα βιβλίον with a μέγα κακόν (fr. 465).20 Alternatively, what
can be extracted from Philodemus’ text about the critic’s third category of
the “simple” and “light” resonates with Callimachus’ positive metaphors—
his description of his poetry as pure, like small droplets of spring water
(Hymn 2.111–112), and of himself as a singing cicada, “the small one, the
winged one,” who feeds on dew (fr. 1.32–34 Pf.). We might well surmise,
then, that Callimachus’ detractors, who knew classifications of poetic
types like that preserved in Philodemus, accused him of preferring the
“simple and light” style of poetry on the grounds that he was incapable of
composing on the grander scale.
The Callimachean commentator who lies behind the scholiast’s remark
about the Hecale would also have been familiar with an important redefi-
nition of the terms ποίησις and ποίημα that took place in the Hellenistic
period. In the third century BC there developed a partition of the poetic
art (τέχνη ποιητική) into three components or species—ποιητής, ποίησις,
and ποίημα. Etymologically, ποίησις should refer to the process of com-
posing poetry and ποίημα should be the object so created. Accordingly, in
the pre-Hellenistic period ποίημα means simply a poem, and this meaning
continues to influence its more technical definitions. In this new division,
however, ποίησις and ποίημα were treated not as action and product, but
as different aspects of poetic texts. Although the origin of the new cat-
egorization remains uncertain, it was accepted by Andromenides, a third-
century critic with Peripatetic leanings, and later by Crates of Mallus, the
leading scholar and critic at Pergamum in the mid-second century (Phld.
Poet. 1, col. 132.18–27).
A major theorist of the tripartitite division was Neoptolemus of Parium,
a thinker of the third century whose views influenced Horace’s Ars poetica.
Neoptolemus’ theory of the poetic art is known from Philodemus’ polemic
narrative with chronological continuity, like the perpetuum argumentum which Varro
offers as part of his definition of a ποίησις (cf. Lucil. 345–346 Marx = 383–384 Krenkel:
nemo qui culpat Homerum, / perpetuo culpat neque quod dixi ante poesin, “no one who finds
fault with Homer finds fault throughout nor in that aspect that I previously called poiesis”;
Hor. c. 1.7.6 carmine perpetuo; Ov. Met. 1.4 perpetuum carmen).
20 Pfeiffer (1968) 136; cf. Klein (1975) 22, who argues that “for Callimachus a book could
have been ‘big’ without being lengthy.”
against him in On Poems 5 (cols. 13.32–16.28 Mangoni).21 Neoptolemus

redefines ποίημα as an aspect of the poetic art that concerns arrangement
of language (σύνθεσις τῆς λέξεως), that is, the stylistic level of the compo-
sition. He redefines ποίησις as another aspect of the poetic art, one that
involves the subject matter of the composition ([τὸ] τῆ[ς] ποήσεω[ς] εἶναι
τ[ὴ]ν ὑπόθεσιν [μ]όνον), which includes thought, action, and characteriza-
tion (διανοί[ας. . . . . . . . .] καὶ πράξεις καὶ [προσω]ποποιί[ας]). Aristotle’s list
of the four component parts shared by tragedy and epic in the Poetics—
plot, character, thought, and language—is thus remade by Neoptolemus
into the two categories of ποίησις and ποίημα, with a radical reassessment
of their relative importance. In reordering Aristotle’s evaluation, he privi-
leges language (λέξις) over plot, character, and thought, judging it of at
least equal, if not greater, importance. In Neoptolemus’ new partition of
the poetic art, the poet, constituting the third division, is defined as the
one possessing “the art and the capacity” (τὴν τέχνην κ[αὶ τὴν] δ[ύν]αμιν).22
A Hellenistic concept of the poet like that of Neoptolemus seems to lurk
behind the scholiast’s paraphrase of the criticism leveled at Callimachus
for lacking the innate ability to compose a large poem (αὐτὸν μὴ δύνασθαι
ποιῆσαι μέγα ποίημα). This fits with Callimachus’ own emphasis on τέχνη
as the basis for poetic criticism (fr. 1.17–18 Pf.) and the later idea that Cal-
limachus possessed an overabundance of art and too little natural talent
(quamvis ingenio non valet, arte valet, Ov. Am. 1.15.14).
The tripartite division of the poetic art, with its new technical sense of
ποίημα, remained influential, seemingly dominant, among literary criti-
cal thinkers throughout the Hellenistic period. The so-called euphonist
critics, who judged poetry by the aesthetic pleasure of its sound, came to
focus their study of poetry almost exclusively on the category associated
with the term ποίημα, subdivided into word choice (ἐκλογή) and stylistic
arrangement (σύνθεσις).23 In a series of definitions in later Hellenistic
21 For Neoptolemus’ other work, see Mette (1980). He was also a poet, who wrote poems
entitled Dionysias (F 1) and Trichthonia (F 2), and a scholar, who produced On Witticisms
(F 7), On Epigrams (F 8), and at least three books of glossography (F 9). For his poetic theo-
ries, the studies of Greenberg (1990) 42–57, Brink (1963) 43–78, and Asmis (1992) remain
valuable, though based on Jensen’s outdated text (1923); see now Mangoni (1993) 53–61
and Porter (1995).
22 This inclusion of the poet among the three εἴδη of the poetic art is the most difficult
part of Neoptolemus’ theory, as Philodemus’ vehement objections show. It seems that,
because the poet brings to his poetry a personal creativity that is like style and subject
matter in being particular to individual manifestation, the poet can be treated as one
aspect of the poetic art.
23 For a summary of these critics, see Janko (2000) 120–189. In a crucial passage from
On Poems (P.Herc. 1676, col. 6.2–9 Sbordone [1976] 253), Philodemus claims that what
authors, ποίημα and ποίησις are treated not just as aspects of poetry, as
in Neoptolemus, but also as poetic compositions that embodied these
aspects.24 As a result, length became one of the bases on which ποίησις
and ποίημα were distinguished. Lucilius (338–344 Marx = 376–382 Kren-
kel) defines a poema as a parva pars and gives as an example a (verse?)
“letter that is not large” (epistula . . . quaevis non magna), since a whole and
unified work like the Iliad or Ennius’ Annales is a poesis, which is “much
larger than . . . a poema” (maius multo est quam . . . poema). Similarly, Varro
(Men. fr. 398 Astbury) exemplifies a poema by citing an epigram of a single
couplet and defines poesis as a “continuous subject in rhythm” (perpetuum
argumentum ex rythmis), such as the Iliad or the Annales.25 Philodemus
expressly defines ποιήματα as works (ἔργα), such as a thirty-line passage
of the Iliad, and gives the Iliad as an example of ποίησις.26 He calls these
ποιήσεις “webs” (ὕφη) apparently to suggest the complex interconnections
that occur in long epic in multiple books (col. 14.14–17).27 What is clear
is that, for critics working in the aftermath of the third-century theoriz-
ing of Neoptolemus, μέγα/magnum was no longer a normal descriptor for
ποίημα/poema in its technical sense, but potentially a contradiction, or
paradoxical mixture, of categories.
To summarize my argument so far, I have shown that in literary theory
of the fourth or early third century BC the term μείζω ποιήματα was used
of high-style poetry characterized by weightiness of language and richness
“remains as if engraved on a stele for all the critics” (πα]ρὰ πᾶσι μὲν ὡς ἐν [στήλ]ηι μέ[ν]ει
τοῖς κριτικοῖ[ς]) is that “the supervening euphony is the unique characteristic” (τὸ τὴν μὲν
[ἐπιφαι]νομένην [ε]ὐφωνίαν ἴδιον [εἶν]αι) of poetry, while “the ideas and phrases must be
considered external and common” (τὰ δὲ νοή{ι}ματα καὶ [τ]ὰς λέξεις ἐκτὸς εἶναι καὶ κοινὰ
συνάγεσθαι δεῖ[ν).
24 Ardizzoni (1953) concludes that Neoptolemus’ usage of these terms is unique and
without influence on the later tradition; better on their evolving interrelatedness are Brink
(1963) 62–69 and Häussler (1970).
25 Another definition appears in Posidonius (D.L. 7.60 = F 44 Edelstein/Kidd = F 458
Theiler), who defines ποίημα as “metrical or rhythmical expression having stylistic flourish
to a greater degree than prose” (λέξις ἔμμετρος ἢ ἔνρυθμος μετὰ <κατα>σκευῆς τὸ λογοειδὲς
ἐκβεβηκυῖα), while ποίησις is termed a ποίημα that “conveys meaning” (σημαντικόν) with
“representation of divine and human affairs” (μίμησιν . . . θείων καὶ ἀνθρωπείων). Here ποίημα
means both the language in which poetry is written and a poetic composition, which is
labeled a ποίησις only if it has significant content involving the traditional subjects of epic
and tragedy. On the Posidonius passage, see Gigante (1961). As Philodemus says (Poet. 5,
col. 14.31–36 Mangoni), a ποίησις is a ποίημα, but a ποίημα is not necessarily a ποίησις.
26 This connection of ποίησις with epic is old, since that noun is to be understood with
ἡ ᾿Ιλιάς and ἡ ᾿Οδύσσεια, attested as early as Herodotus (2.116, 4.29).
27 In later definitions of these terms, ποίημα is typically treated as part of long epic,
especially a single book, or even a tragedy; this is seemingly a post-Hellenistic develop-
ment. Häussler (1970) prints and discusses the passages.
of subject matter, while somewhat later, in the course of the third cen-
tury, ποίημα developed a technical reference to a short poem with stylistic
refinement set in opposition to a longer ποίησις, typified by epics in mul-
tiple books. While it seems highly likely that the scholiast’s μέγα ποίημα
descends from Hellenistic discussion of the Hecale, there is still no way
to know exactly how and by whom the term was used. If it was indeed
part of the criticism leveled at Callimachus as an advocate of the leptotic
style, did his detractors understand it as a reference to grand poetry such
as epic? That is, did they accuse him of lacking the capacity to write long
epic? If Callimachus employed it in response to describe his Hecale, did
he mean to characterize the poem as like long epic, or perhaps to place it
in a middle category where plot and stylistic richness were appropriate?
Or did he perhaps advance the term, in light of the redefinition of ποίημα
known from Neoptolemus, as a kind of paradox—a “grand short-poem”?
These questions are of course unanswerable, but, as suggested above, the
contradictory sense of μέγα ποίημα is one that would have resonated with
critics and interpreters of the later Hellenistic and imperial periods. Con-
sequently, I turn to consider evidence for ancient readings of the Hecale,
based on testimonia and supported by the remains of the poem itself.
One of the most important texts for the reception of the Hecale is an
epigram by Crinagoras, written in the Augustan age (AP 9.545 = Gow/Page
[1968] 11):
Καλλιμάχου τὸ τορευτὸν ἔπος τόδε· δὴ γὰρ ἐπ᾽ αὐτῷ
ὡνὴρ τοὺς Μουσέων πάντας ἔσεισε κάλωςÎ⁄
ἀείδει δ᾽ ῾Εκάλης τε φιλοξείνοιο καλιήν
καὶ Θησεῖ Μαραθὼν οὓς ἐπέθηκε πόνους.
τοῦ σοὶ καὶ νεαρὸν χειρῶν σθένος εἴη ἀρέσθαι,
Μάρκελλε, κλεινοῦ τ᾽ αἶνον ἴσον βιότου.
This chiseled poem is by Callimachus, and in it
the man shook out all the sails of his Muses.
He sings the hut of hospitable Hecale and the toils
that Marathon imposed upon Theseus.
May you too, Marcellus, acquire the youthful strength
of Theseus’ hands and equal praise for a glorious life.
Composed to accompany a gift of the poem presented to Marcellus, the
epigram labels the stylistic character of the Hecale in its opening clause.28
28 The epigram imitates book labels by Hellenistic epigrammatists, which often begin
with a clause naming the author or title, e.g., Asclep. AP 7.11 = HE 28 (ὁ γλυκὺς ᾿Ηρίννης
οὗτος πόνος), AP 9.63 = HE 32 (Λύδη καὶ γένος εἰμὶ καὶ οὔνομα), Callim. AP 9.507 = HE 56
The adjective τορευτόν refers to detailed relief carving or embossed metal

work, such as was used for sumptuous and expensive domestic ware, deco-
rated in rich and precise detail.29 An analogy of verbal style to such works
of art is found in Dionysius of Halicarnassus, who claims that Isocrates and
Plato produced “works resembling, not writings, but carved and chased
ware” (οὐ γραπτοῖς, ἀλλὰ γλυπτοῖς καὶ τορευτοῖς ἐοικότας . . . λόγους, Comp.
25; cf. Dem. 51). Dionysius explains that both writers were renowned for
the labor they expended in polishing their compositions, since Isocrates
took ten years to write the Panegyricus and Plato was still experiment-
ing with the order of the opening sentence in the Republic when he died.
Demosthenes took from these examples, he continues, the need to attend
to small particulars of style, just as τορευταί exhaust the refined accuracy
of their art (τὴν τῆς τέχνης ἀκρίβειαν) in depicting veins, soft plumage, the
beard’s first down, and similar minute details (μικρολογία).30 Crinagoras’
choice of the phrase τορευτὸν ἔπος to describe the Hecale employs, then,
the common analogy of poetry to art to delineate the refined precision of
its verbal style as its essential characteristic.31
The remainder of the first couplet justifies this initial statement (δὴ
γάρ). Drawing upon a proverbial phrase for sparing no effort (πάντα κάλων
σείειν), Crinagoras proclaims that in creating this “chiseled poem” Calli-
machus shook out all the sails of his Muses.32 In adding the Muses to a
common proverb, Crinagoras enlivens the expression, reviving the faded
sailing metaphor, and by so doing perhaps reveals an awareness of an
(῾Ησιόδου τό τ᾽ ἄεισμα καὶ ὁ τρόπος). Note that all these have or elide a copula and end at
the bucolic diaeresis. Callimachus’ parodic reply to Asclepiades’ epigram on Antimachus’
Lyde, also from an epigram, has the same form and fits the same metrical space (Λύδη καὶ
παχὺ γράμμα καὶ οὐ τορόν, fr. 398 Pf.). By the very form of his epigram, it seems, Crinagoras
signals that his assessment of the Hecale is to be read in the tradition of this Hellenistic
critical debate.
29 For instance, the fifth-century chaser Mys demonstrated his artistry by adorning a
cup with a relief depicting the sack of Troy (τεχνικῶς ἔχοντα ᾿Ιλίου ἐντετορευμένην πόρθησιν,
Athen. 11.782b). As luxury items, such metal vessels were often found in the domestic assem-
blages of the wealthy, as, for example, the “expensive embossed cups” (τορευτὰ πολυτελῆ
ποτήρι᾽, fr. 3.2 Kassel/Austin) mentioned by the comic poet Apollodorus Gelous.
30 The importance of ἀκρίβεια to both poetry and art in the early Hellenistic age is
demonstrated by Posidippus’ epigram on Philitas (63 Austin/Bastianini), where the sculp-
tor Hecataeus rendered “with precision” (ἀκριβής) the “refined thought” (ἀκρομέριμνον) of
this poet and critic in “detailed” naturalism (ἄκρους . . . εἰς ὄνυχας).
31 Gow/Page (1968) 2 ad 11.1 compare Hor. Ep. 2.2.92, caelatumque novem Musis opus.
32 Zenobius (5.62 CPG) gives the proverb as πάντα κάλων σεῖε and explains παροιμία ἐπὶ
τῶν πάσῃ προθυμίᾳ χρωμένων· παρῆκται δὲ ἀπὸ τῶν τὰ ἄρμενα χαλώντων; cf. Apostolius 13.88
CPG. The proverb appears with the verb ἐξίημι in Ar. Eq. 756 and Eur. Med. 278. Cf. Cic.
Orat. 75, danda nimirum vela sunt.
interpretive connection between the Hecale and the coda to the Apollo
hymn. Crinagoras may counter Phthonus’ complaint about Callimachus
not singing as much as the sea (τὸν ἀοιδὸν ὃς οὐδ’ ὅσα πόντος ἀείδει, Hymn
2.106) with the image of the poet as a sailor who puts all his skill and
resources into mastering the sea: in the Hecale Callimachus expends
great effort on taming the inherited expanse of the epic tradition. If Cri-
nagoras’ ἔπος is understood specifically as “epic composition,” then his
τορευτὸν ἔπος expressly points to a Hellenistic conceptualization of short
hexameter narratives as a locus for treating heroic or mythical subjects
with an artistic accuracy generally not possible in longer epic. His epigram
provides evidence, then, that the Hecale became the standard Hellenis-
tic model for the polished, erudite short hexameter narratives written in
Latin. We should note how closely Dionysius’ remark about the long labor
expended by Plato and Isocrates in perfecting their “chiseled” styles paral-
lels Catullus’ praise of Cinna’s Zmyrna, a short epic laboriously polished for
nine years (c. 95). We may even speculate that the “chiseling” image had
already in the Hellenistic age been applied to the Hecale, or to short epics
of its kind; if so, then the adorned metal basket in Moschus’ Europa may
acquire metapoetic reference to its own generic type, as “chiseled” poetry.33
My argument is that Crinagoras’ τορευτὸν ἔπος functions as kind of vari-
ant of μέγα ποίημα. Just as “chiseled epic” evokes the paradoxical possibility
of stylistic precision in epic form, likewise the term μέγα ποίημα would sug-
gest, to those familiar with third-century poetic theory, the contradiction
of labeling “grand” a poetic unit designed to highlight refinement of word
choice and arrangement.34 It was a huge challenge to maintain the verbal
perfection demanded of the technically proficient poet in a longer compo-
sition with a tightly structured plot, fully developed characters, and com-
plex dialogue, but this was what Callimachus undertook to do in writÂ�ing
33 The coverlet depicting Theseus’ abandonment of Ariadne in Catullus 64 may like-

wise be read as metapoetic. Metal vessels and tapestries are both found in lists of luxury
items typical of rich households, as in Posidonius’ reference to a “rich display of embossed
silver plate and crimson-dyed coverlets” (ἀργυρωμάτων ἐκθέσεις τορευτῶν καὶ στρωμάτων
θαλαττίων πολυτελείας, fr. 136e.9–10 Theiler); cf. too Apollodorus Gelous fr. 3 Kassel/Austin.
34 If the defective couplet concluding Cat. c. 95, parva mei mihi sint cordi monimenta . . . , /
at populus tumido gaudeat Antimacho (“small monuments are dear to me . . . , but let the
people take pleasure in swollen Antimachus”) makes reference to the Smyrna, and is not
a separate epigram or fragment of one, then parva monimenta (“small monuments”) offers
another example of a phrase posing the large/small paradox as the essential character of
short epic (here in contrast to Antimachus’ high-style bombast).
the Hecale.35 His subject matter was common (κοινόν) in the sense that
it was derived from prose sources, the Atthidographers Philochorus
(FGrHist 328 F 109 = test. 9 Hollis) for the Hecale story and Amelesagoras
(FGrHist 330 F 1) for the paradoxa of the bird section (as reported by the
paraÂ�doxographer Antigonus), and what remained for him in the exercise of
his δύναμις and τέχνη was to render this raw material into poetically excel-
lent language, to create a text that would please if not instruct. Let us turn
to considering how he succeeded in composing this μέγα ποίημα, which
offered generations of poets to come a new model for writing epic.
Callimachus’ display of his deep philological learning in the Hecale
scarcely needs demonstration. Almost all the fragments preserved in man-
uscript sources come from lexicographical explanations of rare words or
unusual forms, often Homeric words of disputed meaning. My concern
here is to suggest briefly how he uses this erudition to create poetic effect,
and we may begin with the very first line, quoted in the Diegesis (fr. 1
Hollis):
᾿Ακταίη τις ἔναιεν ᾿Ερεχθέος ἔν ποτε γουνῷ.
An Attic woman lived once in the uplands of Erechtheus.
Hollis comments that Callimachus’ “method of opening could hardly be
more simple and straightforward.”36 In terms of narrative simplicity, that
is true, but certainly not linguistically and poetically. Callimachus alludes
here to Homer’s only reference to Theseus, who is said to have brought
Ariadne from Crete “to the promontory of Athens” (ἐς γουνὸν ᾿Αθηνάων,
Od. 11.323). The placement of the rare word γουνός at the very opening
of the poem gestures to the tradition of Homeric epic in which Calli-
machus works.37 At the same time, however, the reader who is steeped
in epic glosses may recall a line from Hesiod’s Theogony—Μνημοσύνη,
γουνοῖσιν ᾿Ελευθῆρος μεδέουσα (“Mnemosyne who rules in the uplands of
35 Longinus sneers at perfection of style in short epic when he refers to Eratosthenes’

Erigone as a “blameless little poem” (Subl. 33.5). The Erigone appears to have been closely
modeled on the Hecale and likewise took an Attic legend as its subject matter; but see
Rosokoki (1995) 19–20, who is less inclined to find Callimachean influence. Longinus’
choice of ποιημάτιον, as a denigrating diminutive, may in fact mock a standard use of
ποίημα as the term of art for Hellenistic short epics composed on the Callimachean stan-
dard. Cf. Koster (1970) 126–127, who suggests that Callimachus and Theocritus are looking
at the ποίημα concept in creating short epics.
36 Hollis (22009) 137.
37 Hunter in Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004) 199 comments that through this allusion “Calli-
machus can both acknowledge his affiliation with the epic poet par excellence and also
assert that his will be a very different kind of poem, on a subject which Homer ‘ignored’.”
Eleuther,” 54)—which refers to the Muses’ birth in the Boeotian moun-

tains. In choosing to combine his story of the hero Theseus with a local
tale drawn from Attic prose sources, Callimachus eschews traditional invo-
cation to the Muses as the goddesses who remind the poet of past events;
their presence in absence is recognizable only to the learned reader who
perceives Callimachus’ erudite allusion.
Arrangement of language combined with good word choice was for Hel-
lenistic euphonist critics an essential means of producing poetic sound.
Callimachus often enhanced the effect of his rare and beautiful words
through arrangement; an example is found in Hecale’s fond description
of the clothing worn by a man from Aphidnae, who may have become her
husband (fr. 42.5–6 Hollis):
ἄλλικα χρυσείῃσιν ἐεργομένην ἐνετῇσιν,
ἔργον ἀραχ̣νάων.
a cloak fastened with golden brooches,
a work of spiders.
Two rarities anchor the four-word hexameter—ἄλλιξ, a Thessalian word
for chlamys not found before Callimachus, and ἐνετή, a Homeric hapax
from a line to which Callimachus alludes (χρυσείῃς δ᾽ ἐνετῇσι κατὰ στῆθος
περονᾶτο, Il. 14.180).38 While the selection of these precious words marks
the poet’s erudition, he also manages to convey the sweet vividness of
the old woman’s memory through his poetic style—the interlocking
word order, the rhyme at caesura and line end, and the easy glide at word
transitions from vowel to consonant or from nasal to vowel. The word
arrangement in the first line prepares for the image of the handsome
cloak clasped with gleaming brooches as the work of spiders; though this
image arises naturally from Hecale as a female character, the poet displays
his own technical skill in reworking the Homeric formula ἔργα γυναικῶν
(as in Od. 7.97) through such phrases as ἀράχνης ἐν ὑφάσματι (of the robe
in which Agamemnon dies [Aesch. Ag. 1492]).
The euphonist Andromenides, who had a special interest in heroic
themes, stressed that fine poetry was dependent upon choice of words with
a naturally beautiful, or “luminous” (λαμπρός), sound.39 For him the poetic
quality lies not in the subject matter but in “the brightness of words” (ταῖς
38 The early D-scholia gloss the word with περόναις (“brooches”), an explanation that
corresponds to Callimachus’ interpretation of the term; see Rengakos (1992) 35.
39 On Andromenides, see Janko (2000) 143–155.
φανότησι τῶν ὀνομάτων λαμπρύνεσθαι, col. 185.17–19 Janko), and he illus-

trates this principle by arguing that a Homeric line (Il. 17.52) is luminous
not because it mentions gold and silver but because of its interweaving of
letters (cols. 23.27–24.12; cf. cols. 185.13–186.3). The euphonist theories that
interpret the poetic element as consisting only of sound, independent of
content, have seemed extreme to many, including Philodemus, and I am
not arguing that Callimachus advocated such theories or strictly practiced
them in composing the Hecale. Practice and theory interact in complex
ways in the early Hellenistic period, and it is just as likely that Hellenistic
critical trends were influenced by Callimachus’ thought and practice as
vice versa.
Callimachus shows a strong inclination toward alliteration and asso-
nance in the Hecale fragments. For instance, his tendency to pile up liq-
uids and vowels is evident in ἵν’ ἔλλερα ἔργα τέλεσκεν (“where [the bull?]
performed wicked deeds,” fr. 16 Hollis), built around ἔλλερα, attested else-
where only in lexicographers. The word was apparently made up from
Zenodotus’ spelling of Bellerophontes as Ellerophontes (Eustath. ad
Il. 1.446.21; cf. 2.283.13).40 Perhaps also belonging to this section on the bull
is ἀγλαὰ πίσεα γαίης / βόσκεο (“you feed upon the earth’s shining mead-
ows,” fr. 149 Hollis), where Callimachus has modified Homer’s alliterative
πίσεα ποιήεντα (“grassy meadows,” Il. 20.9, Od. 6.124) to stress vocalically
the meadows’ gleam. The same synaesthetic effect, through a sonorous
invocation of light, is conveyed in the wonderful description of dawn in
the passage on the Vienna tablet, where ἑωθινὰ λύχνα φαείνει / ἀείδει καί
πού τις ἀνήρ (“the dawn lamps shine, and somewhere sings a man . . . ,”
fr. 74.24–25 Hollis) juxtaposes the similar vocalic sequences in φαείνει and
ἀείδει (“shine” and “sing”). Notable too is the brightness in sound and sense
in the crow’s anachronistic description of meeting Athena at the Lyceum:
ἐγὼ δ᾽ ἤντησα Λυκείου / καλὸν ἀεὶ λιπόωντα κατὰ δρόμον ᾿Απόλλωνος (“I met
her by the lovely, ever-shining gymnasium of Lycean Apollo,” fr. 71.2–3
Hollis). Word play in briefer fragments shows Callimachus’ extended
interest in alliteration and vocalism, as, for instance, βουσόον ὅν τε μύωπα
βοῶν καλέουσιν ἀμορβοί (fr. 117 Hollis), γοεροῖο γόοιο (fr. 128 Hollis), ἄφαρον
φαρόωσι (fr. 111 Hollis), and εἴδεος ἐνδίοιο, this last consisting of two rare
words meaning “noon heat” (fr. 46.3 Hollis).
40 Callimachus uses the Zenodotean word καιτάεντος (“full of mint”) in fr. 47.6 Hollis.
For Callimachus’ reading of Homer through Zenodotus, see Rengakos (1992) 27.
What is arguably the most beautiful line in Callimachus describes the

clear blue sky on the warm afternoon when Theseus sets out on his adven-
ture, just before the appearance of the storm clouds that drive him to
shelter in Hecale’s hut (18.2 Hollis):
τόφρα δ᾽ ἔην ὑάλοιο φαάντερος οὐρανὸς ἦνοψ
for so long as the gleaming sky was more sparkling than glass
Here at its most brilliant is Callimachean erudition in the service of
poetics.41 What Andromenides calls the φανότης τῶν ὀνομάτων is evident
in the flow of the vowels supported by liquids and nasals, and this tech-
nical critical term even echoes in the choice Homeric vocabulary.42 The
comparative φαάντερος remakes the Homeric hapax φαάντατος (Od. 13.93),
which appears in a similar epic description of a moment in time, the dawn
marked by the rising of the Morning Star. As Livrea suggests, the sim-
ile ὑάλοιο φαάντερος seems to gloss ἦνοψ, a troublesome Homeric word
found in the formula ἤνοπι χαλκῷ (Il. 16.408, 18.349, Od. 10.360; cf. χάλκεον
οὐρανόν, Il. 17.425);43 in the Homeric scholia it is glossed διαυγεῖ,44 ἐν ᾧ
ἔστιν ἐνοπτρίσασθαι (“clear, in which one’s own reflection can be seen”).
We should not overlook, however, that the scholarly tradition preserves a
second gloss, ἐμφώνῳ (“vocal”), explained as a sound given off by bronze,
the echo of divine breath according to the Pythagoreans, especially in
conditions of windless calm.45 By choosing a word that can refer both to
visual gleam, as of bronze or a bronzed sky, and to a voiced hum, as of
divine breath, Callimachus shows how the luminosity of sound can con-
vey the luminosity of the sky itself.
These examples could be multiplied many times over but must here
be sufficient to demonstrate that Callimachus’ Hecale can be analyzed
41 Horace’s translation as splendidior vitro (c. 3.13.1) points to the poetic importance of
the phrase; see Curley (2003) for a programmatic reading of the ode, connecting the Sabine
farm with Hecale’s impoverished dwelling.
42 Note that Callimachus allows no hiatus between words in the line, which neverthe-
less “sings” from the hiatus within words; for the effect of internal hiatus, see Demetr.
Eloc. 70.
43 Livrea (1992) 147 n. 2.
44 With the variants λαμπρῷ and λεπτῷ καὶ καθαρῷ.
45 T schol. ad Il. 16.408d: ἤνοπι δὲ ὲμφώνῳÎ⁄ οἱ Πυθαγορικοὶ γάρ φασι τὸν χαλκὸν παντὶ
συνηχεῖν θείῳ πνεύματι καὶ ἐν νηνεμίᾳ πολλάκις ἀτρεμούντων ἁπάντων σειομένοις ἐοικέναι τὰ
κοῖλα χαλκώματα. (“The Pythagoreans say that bronze sounds in accord with every divine
breath and that often during windless conditions when everything is still hollow bronze
vessels become like shaken ones.”) Carl Huffman points out to me that Aristotle (fr. 196)
seems to have known a version of this Pythagorean idea.
as a ποίημα in the technical sense, that is, as a poetic unit infused with
refined word choice, careful arrangement of language, and striking sound
patterns. We turn now to considering, still briefly, other qualities, those
relating to plot, characterization, and thought—the qualities that were
connected by Neoptolemus to the concept of ποίησις.
In literary critical contexts the word μέγας is not simply a descriptor
of length—the word for that is μακρός; rather, it often conveys grandeur
in plot, characterization, or style.46 Aristotle’s definition of tragedy as a
complete action includes magnitude (μέγεθος) within limits appropriate
to a play (Poet. 1449b 24–28). The shorter length of tragedy, that neces-
sary for a single peripeteia, is an important factor in its superiority to epic
(1462a 18–b3), and this is tied to Aristotle’s idea that a magnitude neither
too large nor too small is essential to beauty, whether of a living creature
or a work of art (1450b 34–1451a 15). That magnitude involves not just size,
but serious subjects and dignity of tone, is shown by Aristotle’s statement
that tragedy reached its proper form only after a period of slight plots
and comical diction when it escaped its satyric origins and gained dig-
nity (1449a 19–21).47 I call attention here to Aristotle’s idea that tragedy
improves on epic partly through its shorter length, because what Calli-
machus has done in composing the Hecale is to remake epic in a length
appropriate to tragedy. The estimates of length for the Hecale, based on
statistical calculations from papyrus fragments and quoted lines, vary
from about 1,000 lines to as much as 1,800 lines.48 These numbers cor-
respond generally to the length of Hellenistic poetry books, that suitable
for a single bookroll, but also to the range found in fifth-century tragedy
and new comedy. Callimachus certainly incorporates the essential plot
elements of tragedy, though in his own arrangements. For instance, an
anagnorisis occurs not in connection with the main peripeteia but early
on, when Aegeus recognizes Theseus as he is about to be poisoned by
Medea, and the central action of the poem involves double peripeteiai as
Theseus conquers the Marathonian bull at the very time Hecale meets
46 In a number of passages, Demetrius uses μέγας to refer to grandeur or impressive-

ness (μέγεθος, μεγαλοπρέπεια) as a feature of the high style, e.g., Eloc. 54, 61, 75, 103, 104, 120,
122–123. Cf. Russell (1964) xxxi n. 7, commenting on Longinus: “A notion of value as well
as mere size goes with μέγας; it is ‘great’ rather than ‘big’.” With specific reference to size,
Aristotle uses μακρὰ σύστασις for the length of epic (Poet. 1460a 3).
47 In Demetr. Eloc. 76 the painter Nicias is said to have argued that magnitude in paint-
ing, as in poetry, comes from its subject matter (ὕλη εὐμεγέθης), which should consist not
of small things like birds and flowers, but cavalry or naval battles.
48 Details in Hollis (22009) 337–340.
a peaceful demise. We may assume as well that their conversation dur-

ing the night when Theseus was entertained in Hecale’s hut involved the
tragic emotions of pity and fear, since her poverty and personal losses,
perhaps of a husband and two sons, stirred the young hero’s compassion
(fr. 80 Hollis) while his impending danger caused Hecale great anxiety for
his safety (fr. 49.2–3). In the end, however, the story has nothing to do
with tragic destinies, since Theseus gains popular acclaim for his heroic
service to the local community, and the quiet passing of an elderly woman
replicates the natural order of life. At the heart of the poem, we find a
juxtaposition of two different, here interrelated, paths to receiving heroic
honors.49
Despite the tragic elements, meter and narrative style place the Hecale
in the category of epic, and scholars have studied Callimachus’ pervasive
use of Homeric language, structuring elements (such as markers for the
passing of time, as in the description of dawn at fr. 74.22–28 Hollis), and
type scenes (most prominently, his adaptation of entertainment scenes,
especially Eumaeus’ hospitality to Odysseus).50 In addition, we should
note that he brings together events and characters, often through struc-
tural juxtaposition, that even in the grandest ποίησις are present only in
separate narrative compartments. For instance, in epic the everyday world
of ordinary individuals and of animals is represented primarily through
simile. In the Hecale, however, the heroic Theseus engages directly and
emotionally with Hecale, who, though perhaps once wealthier and trans-
formed after death into a heroine, appears in the narrative present of the
poem as poverty-stricken and elderly. This meeting on terms of equality
of persons from opposite social classes and of different sexes and ages is
the primary means by which Callimachus bridges the demands of high
and low literary genres.51
The constricted narrative time of the main events, which take place over
only a few days with concentration on the night of Hecale’s hospitality, is
49 Zanker (1977) argues that Callimachus elevates Hecale, who should properly belong
to Aristotle’s category of comic φαῦλοι (Poet. 1448a 1–18), to the level of a noble figure. The
contrast with the comic bathos and parodic tone of the Molorchus episode (SH 256–268C),
otherwise so similar to the Hecale in subject (see Ambühl [2004]), indicates that Callima-
chus was striving after a tone generally appropriate to a work of tragic magnitude.
50 For epic features, see Gutzwiller (1981) 54–62 and Hunter in Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004)
196–200. McNelis (2003) has shown how Callimachus grants Hecale, in a reversal of gen-
dered roles, the κλέος reserved in Homer for Achilles.
51 Crinagoras signals the importance of the balance maintained between Hecale and
Theseus, as figures from opposite social and generic classes, in the structure of his second
couplet.
expanded through the mechanism of long speeches. Theseus told Hecale

about his journey to Marathon and perhaps about Athena’s guidance (fr. 40
Hollis), but how much more he narrated is not known. In the course of
talking about her sons in a lengthy account of her life (frs. 41–54 Hollis; cf.
fr. 58, ἀείπλανα χείλεα γρηός, “an old woman’s ever-moving lips”), Hecale
apparently discovered that their deaths had recently been avenged when
Theseus rid the Isthmus of its brigands. Improbably, each comes to fill
the emotional needs of the other, as Theseus experiences the kindness of
a mother figure to counter his near poisoning by the child-slaying Medea,
and Hecale finds in Theseus a substitute for her sons and perhaps some
comfort for their loss. In summarizing Philochorus’ narrative account, Plu-
tarch (Thes. 14 = test. 9 Hollis) stresses that Hecale acted affectionately to
Theseus by addressing him with pet names and that she showed concern
for his well-being by vowing a sacrifice to Zeus if he returned safely; in
turn, Theseus’ establishment of heroic honors for Hecale and promise to
remember her kindness suggest that meeting her was the seminal event
in his development as a hero known for compassion for the weak (as in
Euripides’ Suppliant Women).52 The festival for Hecale looks forward, then,
not just to later ritual but also to the role Theseus will play as the hero
of the Athenian democracy. The long speech of the crow to another bird
inserts into this quasi-plausible heroic narrative, sprinkled with details
from ordinary life, a more remote and fantastic period of Athens’ mythical
time. By giving voice to a bird that lives for nine generations and has pro-
phetic powers, Callimachus allows us to view, from an avian perspective,
the hoary interactions of the gods with the first Athenian royal family and
then Apollo’s punishment of the unfaithful Coronis, a well-known myth
that has not yet happened in the poem’s narrative present. Yet all ties
into the main plot line, practically and realistically, because this fantastic
talking bird is also a typical one, who enjoys the bits of food offered by the
kind-hearted Hecale (fr. 74.1–3 Hollis). Through this folding in of past and
future time and through the juxtapositions that bind together the series
of opposites—high and low, male and female, old and young, triumph
and loss, human and animal, divine and mortal—Callimachus presents
us with a new version of the weblike connections binding together large-
scale epic.
52 In Stat. Theb. 12.581–582 Evadne mentions his rescue of Marathon and Hecale’s tears
for his safety in appealing to the Athenian king’s sense of justice in allowing the burial of
the Argive dead.
Some seventy years after Walter Allen’s influential article,53 we surely

have critical tools that allow us to get beyond the logical conundrum
regarding whether the epyllion did or did not exist, and the accompany-
ing confusion about whether Allen’s claim of non-existence involved only
an ancient generic concept or extended even to common features linking
poems. We have come to understand that genres are not groups of literary
works with immutable characteristics, but historically based sets of expec-
tations that come into existence, evolve over time (often through cre-
ative innovation by key authors), and eventually cease to be productive.
While short epic narratives are attested in various periods in the ancient
world, a subset of these, emerging in the third century BC and produced
through the Augustan era, developed as a result of literary concepts and
controversies of the early Hellenistic age. As a generic form, they were
considered part of the broad spectrum of what was counted as ἔπεα or
ἔπος, and their shortness was not so much a specific generic marker as a
means to achieve new standards for what constituted good poetry within
an ancient and revered genre.
The critical discussion that favored the composition of such short epics
is now largely invisible, lost in time. But more is known today than in
Allen’s day, and my goal has been to tease out what can be understood
about the Hecale as an influential exemplar of the type from the existing
remnants of Hellenistic literary theory, from fragments of the poem, and
from its own critical reception. As we have seen, Callimachus was com-
posing at a time when literary theorists were developing classifications
of poetry and of style that included a middle register between the grand
and plain. Hesiod came to exemplify this middle ground (e.g., Quint. Inst.
10.1.52), and the narrative epic of Apollonius was placed in the middle
category as well (10.1.54). The observable aspects of the Hecale suggest
not an attempt at a distinct middle type,54 but a juxtaposition of high
and low that promotes a reexamination of grand epic through the lens of
the humble. The central metaphor of the poem is surely the hospitable
53 Allen (1940) denied the existence of the epyllion as a generic form on three bases:
(1) that the ancients did not use “epyllion” (or any other term) as a regular designation for
short hexameter narratives, (2) that the supposed cause of the genre (Callimachus’ quarrel
with Apollonius) was false, and (3) that the poems called epyllia by scholars display no
consistent set of characteristics.
54 In AP 9.507 Callimachus defines Aratus’ adaptation of the Hesiodic manner as λεπταὶ
ῥήσιες, suggesting that he places Aratus, if not also Hesiod, under the sign of the leptotic
style, not some middle category.
encounter between the heroic Theseus and the lowly Hecale, and the nar-
rative can be read as a lesson about the effect of the humble on the grand.
The phrases applied to the Hecale in later sources—μέγα ποίημα / τορευτὸν
ἔπος—indicate a coalescence of oppositional categories: of significant
length with stylistic refinement, of minute precision with epic features. It
was perhaps this resistance to traditional generic categorization in which
style and subject were to conform to meter and genre, this balanced jux-
taposition of generic opposites, that set Hellenistic short hexameter nar-
ratives apart from what had gone before.
It has become fashionable to read some of Callimachus’ compositions
metapoetically, and I propose, in conclusion, to look briefly at the Hecale
from that interpretive stance. As shown by Alan Cameron, poetic styles
were troped in the early Hellenistic period as female figures.55 Antima-
chus’ Lyde/Lyde was praised by Asclepiades as one of the “grander” ladies
of Lydia (AP 9.63 = HE 32), but judged “fat” and “unclear” by Callimachus
(fr. 398 Pf.). Callimachus nourishes a “slender Muse” (fr. 1.24 Pf.) and
cites with favor the sweetness of Mimnernus’ short poems over his “large
woman” (fr. 1.12 Pf., Smyrneis [?]). The opening of the Hecale invites us
to read his title character as another female symbolic figure, a metaphor
for the “thin” style denigrated by his detractors. In the first line (᾿Ακταίη
τις ἔναιεν ᾿Ερεχθέος ἔν ποτε γουνῷ), Hecale’s ethnic designation suggests
a stylistic manner, as does Λύδη that opens Asclepiades’ epigram and
Callimachus’ variation. According to Pausanias (1.2.6), ᾿Ακταίη was an old
name of Attica from the days of Cecrops, so that it easily evokes archaic
Attic simplicity in contrast to the extravagances of Asiatic (or Lydian)
culture.56 The characteristics of Hecale persistently mentioned in ancient
sources are her advanced age and her poverty, as well as her generosity
in offering travelers humble provisions in her hut.57 Poverty is elsewhere
in Callimachus a cultivated way of life, even a source of pride (HE 3 =
Epigr. 46 Pf., Iamb. 3; cf. Theoc. Id. 16), and a journey to the rural uplands
of Attica in the misty past is a good example of the “untrodden paths”
55 Most fully spun out in Cameron (1995) Ch. XI.

56 On the abundance of Attic vocabulary and cultural allusions in the Hecale, see Hollis
(1992) 3–6 and (22009) 8–9, Cameron (1995) 443–444.
57 Hollis (1997) and (22009) 425 convincingly argues that Michael Choniates’ descrip-
tion of Hecale as πεμπέλῳ καὶ πενιχρᾳ᷑ (“of extreme age and impoverished”) gives evidence
for Callimachus’ use of the rare πέμπελος (cf. Lyc. Al. 682, 826), and it is tempting to accept
his further suggestion that Choniates is paraphrasing Callimachus, perhaps the missing
start of the second line.
on which Apollo commands Callimachus to travel (fr. 1.27–28 Pf.). In

the later debate about Asianist-Atticist styles of rhetoric, a classicizing
revival of the dichotomy between “fat” and “thin” styles, Atticism is char-
acterized by clarity and conciseness, often with a patina of antiquity. A
repeated image for the plain or Attic style is the pure spring (Quint. 10.1.78
puro . . . fonti, of Lysias; 12.10.19 fontibus puris, of “Attic flavor”; cf. 12.10.25)
in contrast to the “great river” (magno flumine, Quint. 10.1.78) or “turbid
torrents” (torrentibus turbidis, 12.10.19) of the grand style. As a result, read-
ing the simple, aged Hecale, an inhabitant of the uplands of old Attica,
as an emblem of Callimachus’ learned, linguistically correct “thin” style
illuminates the connection preserved in the scholiastic tradition between
Callimachus’ short epic and Apollo’s praise of his poetry as pure drops
from a holy spring.
The poem’s opening, as reconstructed by both Pfeiffer and Hollis, con-
tinues as follows (fr. 2 Hollis):
τίον δέ ἑ πάντες ὁδῖται
ἦρα φιλοξενίης· ἔχε γὰρ τέγος ἀκλήιστον.
All travelers honored her because of her hospitality, since her shelter was
never closed.
The theme of hospitality reappears near the end in Theseus’ tender fare-
well to his kind hostess (fr. 80.3–5 Hollis):
πολλάκι σεῖο,
μαῖα, < . . .> φιλοξείνοιο καλιῆς
μνησόμεθα· ξυνὸν γὰρ ἐπαύλιον ἔσκεν ἅπασιν.
Often, mother, we will remember your hospitable dwelling, since it was a
common refuge for all.
Crinagoras alludes directly to this passage in summarizing the Hecale as
a balance between the old woman’s hospitality (῾Εκάλης τε φιλοξείνοιο
καλιήν) and Theseus’ successful exploit (Θησεῖ Μαραθὼν οὓς ἐπέθηκε
πόνους). As Crinagoras follows Callimachus in echoing Hecale’s name in
καλιή (cf. too κάλως in Crinagoras’ second line), so later sources empha-
size Hecale’s hospitality by associating her with both καλεῖν and καλιή
(Et. Gen. cod. A and Et. Mag. codd. DP, p. 319.43 Gaisford, as printed by
Hollis ad fr. 2):
῾Εκάλη ἡ ἡρωίς, εἰς ἣν καὶ ποίημα ἔγραψεν ΚαλλίμαχοςÎ⁄ παρὰ τὸ εἰσκαλεῖν ἢ εἰς
καλιὴν πρὸς ἑαυτὴν προτρέπεινÎ⁄ φιλόξενος γάρ.
Hecale the heroine, for whom Callimachus wrote a poem; derived from
“invite in” or urge to come “into her hut to herself,” since she was hospitable.
Hecale’s unassuming hospitality is thus encoded in her name and in

the poem’s title to reinforce the metapoetic message. If the grand style
promoted by Callimachus’ detractors demands noble characters and a
high linguistic register, conversely, the thin style embodied in the Hecale
welcomes all—characters of all social levels and language from diverse
sources. It is Theseus, as a representative of the heroic or epic world, who
judges that Hecale’s humble life is deserving of remembrance and honor.
In his final couplet, Crinagoras wishes the young Marcellus strength and
fame like that of Theseus, and a passage from Apuleius specifies just what
virtues of Callimachus’ hero were to be emulated: contentus lare parvulo
Thesei . . . virtutes aemulaveris, qui non est aspernatus Hecales anus hospi-
tium tenue (“satisfied with meager fare, you should emulate the virtues of
Theseus, who did not reject the slender hospitality of the aged Hecale,”
Met. 1.23 = test. 10 Hollis).58 Apuleius’ hospitium tenue suggests an asso-
ciation of Hecale’s hospitality with the “thin” style, for which tenue is the
proper Latin term; it is perhaps a translation of αὐχμηρὰ τράπεζα (“austere
table,” fr. 82a Hollis), in which an adjective used of an old-fashioned style
was evidently applied to Hecale’s meal, perhaps by Theseus himself.59 The
metapoetic message of the Hecale, then, like that expressed in the coda to
the Hymn to Apollo, is that the refined simplicity of Callimachus’ poetry
is not to be devalued or spurned by his readers. The model for the recep-
tion of Callimachus’ short epic is the respect paid by Theseus to Hecale,
who was “worthy of cult honors” (digna sacris, Petr. 135.8 = test. 7 Hollis),
that is, immortality in remembrance. As the Hecale was handed down to
be admired through the ages (Hecale, quam Musa . . . mirandam tradidit
aevo,60 Petr. 135.8; cf. οὐ . . . ἔην νήκουστα ἐτήσια δεῖπν’ ῾Εκάλεια, Mich. Chon.
Theano 337 = test. 14 and fr. 83 Hollis), so too Callimachus’ slender Muse
would find enduring glory.
Finally, I suggest that the effect Callimachus intended his poem to
have on readers was encoded in the text as well. If Michael Choniates’
description of the Hecale includes a paraphrase of its conclusion, as
Hollis suggests,61 then we have evidence that Theseus considered Hecale’s
58 Note the similar wording in [Iul.] ep. 41 Hertlein = test. 11 Hollis: πάντως οὐδὲ τῆς
῾Εκάλης ὁ Θησεὺς τοῦ δείπνου τὸ λιτὸν ἀπηξίωσεν (cf. non est aspernatus . . . hospitium tenue),
ἀλλ’ ᾔδει καὶ μικροῖς ἐς τὸ ἀναγκαῖον ἀρκεῖσθαι (cf. contentus lare parvulo). The two testimo-
nia seem to have a common source, perhaps the Hecale itself.
59 For the application to style, see, e.g., Dion. Hal. Isaeus 20; Dem. 8, 36, 38 (αὐστηρᾶς
καὶ φιλαρχαίου).
60 The text is corrupt, and I print Gronovius’ mirandam.
61 Hollis (22009) 38–40.
humble hospitality “sweeter” (ἥδιον) or “more pleasant” (τερπνοτέραν) than

any he had received before (test. 15a = fr. 82b Hollis). Both of these terms
are commonly associated with the aesthetic effect of poetry, and Callima-
chus himself elsewhere praises poetic sweetness (μελιχρότεραι, fr. 1.16 Pf.;
τὸ μελιχρότατον, AP 9.507 = HE 56 = Epigr. 27 Pf.). The sweetness of humble
pleasures, freely given with kindness and warmth, is surely an excellent
image for the poetic pleasure derived from Callimachus’s skillful arrange-
ment of words and luminous sound.
Miniaturizing the Huge:
Hercules on a Small Scale (Theocritus Idylls 13 and 24)
Benjamin Acosta-Hughes
It is a remarkable feature of the Theocritean corpus, given its inclination

for novelty in generic creation (Theocritus is thought to be the originator
of literary bucolic poetry) and adaptation (of e.g. the mime to a literary
form) that a recurrent figure, who appears in a variety of different poetic
types that constitute this collection, is the hero Heracles, the original hero
of early Greek mythology. Reasons for his prominent place among the
poems are not hard to find: he is a figure from whom the Ptolemies claim
descent, like Alexander (and also Ptolemy Soter) his parentage is both
divine and mortal, and as a hero whose worship is fairly ubiquitous in
the Greek world he is not tied to one locality. As Stephens (2003) has
detailed, Heracles is further a figure of both Greek and Egyptian mytholo-
gies and so an ideal figure for a bicultural audience.1 Yet it does remain
remarkable that in a collection of small hexameter poems, many of them
featuring what we might call “small figures” whether of the bucolic, urban
or even mythical world, the presence of the truly megas heroic figure is so
prominent. Paradoxically, perhaps, his is a recurring presence in the novel
poems of Theocritus, as his is a recurring absence in the heroic Argonau-
tica. Three of the noncontested poems of Theocritus showcase him; if we
include Heracles the Lion-Slayer (possibly by Theocritus, but this cannot
be proven beyond doubt)2 and Megara (a poem sometimes attributed to
the Theocritean emulator Moschus, and now part of the collection Bucolici
Graeci, Gow [1952a] 146–150), there are five. Each of these is distinctly dif-
ferent from the others; each is, in its own way, an example of Hellenistic
transformation of a central figure of cultural heritage in a new frame. My
effort here with this figure is to consider each of the Heraclean appear-
ances in the three poems that are unquestionably by Theocritus (Idylls
17, 24 and 13) in turn, then to try to draw some conclusions about what
1 On Heracles and Busiris see Vasunia (2001) 185–193; Stephens (2003) 26–27, 131–132.
2 See Gow (21952b) vol. 2, 439–441; more recent bibliography in Köhnken (1999)
55–57.
246 benjamin acosta-hughes
this transformation may mean. I conclude with some brief thoughts on

[Theocritus] Idyll 25, Heracles the Lion-Slayer.3
I begin with Theocritus Idyll 17, Encomium for Ptolemy. The poem cel-
ebrates Ptolemy II in terms of his filial piety (to his recently deceased,
and now divine, parents), his excellence as a warrior (in a series of heroic
comparisons), and his more distant divine associations (Alexander and
Heracles, and ultimately Zeus and Hera). Following the proem where the
singer calls for inspiration to sing of praise for his human (but not too
human) subject, the poem opens on Olympus, where it will also close, in
a gesture that both imitates Homeric narrative structure and reminds the
audience of Ptolemy’s future existence among the gods (lines 13–33):4
ἐκ πατέρων οἷος μὲν ἔην τελέσαι μέγα ἔργον
Λαγείδας Πτολεμαῖος, ὄτε φρεσὶν ἐγκατάθοιτο
βουλὰν ἃν οὐκ ἄλλος ἀνὴρ οἷός τε νοῆσαι.
τῆνον καὶ μακάρεσσι πατὴρ ὁμότιμον ἔθηκεν
ἀθανάτοις καί οἱ χρύσεος θρόνος ἐν Διὸς οἴκῳ
δέδημται· παρὰ δ’ αὐτὸν ᾿Αλέξανδρος φίλα εἰδώς
ἑδράει, Πέρσαισι βαρὺς θεὸς αἰολομίτρας.
ἀντία δ’ ῾Ηρακλῆος ἕδρα κενταυροφόνοιο
ἵδρυται στερεοῖο τετυγμένα ἐξ ἀδάμαντος·
ἔνθα σὺν ἄλλοισιν θαλίας ἔχει Οὐρανίδῃσι,
χαίρων υἱωνῶν περιώσιον υἱωνοῖσιν,
ὅττι σφεων Κρονίδης μελέων ἐξείλετο γῆρας
ἀθάνατοι δὲ καλεῦνται ἑοὶ νέποδες γεγαῶτες.
ἄμφω γὰρ πρόγονός σφιν ὁ καρτερὸς ῾Ηρακλείδας
ἀμφότεροι δ’ ἀριθμεῦνται ἐς ἔσχατον ῾Ηρακλῆα.
τῷ καὶ ἐπεὶ δαίτηθεν ἴοι κεκορημένος ἤδη
νέκταρος εὐόδμοιο φίλας ἐς δῶμ’ ἀλόχοιο
τῷ μὲν τόξον ἔδωκεν ὑπωλένιόν τε φαρέτραν,
τῷ δὲ σιδάρειον σκύταλον κεχαραγμένον ὄζοις·
οἳ δ’ εἰς ἀμβρόσιον θάλαμον λευκοσφύρου ῞Ηβας
ὅπλα καὶ αὐτὸν ἄγουσι γενειήταν Διὸς υἱόν.
He is from such forefathers as could accomplish great deeds; Ptolemy son
of Lagus, who set such plans in his heart as no other man could consider.
Him even among the blessed dead the father made equal in honor to the
immortals, and for him a golden throne is fashioned in the house of Zeus.
By him Alexander sits, kindly disposed, a god of variegated crown, a heavy
weight for the Persians. And opposite is established the seat of Heracles
slayer of centaurs, made of hard adamant. With the other Olympians he
3 On this poem see Schmitz in this volume.

4 All texts of Theocritus are from the edition of Gow (1952a); all translations are
my own.
hercules on a small scale (theocritus idylls 13 and 24) 247
holds his feasts, rejoicing very much in the sons of his sons. When the son
of Cronus took old age from their limbs they were called immortal, rejoicing,
his own children. For both is strong Heracles an ancestor, and both number
their lines back to Heracles. Wherefore as he goes sated with nectar from
the feast to the home of his fragrant wife, to the one he gives his bow and
the quiver from below his arm, to the other his iron club fitted with knots.
And they lead him, Zeus’ noble son, together with his weapons to Hebe’s
ambrosial chamber.
The passage completes several mythologies and involves several inter-
texts. Heracles’ spirit is the last image Odysseus beholds in his journey to
the Underworld (Od. 11.601–604):
τὸν δὲ μέτ’ εἰσενόησα βίην ῾Ηρακληείην,
εἴδωλον· αὐτὸς δὲ μετ’ ἀθανάτοισι θεοῖσι
τέρπεται ἐν θαλίῃς καὶ ἔχει καλλίσφυρον ῞Ηβην
παῖδα Διὸς μεγάλοιο καὶ ῞Ηρης χρυσοπεδίλου.
After him I noticed strong Heracles, his shade. For he himself among the
immortal gods takes pleasure in the feast and holds Hebe of the fair-ankles,
child of great Zeus and golden sandaled Hera.
There Odysseus tells that he saw the spirit of the earthly part of Heracles,
but the immortal part of Heracles was called to Olympus to wed Hebe,
and, indeed, here he is, in the opening scene of Theocritus’ 17th Idyll, prior
to entering Hebe’s bed-chamber. His immortal part (for he is an ἡμίθεος,
one of the figures of earlier song to whom the singer of this Encomium
alludes at line 5)5 finds its reflection in the immortal parts of his descen-
dants Alexander and Ptolemy, who have come to share in their ancestor’s
immortality. Indeed there is an intriguing ambiguity in the πατήρ of line
16: could this be a reference to Ptolemy I’s alleged divinity?
A second intertext is the Homeric Hymn to Apollo. In this poem, Leto
welcomes Apollo among the gods on Olympus, but in Idyll 17 Heracles is
escorted by his offspring;6 in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo the motion is
from threshold to public space, but in Theocritus’ poem it is from public
5 Id. 17.5–6: ἥρωες, τοὶ πρόσθεν ἀφ’ ἡμιθέων ἐγένοντο, / ῥέξαντες καλὰ ἔργα σοφῶν
ἐκύρησαν ἀοιδῶν. “Heroes born earlier from demi-gods, for doing noble deeds obtained
wise singers.”
6 Hymn. Hom. Ap. 5–19: Λητὼ δ’ οἴη μίμνε παραὶ Διὶ τερπικεραύνῳ, / ἥ ῥα βιόν τ’ ἐχάλασσε
καὶ ἐκλήϊσε φαρέτρην, / καί οἱ ἀπ’ ἰφθίμων ὤμων χείρεσσιν ἑλοῦσα / τόξον ἀνεκρέμασε πρὸς
κίονα πατρὸς ἑοῖο / πασσάλου ἐκ χρυσέουÂ· τὸν δ’ εἰς θρόνον εἷσεν ἄγουσα. “Leto herself awaited
him at the home of Zeus who takes pleasure in thunder, and from his noble shoulders
took his bow with her hands, and hung it from a golden peg by the central column of her
father’s house. Then leading him she seated him upon a throne.”
space to bed-chamber. The prediction of Teiresias in Pindar’s First Nem-

ean Ode (lines 70–71)7 is now realized, as is that of Teiresias in Theocritus’
Heracliscus (lines 79–85)8 that details the same wedding on Olympus. It
is worth noting that just as Idyll 24 predates Idyll 17 in chronological date
of assumed occasion (Idyll 24 is believed to have been composed for the
Basileia of 285 BC celebrating the co-regency of Ptolemy I and his son;9
Idyll 17 is clearly composed when Ptolemy I is now dead),10 Idyll 24 fea-
tures the young Heracles, Idyll 17 the now divine one. A further intertext
that may well be at play here is the depiction of Heracles in Simonides’
Plataea Elegy.11 Theocritus has, in his composition of the Archaic hero on
Olympus, drawn him, as it were, through a mosaic of earlier portrayals.
Heracles, the Archaic hero, slayer of centaurs (line 20: κενταυροφόνοιο) is
put on the same footing as Alexander, slayer of Persians (line 19: Πέρσαισι
βαρὺς θεὸς αἰολομίτρας). Νote that it is here Alexander who is termed a
god. The seating arrangement on Olympus casually introduces the Ptole-
maic propaganda of Ptolemy’s relationship to Alexander, the phrasing of
e.g. lines 23–27 leaves open the exact nature of the association of the two
Hellenistic monarchs.12 Their position as squires to Heracles at once adds
to the lighter touches of the passage; Heracles, a famous glutton, is finally
sated on nectar, and is fully armed on divine Olympus. Lines 32–33 further
contrast with the poem’s end (lines 128–134), where Iris attends on the bed
of Zeus and Hera. For Heracles and Hebe are of course half-siblings (they
have the same father), thus introducing already the ongoing theme of fluid
7 Pind. Nem. 1.70–71: ἡσυχίαν καμάτων μεγάλων / ποινὰν λαχόντ’ ἐξαίρετον / ὀλβίοις ἐν
δώμασι, δεξάμενον / θαλερὰν ῞Ηβαν ἄκοιτιν καὶ γάμον / δαίσαντα πὰρ Δὶ Κρονίδᾳ. “Attaining
peace as his boon for his great labors in a blessed home, on receiving blooming Hebe as
his bride and celebrating his wedding feast at the side of Zeus son of Cronus.”
8 τοῖος ἀνὴρ ὅδε μέλλει ἐς οὐρανὸν ἄστρα φέροντα / ἀμβαίνειν τεὸς υἱός, ἀπὸ στέρνων πλατὺς
ἥρως, / οὗ καὶ θηρία πάντα καὶ ἀνέρες ἥσσονες ἄλλοι. / δώδεκά οἱ τελέσαντι πεπρωμένον ἐν Διὸς
οἰκεῖν / μόχθους, θνητὰ δὲ πάντα πυρὰ Τραχίνιος ἕξειÂ· / γαμβρὸς δ’ ἀθανάτων κεκλήσεται, οἳ τάδ’
ἐπῶρσαν / κνώδαλα φωλεύοντα βρέφος διαδηλήσασθαι. “Such a man, your son, will ascend
to star-bearing heaven, a hero of broad chest, than whom all beasts and all men will be
weaker. Upon his accomplishing twelve deeds it is fated that he dwell in the house of Zeus,
but all of him that is mortal will a fire at Trachis receive. He will be called the groom of the
immortals, those who sent these lair-dwelling monsters to destroy him as a babe.”
9 Stephens (2003) 125–127; Clauss (1986); Koenen (1977) 86.
10 I have suggested elsewhere that the occasion of Idyll 17 may have been the wedding
of Ptolemy II and his sister-wife Arsinoe II, which happened between the years 279 and
274: see Acosta-Hughes (forthcoming c).
11 Acosta-Hughes (2010) 193.
12 See Stephens (2003) 129 on the Suda narrative, attributed to Aelian, that sug-
gests Ptolemy I, like Alexander, is a son of Zeus. This would make all three figures
here—Alexander, Ptolemy and Heracles—half-brothers, at least at one level.
relations that culminates in the embrace of Ptolemy II and his sister Arsi-
noe toward the poem’s end, which finds its divine parallel in the embrace
of Zeus and Hera. The poem has an exact chiastic structure: prooimion—
Ptolemaic “familial” tableau (featuring multiple generations)—bed-cham-
ber scene on Olympus—Ptolemaic “familial” tableau (featuring multiple
generations)—bed-chamber scene on Olympus—extroit.
Alexander and Heracles, the two ἡμίθεοι portrayed here with Ptolemy I,
are figures with which the royal house actually associated itself very closely.
The reasons for the association with Alexander are fairly obvious. In bring-
ing Alexander’s body first to Memphis and then to Alexandria, Ptolemy I
was making a public statement of inheritance right that is reflected here
in Theocritus’ poem. Again, both Alexander and Ptolemy here are descen-
dants of Heracles and their relationship to one another is left implied
in the passage cited above, but not spelled out. Heracles, unlike many
another Greek hero, is not bound by locality. The wandering occasioned
by his labors and mythology makes him an ideal model not only for later
mythological rendition, as e.g. in Apollonius’ Argonautica, but also for the
“wandering” campaigns of Alexander, which bore Greek culture all over
the known world, in particular through the paideia of which Heracles
himself, as tutelary god of the gymnasion, became the ubiquitous sym-
bol. Furthermore Heracles, unlike many another Archaic hero, is linked
to Egypt and Egyptian mythology. Like the Greek pharaoh, his is a figure
that can be “seen double.”13 Heracles here is, as it were, bifurcated. We see
him at once as Archaic hero (the centaur-slaying thug with the club) and
regal ancestor of Hellenistic kings.
Idyll 24, Heracliscus, has done a similar transformation of the Archaic
hero. The snake-killing babe of Greek mythology (and of Pindar’s First
Nemean Ode) now evolves in the course of the poem and comes to be given
the education of a Hellenistic prince. Thus Heracles himself receives the
paideia of which his statue in Hellenistic gymnasia is, along with that of
Hermes, a recurrent presence. Several scholars, taking the initiative begun
by L. Koenen in 1977, have suggested that Heracliscus was composed for the
Basileia of 285, the Macedonian celebration of Zeus Basileus that was the
occasion of the instantiation of the co-regency of Ptolemy II and Ptolemy
I (the same occasion for which Callimachus composed his Hymn to Zeus).14
13 I take this expression from Stephens’ title of her study on intercultural poetics under
the early Ptolemies (2003).
14 See my n. 9 above for references.
Theocritus may hint at this occasion in a seemingly unimportant, and, as

far as I know, unnoticed moment in the poem itself. At the conclusion of
the Pindaric imitation (the narrative of the baby Heracles’ feat with the
snakes) an understandably concerned Alcmene seeks the advice of the
seer Teiresias. At the conclusion of her request for elucidation, Theocritus
gives simply τόσσ’ ἔλεγεν βασίλεια (“the queen said so many things,” 72).
At first glance this is not a remarkable phrase, though there is little in
the earlier domestic narrative that would necessitate introducing a royal
title. Theocritus’ version of this feat of the baby Heracles is constructed
(unlike Pindar’s) as a distincly familial, domestic scene. Absent are the
“public” of Nemean 1, Alcmene’s waiting women, and the Kadmeian chief-
tans; these are replaced in Theocritus by more modest attendants (lines
47–51), figures who harken back to the servants of Odysseus’ home on
Ithaca. And, of course, in Pindar’s poem Amphitryon summons Teireseas
to him (line 60), while in Theocritus’ Alcmene does the summoning (lines
65–66). However, the term Theocritus uses elsewhere for “queen” is the
metrically equivalent βασίλισσα, as at Idyll 15.23–24: ἀκούω χρῆμα καλόν τι /
κοσμεῖν τὰν βασίλισσαν (“I hear the queen is arranging quite a show”). This
is also the term used in the markedly Macedonian poetry of Posidippus.15
Further, the phrase comes at a point of transition in the course of Idyll 24
itself. For we move here to the prognostication of Heracles’ future in, as
it were, two versions, the life of traditional Greek mythology, which Teire-
sias predicts, and the education of a Hellenistic prince, which the poet of
Idyll 24 narrates. This passage opens with a heroic simile that we might
expect to find in earlier epic (lines 103–104):
῾Ηρακλέης δ’ ὑπὸ ματρὶ νέον φυτὸν ὣς ἐν ἀλωᾷ
ἐτρέφετ,’ ᾿Αργείου κεκλημένος ᾿Αμφιτρύωνος.
Under his mother’s [guidance] Heracles was fostered like a young plan in
an orchard,16
and went by the name of the son of Argive Amphitryon.
There then follows a catalogue of princely instruction, which begins with
a surprise (and includes several others) (lines 105–106):
15 Βασίλισσα at 79.1, 116.5 Austin/Bastianini, βασιλίς at 78.14, 82.6 Austin/Bastianini. On

the Macedonian character of Posidippus’ poetry see Stephens (2005) 231–243.
16 One might read νέον φυτὸν ὥς here metapoetically, as e.g. νεογράπτω at Id. 18.3. I owe
this excellent suggestion to one of the readers of this paper in earlier draft.
γράμματα μὲν τὸν παῖδα γέρων Λίνος ἐξεδίδαξεν,

υἱὸς ᾿Απόλλωνος μελεδωνεὺς ἄγρυπνος ἥρως.
The old man Linus taught his [sc. Amphitryon’s] son his letters, Linus
the son of Apollo, sleepless guardian hero.
Linus, the mythological singer of the first song, traditionally tries to teach
Heracles the art of singing, and Heracles kills him for his efforts. So much
for attempting to acculturate the Archaic hero. Here Linus has become
a γραμματοδιδάσκαλος, even attaining the epithet ἄγρυπνος, a term that
becomes synonymous in this period and later with the physical labor of
composing poetry.17 Education in letters heads the list of Heracles’ scho-
lastic occupations, which includes the more traditional study of the lyre
under the appropriately named Eumolpos (lines 109–110) as well as the
Hellenistic royal achievement of marshalling an army at lines 127–128.
Even chariot-racing, of which the Ptolemies, as the newly discovered Hip-
pika attributed to Posidippus attest, were very fond, is one of Heracles’
pursuits, in this case taught by his adoptive father (lines 119–124). This
training of a mythological hero in the manner of a Hellenistic prince
finds a parallel in Theocritus’ praise poetry (Idylls 16 and 17), where both
Hiero and Ptolemy are urged to show generosity to singers.18 It also cul-
minates (at least as we have it, the poem is now incomplete, though it
looks, from the vestiges that remain, as though the detailing of Heracles’
paideia continued) in a transformation from Archaic mythological nar-
rative, though with a number of markedly Egyptian overtones,19 to royal
paideutic model—the baby Heracles strangling the two snakes is now a
Hellenistic prince.
The education of Heracles was already a topos of his mythology (Apol-
lodorus 2.4.9.), and apparently of comedy. The fourth century comic poet
Alexis depicts Linus giving Heracles a reading lesson (fr. 135). Linus pro-
poses a choice of Orpheus, Hesiod, tragedians, Homer and Epicharmus,
but Heracles chooses a book with the title “on cooking” (ὀψαρτυσία). A
play on Heracles’ famous appetite is present, but so is the idea of the read-
ing lesson. Plato (Theag. 122e) gives education in letters the first place in
the education of a gentleman. Theocritus is partly following Plato here (as
he does elsewhere with educational imagery), as Gow observes, but also a
17 See Thomas (1996) 231.

18 Theoc. Id. 16.29–35; 17.112–120.
19 Stephens (2003) 142–146.
comic tradition that had already featured the monster-slaying brute as a

(if not terribly apt) student of letters.20
Idyll 13 opens with an address to the poet’s friend Nicias that features
what might well be seen as a surprising exemplum (lines 1–11):
οὐχ ἁμῖν τὸν ῎Ερωτα μόνοις ἔτεχ’, ὡς ἐδοκεῦμες,
Νικία, ὧτινι τοῦτο θεῶν ποκα τέκνον ἔγεντο·
οὐχ ἁμῖν τὰ καλὰ πράτοις καλὰ φαίνεται ἦμεν,
οἳ θνατοὶ πελόμεσθα τὸ δ’ αὔριον οὐκ ἐσορῶμες·
ἀλλὰ καὶ ᾿Αμφιτρύωνος ὁ χαλκεοκάρδιος υἱός,
ὃς τὸν λῖν ὑπέμεινε τὸν ἄγριον, ἤρατο παιδὸς
τοῦ χαρίεντος, Ὕλα, τοῦ τὰν πλοκαμῖδα φορεῦντος,
καί νιν πάντ’ ἐδίδασκε, πατὴρ ὡσεὶ φίλον υἱόν,
ὅσσα μαθὼν ἀγαθὸς καὶ ἀοίδιμος αὐτὸς ἔγεντο·
χωρὶς δ’ οὐδέποκ’ ἦς, οὔτ’ εἰ μέσον ἆμαρ ὄροιτο,
οὔθ’ ὁπόχ’ ἁ λεύκιππος ἀνατρέχοι ἐς Διὸς ᾿Αώς.
Not for us, as we thought, Nicias, did that god beget Eros, whichever god’s
child he was. Nor for us first did beauty appear beautiful, we who are mor-
tals and will not look on the morrow. But even the bronze-hearted son of
Amphitryon, who once endured the savage lion, he loved a boy, graceful
Hylas, the one who bore a lock, and taught him everything, as a father does
his own son, that learning these things he might be good and well thought
of. Never was he apart, not if he looked on midday, nor when Dawn of white
horses turned back to Zeus’ house.
The passage opens with an allusion to the birth-origin of Eros, and con-
tinues with a discussion of the beautiful—themes that immediately evoke
Plato’s erotic work, especially the Symposium and the world of paideras-
tic love. Heracles’ love affairs with women are often horrific (e.g. Megara,
Deianira, Iole; Omphale is perhaps the exception), and the destructive
nature of his eros is the subject of at least one choral ode (Euripides’ Hip-
polytus). Here, however, he loves a boy, not in the manner of heroic nar-
rative, where the tale of his slaughtering Hylas’ father might be more at
home (a tale Callimachus treats in the first Book of the Aetia), but in that
of a Platonic erastés:
καί νιν πάντ’ ἐδίδασκε, πατὴρ ὡσεὶ φίλον υἱόν,
ὅσσα μαθὼν ἀγαθὸς καὶ ἀοίδιμος αὐτὸς ἔγεντο.
and taught him everything, as a father does his own son,
that learning these things he might be good and well thought-of.
20 See also Thomas (1996) 231.

Hence indeed the irony of the phrase “as a father does his own son.” But
here the context is new: Heracles as erastés is concerned with the correct
upbringing of his erómenos, and Heracles, the pupil of Idyll 24, is here the
teacher of the boy he loves. As they are never apart, Hylas embarks with
Heracles on the Argo (line 25), thus transferring their love to a heroic set-
ting, and there it proves disastrous for both: Hylas perishes, and Heracles,
searching for his erómenos now in the manner of a heroic figure (cap-
tured in the heroic simile of lines 62–63, the ravenous lion in pursuit of
a fawn) misses the Argo’s embarkation to Colchis, thus through sympo-
siastic love failing in heroic venture. The heroic Heracles returns in reac-
tion to the loss of Hylas, which occurs in a bucolic setting. Idyll 13 both
plays with and questions several poetic genres. One feature of this play is
the contrast of robust (Heracles, heroic) and thin (Hylas, bucolic) sound
(Theoc. Id. 13.55–67):
᾿Αμφιτρυωνιάδας δὲ ταρασσόμενος περὶ παιδί
ᾤχετο, Μαιωτιστὶ λαβὼν εὐκαμπέα τόξα
καὶ ῥόπαλον, τό οἱ αἰὲν ἐχάνδανε δεξιτερὰ χείρ.
τρὶς μὲν Ὕλαν ἄυσεν ὅσον βαθὺς ἤρυγε λαιμός,
τρὶς δ’ ἄρ’ ὁ παῖς ὑπάκουσεν, ἀραιὰ δ’ ἵκετο φωνά
ἐξ ὕδατος, παρεὼν δὲ μάλα σχεδὸν εἴδετο πόρρω.
[ὡς δ’ ὁπότ’ ἠυγένειος ἀπόπροθι λὶς ἐσακούσας]
νεβροῦ φθεγξαμένας τις ἐν οὔρεσιν ὠμοφάγος λίς
ἐξ εὐνᾶς ἔσπευσεν ἑτοιμοτάταν ἐπὶ δαῖτα·
῾Ηρακλέης τοιοῦτος ἐν ἀτρίπτοισιν ἀκάνθαις
παῖδα ποθῶν δεδόνητο, πολὺν δ’ ἐπελάμβανε χῶρον.
σχέτλιοι οἱ φιλέοντες, ἀλώμενος ὅσσ’ ἐμόγησεν
οὔρεα καὶ δρυμούς, τὰ δ’ ᾿Ιάσονος ὕστερα πάντ’ ἦς.
Amphitryon’s son went, all mad about the boy, taking up in the Maiotic way
his easily bent bow and his club, which ever his left hand wielded. Three
times he cries out “Hylas” as deep as his throat could bellow, three times the
boy heard him, but thin came his voice from the water; though very near it
seemed far off. [As] when a fawn gives voice and some flesh-eating lion in
the mountains hastens from its lair to a ready meal, so Heracles yearning for
the boy was twirled among impassable thorns, and covered much country.
Wretched are lovers, wandering among so many mountains and thickets he
travailed, and Jason’s affair was all forgotten.
The passage deserves a moment’s close analysis for its peculiar inversion
of epic norms: the heroic reaction for an unheroic cause, underlined in
the juxtaposition of strength and weakness of sound, the jarring conflu-
ence of epic lion simile with the predatory imagery of paederastic verse,
the misplaced epic hero among bucolic thistles. Line 65: παῖδα ποθῶν
δεδόνητο, evokes both the active and passive aspects of infatuation. The
term δεδόνητο may further recall Sappho fr. 130.1–2 Voigt:
῎Ερος δηὖτε μ’ ὀ λυσιμέλης δόνει,
γλυκύπικρον ἀμάχανον ὄρπετον.
Limb-loosening Eros again assails me,
sweet-bitter thing without remedy.
Given Theocritus’ extensive use of Sappho,21 I wonder whether we should
not also consider here a possible parallel, beautifully then reconfigured by
Theocritus, in lines 12–13 of Idyll 13:
οὔθ’ ὁπόκ’ ὀρτάλιχοι μινυροὶ ποτὶ κοῖτον ὁρῷεν,
σεισαμένας πτερὰ ματρὸς ἐπ’ αἰθαλόεντι πετεύρῳ
nor when the chirping nestlings look to their roost,
when their mother shakes her wings upon the smoky perch
and Sappho’s image of oncoming evening (fr. 104), a passage to which
Theocritus seems to allude, among many other Sappho passages, in Idyll
18 (and elsewhere):
῎Εσπερε πάντα φέρων ὄσα φαίνολις ἐσκέδασ’ αὔως
†φέρεις ὄιν, φέρεις αἶγα, φέρεις† μάτερι παῖδα.
Evening bringing all that shining dawn scattered,
you bring the sheep, the goat, the child to its mother.
Id. 13.66 σχέτλιοι οἱ φιλέοντες is surely a variation of Ap. Rhod. Argon.
4.445–449:
φχέτλι’ ῎Ερως, μέγα πῆμα, μέγα στύγος ἀνθρώποισιν,
ἐκ σέθεν οὐλόμεναί τ’ ἔριδες στοναχαί τε γόοι τε,
ἄλγεά τ’ ἄλλ’ ἐπὶ τοῖσιν ἀπείρονα τετρήχασινÂ·
δυσμενέων ἐπὶ παισὶ κορύσσεο δαῖμον ἀερθείς
οἷος Μηδείῃ στυγερὴν φρεσὶν ἔμβαλες ἄτην.
Wretched Eros, great affliction, object of great hatred for mortals, from you
come deadly strife, lamentations and groans, and boundless other sufferings
are stirred up as well. May you rise up and arm yourself against the children
of my enemies, as you cast hateful ruin into Medea’s mind.
Thus we have a final, if needed, testimony to this poem, Idyll 13, being in
part a response to Apollonius’ epic, though the two authors surely knew
one another’s work in the course of composition.
21 See further Acosta-Hughes (2010) 16–39.

Heracles as Ptolemaic forbear, as Hellenistic prince, as misplaced epic

hero in a bucolic (and symposiastic landscape); in each case a figure at
once recognizable and one evolved to a novel stage, emblematic, as it
were, of the appropriation of the Archaic in Hellenistic poetry. I close with
a last observation, this on a poem attributed to Theocritus, though not
with certainty, Id. 25, Heracles the Lion-Slayer. Like the Molorchus episode
of Callimachus’ Victoria Berenices, this poem features one of Heracles’ tra-
ditional labors, the slaying of the Nemean lion, but at a distinct remove;
Heracles becomes the effective “narrator” of his own mythology to an audi-
ence that has not yet recognized him for a fame he has yet to achieve (the
baby Achilles of Argonautica 1 comes to mind as a parallel; future hero
of a great epic, he is very much on the periphery of this one). Heracles
has his trademark lion skin and club (δέρμα τε θηρὸς ὁρῶν χειροπληθῆ τε
κορύνην, Id. 25.63), but the very symbols that Dionysus in Aristophanes’
Frogs displays to prove his assumed identity as Heracles here have no
impact, for, as Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004) 212 observe, we are in the world
before κλέος. That point might serve as a concluding note here, for in each
of these poems Heracles’ archaic κλέος is oddly sidelined: his weapons are
set aside at the door of Hebe’s bed-chamber in Id. 17 and prove useless
against the loss of Hylas, and his club is not among the military equip-
ment of his training in Heracliscus nor recognized for its symbolic mean-
ing in Heracles the Lion-Slayer. Theocritus’ Heracles is recognizably the
Archaic hero, but seen from a perspective that is not Archaic, and this
results in an object of attention at once familiar and novel.
Theocritus Idyll 13 is but one piece in the Theocritean corpus that par-
allels an episode in the Argonautica of Apollonius of Rhodes; another is,
famously, Idyll 22, a hexameter poem of 223 lines that depicts the aristeiai
of Polydeuces and Castor, in the first case paralleling the episode of the
boxing match between Polydeuces and Amycus, king of the Bebrycians,
that opens Argonautica 2. This is not the place for an extended discussion
of the latter pair of poems,22 though it is worth observing that Idyll 22 is
framed by a hymn introit and extroit structure (lines 1–26 and 212–223),
thus in a sense paralleling the frame of Id. 13. A third, I would argue, is
Idyll 2, which clearly draws in a complex way on Apollonius’ portrayal of
22 An excellent summary in Sens (1997) 24–33. While some scholars (esp. Köhnken
[1965]) have argued for the priority of the Theocritus poems, the reverse seems the more
convincing, particularly as there is a general tendency in reception for the linear treatment
to precede the episodic (the relationship of lyric to epic is an especially good parallel
here).
Medea in love in Argonautica 3–4.23 We thus have a three-part Theocritean

“reading” of Apollonius’ poem. All three of these poems are in hexameter,
two are shorter poems on heroic themes that find parallels in Apollonius’
epic poem (the case of Idyll 2 is more complex, generically as well). But
are we right to think of these as “epyllia,” as belonging to a “genre,” if that
is the right term here, distinct from other shorter hexameter poems (e.g.
hexameter hymns)? One approach to answering this question might take
meter, another poetic material, into consideration.
Lyric is already home to heroic figures, and heroic narrative, in non-
hexameter contexts. Pindar would be an obvious case in point here, but
so too would be Stesichorus (e.g. the Geryoneis). The new Archilochus (on
the Telephus episode) preserved by P.Oxy. 470824 particularly gives one
reason to pause here, as this poem is a clear example of a type of heroic
elegy that we knew from testimonia (e.g. Mimnermus), but of which we
had until now relatively few examples. The discovery of what is clearly a
linear heroic narrative in elegiac couplet further may shed a new light on
what is at issue in Callimachus’ Aetia prologue: Cameron’s (1995) sugges-
tion that Callimachus is treating styles in elegy rather than prefiguring
an elegy versus epic dichotomy familiar from Roman elegy would appear
to gain considerable support from this new Archilochus fragment, and
we need to take this into consideration in the present discussion. For a
part of the prediliction for Hellenistic “epyllion” is indeed based on the
assumption that this versus epic is at issue in the Aetia prologue, and
that “epyllion” as a genre of Hellenistic poetry comes into being in part
as a response to this opposition. This impression can be furthered by one
reading of the scholion to Callimachus Hymn 2 that asserts that the final
lines of that poem are addressed to those who fault the poet’s inability to
compose a μέγα ποίημα,25 and that as a result of this difference Callima-
chus composed the Hecale,26 which is meant to illustrate a Callimachean
23 Again space precludes a detailed discussion here: the observation is based on the
proposition first made by Bonanno (1990) 163–164 that Apollonius’ two part rendition of
Sappho fr. 31 Voigt in Argonautica 3 precedes that of Theocritus’ Simaetha in Idyll 2 (cf.
further details Acosta-Hughes [2010] 12–61). Added to this is the prominent role of Selene
in “discourse” with the speaker, and further the specific comparison by Simaetha to Medea
as model (line 16).
24 Published by Obbink (2006).
25 See Gutzwiller (this volume).
26 Schol. Callim. Hymn 2.106: ἐγκαλεῖ διὰ τούτων τοὺς σκώπτοντους αὐτὸν μὴ δύνασθαι
ποιῆσαι μέγα ποίημα, ὅθεν ἠναγκάσθη τὴν ῾Εκάλην. “In these lines he accuses those who
joke at him that he can’t compose a big poem, whence he was compelled to write the
Hecale.”
reaction/innovation. This may be assuming rather a lot, including that the

Hecale is in some ways a response to a charge as illustration of novelty.27
At 1000 lines or more, the Hecale is hardly a short poem, and is consider-
ably longer than any of the surviving Homeric Hymns, or for that matter
Catullus 64, that poem often considered the prime example of the “genre”
of epyllion. The shortest book of Apollonius’ Argonautica (Book 2) is 1285
lines; if Hollis (22009) 400 is right that we have good reason to think of
the Hecale as something more in the area of 1200–1500 lines, we are clearly
talking about a hexameter poem of very different length than any of the
Theocritus poems under consideration here.
More interesting, in this writer’s opinion, is seeing several of these
poems as examples of hexameter poetry appropriating the “composi-
tional space” of earlier models. Idyll 22 is framed by a hymnic structure,
as is Idyll 17. Both poems celebrate the instantiation of divinity, and the
Dioscuri of Idyll 22 are an important model (as are Heracles and Helen)
for the ideology of Ptolemaic divinity.28 The opening of Idyll 13 in part imi-
tates an earlier novelty, Phaedrus’ prose hymn to Eros in the Symposium;
while it would be going to far to call the poem a “hymn to Eros,” certainly
the opening is playing with that conceit. Idyll 24 recasts in hexameter the
myth of Pindar’s First Nemean Ode with the striking feature that in this
case the Theocritean version that narrates a prince’s eduction is given
voice on the occasion of a prince’s accession to co-regency—here Hera-
cles is something more than a model; the prince-regent is effectively the
son of Zeus, the king celebrated in the Macedonian feast of Zeus Basileus.
Theocritus’ poem is occasionally (as is Pindar’s) in hexameter rather than
strophic lyric.29 This emanating of hexameter (and also elegy) in the Hel-
lenistic period into the space occupied earlier by other metrical forms is
a wide-spread feature of this period; one might prefer to see the prolif-
eration of the shorter hexameter poem as a result of metrical expansion
rather than generic reaction.
27 Cf. Hollis’ (22009) second appendix on the length of the Hecale (337–340).
28 On the Dioscuri see further Acosta-Hughes (forthcoming a).
29 I have suggested elsewhere that Idyll 17 is also a performance poem: see Acosta-
Hughes (forthcoming b).
Herakles in Bits and Pieces:
Id. 25 in the Corpus Theocriteum
Thomas A. Schmitz*
It is easy to imagine why Hellenistic poets felt fascinated by the mytho-

logical figure of Herakles. Alexander the Great and many later rulers in the
Hellenistic world fashioned themselves after this heroic figure; this cer-
tainly contributed to its popularity in Hellenistic art and literature.1 Fasci-
nation with this unwieldy hero was older than the Hellenistic Period, and
depictions of this towering figure in unusual, less than heroic ways can be
found in fifth-century literary texts, as the “tragic” Herakles in Sophocles’
Women of Trachis or Euripides’ Herakles and the comic Herakles in Aristo-
phanes’ Birds or Frogs demonstrate.2 Hence, it is not surprising that many
Hellenistic poets took up the challenge of integrating this traditional fig-
ure into the new tendencies of Hellenistic poetry.3
In the Corpus Theocriteum, Herakles is the main character of three
poems: in Id. 13, we see him (unsuccessfully) searching for his beloved
Hylas, abducted by nymphs; Id. 24 shows him as a baby, cheerfully stran-
gling the snakes which Hera had sent to kill him; Id. 25 is a narrative (of
sorts) of one of his labors, the cleansing of the Augean stables. All three
poems depict Herakles from an unusual perspective or in unusual cir-
cumstances: in Id. 13, he is a lover, in Id. 24, he is a baby, and in Id. 25,
he is shown in the least heroic of his twelve labors. Id. 25 is a relatively
neglected poem within the Theocritean corpus. This neglect is, at least
in part, due to the fact that the text presents us with a number of thorny
philological problems: most modern scholars have severe doubts about
its authenticity, and we are not even certain whether the text as it has
been transmitted is complete. This contribution will have to address these
* I am grateful to the organizers of the conference on the Epyllion for the invitation
to participate and for the inspiring meeting. The discussions were very lively, helpful, and
a wonderful example of a team effort. I have learned a lot from all the comments on my
paper and want to express my gratitude to all who participated in the discussion.
1 See Huttner (1997).
2 See Galinsky (1972).
3 See Papadimitropoulos (2006).
260 thomas a. schmitz
questions, albeit briefly, but its main part will be a narratological analysis
of the poem.
Given our almost complete lack of supporting evidence, it is impos-
sible to decide whether the poem was written by Theocritus. A major-
ity of scholars do not accept Theocritean authorship, yet it is universally
accepted that the text must belong to the third century BC.4 In any case,
the writer must be considered a competent Hellenistic poet who (almost
certainly) knew the works of Callimachus5 and (possibly) of Apollonius
Rhodius6 and who may have been active in Alexandria.
While the question of authorship has only limited bearing on our inter-
pretation of the text, the second philological problem carries more weight.
The editio princeps of Theocritus’ poems, published by Junta in 1516, simply
states “unfinished” (ἀτελές) at the end of Id. 24 (see figure 1, at the end of
this paper). Callierges, in his edition of the same year, adds that “the end
of the present idyll is missing, as is the beginning of the following poem,
which he (?) made bear the title Herakles the lionslayer” (λείπει τὸ τέλος
τοῦ παρόντος εἰδυλλίου, καὶ ἡ ἀρχὴ τοῦ ἑπομένου· ὅπερ ἐξανύει ἐπιγράφεσθαι,
ἡρακλῆς λεοντοφόνος) (see figure 2, at the end of this paper).7
We thus have two claims here: (A) made both by Junta and by Cal-
lierges that Id. 24 was mutilated at the end, and (B) made only by Cal-
lierges that Id. 25 was incomplete at the beginning. The publication of the
Antinopolis papyrus in 1930 confirmed claim (A): after l. 140, the papy-
rus contained some 30 further lines; unfortunately, they are mutilated so
badly that it is impossible to guess what they contained. If a marginal note
at l. 171 is indeed a paraphrase of the text, it indicates that the poem ended
with a prayer by the first-person narrator that he may win victory over
4 See the summary of the arguments in Hunter (1998) 115–118; Hunter himself reaches
a cautious conclusion (118): “For what it is worth, my impression is that the stylistic argu-
ments adduced in favour of Theocritean authorship stretch credulity a little too far . . .”
A (similarly cautious) argument for the genuineness of the poem can be found in Kurz
(1982).
5 See Parsons (1977) 44; Henrichs (1977).
6 See Hunter (1998) 115–118.
7 On the editions of Junta and Callierges and their manuscript sources, see Kirstein
(2007) 24–30. Gow (21952b) vol. 1, 191 notes that the Callierges edition leaves two pages
blank before the beginning of Id. 25, thus marking the incompleteness in a strong way.
His note on the Junta edition, however, is misleading: “Iunt. post 140 ἀτελές addit: tum
spatio relicto Moschi Id. 2.” While it is true that there is some empty space after Id. 24,
this is purely due to typographical reasons: as figure 1, obtained from the French National
Library’s online “Gallica” system, makes clear, there was not room enough on f. f iiiir to
begin a new poem; the printer always had to leave some blank space at the end of the
page, as a comparison with, e.g., f. b iiiir or b [vii]v shows.
herakles in bits and pieces 261
competitors.8 The end of the poem as we have it in our manuscripts

(l. 140) does not show any obvious signs of incompleteness. Therefore,
it seems unlikely that both Eufrosyno Bonini, the editor of Junta’s text,
and Callierges would have realized that the end of the poem was miss-
ing unless they had some form of external evidence.9 Since both editions
appear to be based on the same source, a manuscript belonging to Paolo
Capodivacca which had been corrected by Marcus Musurus and which
was later destroyed in a fire,10 it seems a natural inference to assume that
they derived this information from their manuscript source. In which form
this manuscript may have indicated that the end of Id. 24 was missing and
where its scribe obtained this piece of information is anybody’s guess.
Claim (A), then, must rest on manuscript evidence; it is proven correct
by the Antinoa papyrus. Does this entail that the same holds true for claim
(B)? The beginning of Id. 25 is unusually abrupt:11
τὸν δ’ ὁ γέρων προσέειπε βοῶν ἐπίουρος ἀροτρεύς,
παυσάμενος ἔργοιο τό οἱ μετὰ χερσὶν ἔκειτοÂ·
‘ἔκ τοι, ξεῖνε, πρόφρων μυθήσομαι ὅσσ’ ἐρεείνεις,
῾Ερμέω ἁζόμενος δεινὴν ὄπιν εἰνοδίοιο.’
And to him the old ploughman that guarded the cattle spoke thus, pausing
in the task which he held in his hands: “Stranger, I will gladly tell you all that
you ask because I respect the awful power of Hermes of the Ways.”
It is thus tempting to assume that the beginning of Id. 25 was lost in the
same manuscript lacuna as the end of Id. 24. However, I would argue that
this is not the case. A number of reasons suggest that Id. 25 is a complete
poem:
1. If the codex Patavinus had given any clear indication that the begin-
ning of Id. 25 was missing, it is difficult to see why only Callierges would
choose to include this information into his edition. Though this is an
8 Gow (21952b) vol. 2, 436 concludes: “It would appear therefore that the poem ended
with an appeal to Heracles to bring victory to the poet, from which it seems reasonable
to infer that the poem itself was written for a competition.” Given Hellenistic experiments
with poetic roles and voices, given Hellenistic tendency to fictionalize poetic occasions,
this conclusion seems less than certain.
9 Pace Hunter (1998) 115 ~ Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004) 211 who claim that the statement
“will . . . have been based on a literary judgment, not on manuscript evidence.”
10 See Gow (21952b) vol. 1, xlv–xlvi.
11 All quotations of Theocritus are from Gow (21952b); I have slightly modernized Gow’s
translations where necessary.
argumentum e silentio, it nevertheless seems strange that the Junta edi-

tion is silent about this point.
2. We have no certain knowledge about the order of poems in the Patavi-
nus. Nevertheless, it appears all but certain that the sequence of poems
in this manuscript is the same as the order in the Juntine edition,12 in
which Theocritus’ Id. 24 is followed by Moschus 2. Hence, the assump-
tion that the beginning of Id. 25 was lost in the same lacuna of the
codex Patavinus as the end of Id. 24 is untenable, since both poems
were not adjacent in the manuscript.
3. If l. 1 were the only abrupt opening of the poem, this might indeed be
taken as a strong hint that the text is incomplete. However, the poem
as a whole presents us with three openings; all of them are similarly
abrupt: at l. 85, readers have to find out that there is a new start, that
some time has passed since Herakles’ dialogue with the old rustic, and
that he has met Augeas and his son Phyleus; at l. 153, readers have to
realize that Phyleus and Herakles are depicted on their way into town
after the cleansing of the stables. One abrupt opening could indeed be
seen as a fluke of transmission; three such openings suggest that it is a
conscious narrative device in this poem.13
4. While the opening refers to a question which is not part of the text,
the answer which the old rustic provides is sufficient to let readers
(re-)construct what this question must have been. Herakles must have
asked for directions (l. 6), and he must have asked for the name of the
owner of the cattle (l. 7). For the reader, no piece of information is miss-
ing; the rustic’s answer contains a complete image of what Herakles’
question “must have been.” It is of course not impossible to assume
that a simple accident of transmission cut the beginning off in such an
opportune way, but the chances of this happening are slim.
5. The end of Id. 25 is as abrupt and surprising as its beginning: after the
lengthy and careful elaboration of the narrative frame for Herakles’ tale
about the Nemean lion (153–161, 189–192), readers expect a return to this
frame. However, the poem ends in Herakles’ speech, without returning
to the frame. Readers’ expectations are similarly disappointed at the
opening and at the end of this poem; this is again a hint at conscious
composition rather than coincidental factors.
12 See Gow (21952b) vol. 2, 438.

13 See Gutzwiller (1981) 84 n. 4: “[T]he breaks between the three sections and the con-
clusion are too tidy for any accidental loss to have happened here.”
6. While the first speech of the rustic contains the vocative ξεῖνε (“stranger,”
l. 3), Herakles’ speech, which concludes the entire poem, ends with
a sentence containing the vocative ὦ φίλε (“my friend,” l. 280). This
seems to be a deliberate framing of the poem.
7. The opening of Lycophron’s Alexandra presents a clear parallel for the
same narrative device in Hellenistic poetry.14 The lines λέξω τὰ πάντα
νητρεκῶς, ἅ μ’ ἱστορεῖς, / ἀρχῆς ἀπ’ ἄκρας (“I will tell you without fail
everything that you ask, from the very beginning”) also refer to a “pre-
ceding question” (ἃ ἱστορεῖς; cf. ὅσσ’ ἐρεείνεις in Id. 25.3) which is not
part of the text itself. As in Id. 25, the indications are sufficient to allow
readers a clear impression of what this question must have been (see
above, item 4).
None of these reasons is strong enough by itself to remove all doubts about
the beginning of the poem; combined, they make me cautiously optimis-
tic that our first line is indeed the line with which the poet wanted this
text to start. It would be an extraordinary coincidence if a text which has
been mutilated by the vicissitudes of transmission or which is an excerpt
of a longer poem were cut off in exactly this manner. The δ(έ) in l. 1 does
not speak against this assumption. It should not be confused with ordi-
nary “inceptive δέ.”15 While this normal use aims “to give a conversational
turn to the opening (‘Well’), and to avoid formality,”16 the opening of our
poem is meant to convey the impression that the reader is taken into a
dramatic situation in which this δέ answers something preceding it; in
this function, it is comparable to the use of δέ or ἀλλά in the opening of
dramatic, especially comic scenes.17 Our δέ, then, does more than simply
convey the impression of liveliness; it transports the readers of our poem
into a situation which has already developed, it lets them eavesdrop on
a conversation, and it forces them to find their bearings in this already
established scene.
Hence, it seems plausible to assume that our poem has not been muti-
lated at the beginning and that we are looking at a complete, meaning-
ful poem. Nevertheless, we have to admit that its structure is unique not
14 See Hunter (1998) 125.

15 On which see Denniston (21950) 172–173; Verdenius (1974) offers a slightly differ-
ent explanation. I am grateful to Glenn Most for making me rethink the function of this
inceptive δέ.
16 Denniston (21950) 172.
17 E.g., Aristophanes, Lysistrata 1; Menander, Georgos 22; see Henderson (1987) 66.
only within the Corpus Theocriteum, but within Hellenistic literature as a

whole. It is best to begin with a short description of the organization of
the narrative in the poem. It consists of three quite independent sections.
All revolve around the central topic, Herakles’ cleansing of the Augean
stables, yet they depict individual scenes of this exploit, circling around
and at the same time avoiding the actual labor. Ll. 1–84 show Herakles in
conversation with an old man who works for Augeas and who explains all
the details about his vast cattle herds. The section ends with Herakles and
the old rustic walking towards the main building in order to find the king
(60–61: ἀλλ’ ἴομεν μάλα πρός μινÂ· ἐγὼ δέ τοι ἡγεμονεύσω / αὖλιν ἐφ’ ἡμετέρην,
ἵνα κεν τέτμοιμεν ἄνακτα. “But let us18 in any case go to him. I will lead the
way to our house, where we will find the king.”). In ll. 85–152, evening has
come, and Herakles, together with Augeas and his son Phyleus, watches
the herds return from their pastures. The mightiest of the bulls attacks
Herakles, but the hero easily repells him. The third and last part (153–281)
shows Phyleus und Herakles leave Augeas’ estate for the city; en route,
Herakles tells Phyleus how he killed and skinned the Nemean lion. As
explained above (item 5 on p. 262), the poem does not return to the nar-
rative frame; it ends after Herakles’ speech.
Some of our manuscripts provide titles for (parts of ) the poem; how-
ever, there is a complication: none of the titles is given in the entire tradi-
tion, as this overview shows:
1. ῾Ηρακλῆς πρὸς ἀγροῖκον: This is the title given by the majority of the
manuscripts which transmit Id. 25.
2. ᾿Επιπώλησις: This title is given by D (Parisinus Anc. Fonds gr. 2726, 15th
century); it has a clear and pointed reference to Iliad 4.19
3. ῾Ηρακλῆς λεοντοφόνος: This title is given in the edition of Callierges.
None of our sources gives any hint that the title which they transmit
is meant to be a title for just one “section” of this text.20 It thus seems
intriguing, yet purely fortuitous that each of these three headings would
18 With Chryssafis (1981) 88, I take ἴομεν as a subjunctive, against Gow (21952b) vol. 2,
448. When Gow argues that “the indic[ative] seems slightly more suitable,” he neglects
that the formula ἀλλ’ ἴομεν occurs eleven times at the beginning of the line in the Homeric
epics; the form is always to be interpreted as subjunctive. A Hellenistic reader who was
familiar with the Homeric epic could hardly fail to interpret the form accordingly in this
context.
19 See Gow (21952b) vol. 2, 451; Hunter (1998) 123 and 127.
20 See Gow (21952b) vol. 2, 438 n. 1.
be appropriate for one of the three parts of the poem: “Herakles and the
rustic” for part 1 which contains the dialogue between Herakles and the
old rustic, “The Inspection” for part 2 in which Augeas “visits and exam-
ines” his herds, and “Herakles the Lion-Slayer” for the last part in which
Herakles narrates his fight against the Nemean lion. Moreover, it seems
quite improbable that Hellenistic readers had these titles in their papyrus
manuscripts. We must thus admit that the existence of these titles does
not provide any hints that the text is to be read as one narrative consisting
of three discrete sections.
Reading these three parts as a discontinous narrative, as a sequence
of isolated scenes which are meant to be combined by the reader, seems
natural for a modern interpreter since similar narrative devices are fre-
quent in modern fiction; one could even argue that breaking up the tem-
poral continuity of conventional Western narrative is one of the hallmarks
of modern (and postmodern) literature. We are used to reading novels
such as Virginia Woolf ’s To the Lighthouse in which many years go by and
we find the protagonists at a much later stage in their lives without ever
being explicitly told so—it comes as a surprise to readers when they learn
that “Mrs. Ramsay [had] died rather suddenly the night before” (part II,
end of chapter 3). We are used to filling the narrative gaps in stories; we
are even used to narratives which purposely leave out the most impor-
tant events.21 Modern novelists make sophisticated use of the interplay
between readers’ expectations of textual coherence and ostensible denials
of this expectation.22 However, we cannot be certain that the same was
true for the author and the ancient readers of Id. 25. When we read these
three parts in the same manner as a modern novel, are we looking at an
artefact produced by our own reading experiences?23
Like the problem whether the beginning of the poem has been lost, this
question does not have a definitive answer. But again we see a number
of arguments which make it more plausible to assume that this text is
indeed a complete and coherent narrative, characterized by discontinu-
ity. I would argue that two of the reasons we have adduced for the com-
pleteness of the poem’s opening are relevant here as well. The strongest
21 On such narrative ellipses, see Genette (1980) 106–109; Bal (21997) 103–104 and 212–
213; for a case study in modern literature, see Hardy (2005).
22 One of the most obvious examples for the use of narrative discontinuity can be
found in serialized novels which appear in short installments; see the remarks in Iser
(1989) 10–11.
23 For a vivid example of this mechanism by which readers’ expectations produce
semantic coherence, see Fish (1980) 322–331.
argument appears to be the fact that this text contains three abrupt open-
ings (item 3 on p. 262). This is easier to explain when we consider it a
conscious choice of the author than if we assume a coincidence. Like the
opening of the poem, the beginning of the second and third parts are
superficially disconnected while allowing the reader a clear understand-
ing of what (s)he is to reconstruct (item 4 on p. 262); again, this seems to
be a sign of deliberate design, not of accidental mutilation. If we accept
that the keywords ξεῖνε (l. 3) and φίλε (l. 280) are a deliberate frame of
the text (item 6 on p. 262), this would provide a further hint that the text
has literary unity. Moreover, interpreters have pointed out that the three
parts are bound together by a number of themes:24 apart from the obvious
identity of the characters in all three sections, there is the confrontation
with ever more dangerous animals25 (the rustic’s dogs in part 1, the bull
Phaethon in part 2, the Nemean lion in part 3) and the lion skin, which
gains special prominence in the narrative.26 These observations appear
sufficient to warrant the unity of the poem.
The reader of our text is thus confronted with a discontinuous narrative
which presents a challenge. Every text (even the Homeric epics) has to
allow a certain degree of narrative disconinuity and has to invite its read-
ers to fill gaps; every narrative is only readable if its audience is able and
willing to connect the dots. Our poem thus presents a particularly striking
example of a general characteristic of narrative. This audience collabora-
tion is generally more intense in shorter narrative forms than in more
extended texts; compression is achieved by the use of narrative ellipsis.27
Hellenistic literature, with its emphasis on “small forms,” its allusiveness
and learned nature, and its reluctance to use well-trodden paths, thus
had a number of reasons for giving prominence to narrative ellipsis. An
often-cited fragment of Callimachus’ Aetia appears to give a self-conscious
description of this aspect of Alexandrian literature (fr. 57.1 Pf. = 264.1 SH):
24 See Linforth (1947) 84–85; Gutzwiller (1981) 31–35; Hunter (1998) 128; PapadimitroÂ�
poulos (2006) 64–65.
25 See Gutzwiller (1981) 35–37. As Seiler (1997) 42–43 points out, this series of attacks
can be read as a pointed allusion to Callimachus’ Victoria Berenices, in which mice “attack”
Herakles. As a whole, Seiler’s attempt to see poetological metaphors in Theocritus 25 and
his thesis that the poem is a polemical discussion of Callimachean aesthetics seems to me
to be far-fetched.
26 The role of the lion-skin is explored below, pp. 275–279.
27 On narrative rhythm in general, see Bal (21997) 99–111; on the importance of ellipsis,
Iser (1976) 280–301 (English translation [1978] 182–195).
αὐτὸς ἐπιφράσσαιτο, τάμοι δ’ ἄπο μῆκος ἀοιδῇ (“let him suggest [it] to him-
self and cut short the song’s length”).28
How, then, is the reader invited to (re-)construct a coherent and con-
tinuous narrative from the bits and pieces in our poem? One of the most
important devices used to fill necessary gaps in narrative is presupposi-
tion. The classic example of a presupposition is the sentence “the current
king of France is bald.” If this sentence is to have a truth value, there must
be an individual who is the current king of France; if and only if proposi-
tion (a) “there is an individual who is the current king of France” is true
can proposition (b) “the current king of France is bald” be true (or false).
Presuppositions are a much discussed concept in logic. In literary theory,
the term “presupposition” has been used to study the complex problem
of the truth-value of fictional texts; in particular, the “possible-world”
approach to fiction makes use of the concept.29 But presupposition can
also be used in a more localized sense to study the way in which readers
make sense of texts:30 a statement (a) leads audiences to the assumption
that statement (b) must be true.
For our interpretation of Theocritus 25, it is important to note that this
localized version of presupposition has already been described by Aristo-
tle (Poetics 1460a 18–22):
δεδίδαχεν δὲ μάλιστα ῞Ομηρος καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους ψευδῆ λέγειν ὡς δεῖ. ἔστι δὲ τοῦτο
παραλογισμός. οἴονται γὰρ οἱ ἄνθρωποι, ὅταν τουδὶ ὄντος τοδὶ ᾖ ἢ γινομένου
γίνηται, εἰ τὸ ὕστερον ἔστιν, καὶ τὸ πρότερον εἶναι ἢ γίνεσθαιÂ· τοῦτο δέ ἐστι ψεῦδος.
διὸ δεῖ, ἂν τὸ πρῶτον ψεῦδος, ἄλλο δὲ τούτου ὄντος ἀνάγκη εἶναι ἢ γενέσθαι ᾖ,
προσθεῖναιÂ· διὰ γὰρ τὸ τοῦτο εἰδέναι ἀληθὲς ὂν παραλογίζεται ἡμῶν ἡ ψυχὴ καὶ
τὸ πρῶτον ὡς ὄν.
It is above all Homer who has taught other poets the right way to purvey
falsehoods: that is, by false inference. When the existence or occurrence of b
follows from that of a, people suppose that, if b is the case, a too must exist
or be occurrent; but this is false. So if the antecedent is false, but were it true
some further fact would necessarily exist or occur, the poet should supply
the latter: because it knows the truth of the consequent, our mind falsely
infers the truth of the antecedent too.31
28 On this passage, see Harder (1990) 296–297, Fuhrer (1988), Hunter (1998) 121; on this
form of audience collaboration, see Schmitz (1999) 170–172, Bing (1995), Hose (2008).
29 See, e.g., Doležel (1998) 171–177, Sternberg (2001), and Marsen (2006); all these papers
provide ample bibliographic information for further study.
30 A thought-provoking treatment of this form of presupposition can be found in Culler
(1981) 100–118; cf. Prince (1973).
31 Translation: Halliwell (1995).
Aristotle explains the same principle in other works (e.g., Soph. El. 167b
1–8; Rhet. 1392b 15–33; 1401b 20–30).32 These parallels demonstrate that
he sees the wider implications of this technique, but obscures his own
point by the use of an inappropriate example.33 By making their audience
aware of fact (b) which usually is the consequence of fact (a), authors can
make their readers believe in the reality of (a). This use of presuppositions
will, among other things, heighten the sense of “reality” that audiences
perceive when they read a text: since they have not been told about fact
(a), but have inferred it themselves, they will hold strong beliefs about the
reality of this fact, since people are prone to believe what they have them-
selves found out. As we have seen, audience collaboration is one of the
key characteristics of Hellenistic literature; paradoxically, this heightened
sense of the “realism” of a literary text is one of the consequences of the
technique described in Callimachus fr. 57.1.
We can see how presupposition in Theocritus 25 works when we look
at the opening of the poem (which is always a privileged location for the
use of presupposition). We have already observed that the δέ in l. 1 lets
readers understand that they are to imagine a situation which has devel-
oped before the narrative starts. If we assume that our Hellenistic reader
had no paratextual information available, but had to explore this situa-
tion and the identity of the characters involved, this process is controlled
by hints in the text and the facts they presuppose. At l. 1, the reader is
confronted with two demonstrative articles (τὸν δ’ ὁ γέρων). Linguistically,
these forms suggest that the reader is already familiar with the characters
to whom they refer.34 This is the first step in the long chain of presuppo-
sitions readers have to make: they have to acknowledge the existence of
these two characters and accept (or pretend) that they recognize them. As
we have already seen, the δέ reinforces this effect: not only do these two
characters exist, not only are we as readers supposed to know them, but,
moreover, the poem depicts them as involved in a certain situation.
The first of these characters remains, for the time being, completely
faceless; he is just a τόν. The second character, on the other hand, is
32 Adduced by Else (1957) 625 n. 106.

33 Cf. Else (1957) 625: “Unfortunately, although his exposition of the fallacy itself is clear
enough on the whole, his example is not.” Cf. Lucas (1968) 228–229: “It would have been
more helpful if A. had given an example of some impossibility in Homer’s narrative which
Homer made plausible by showing it as the antecedent of something real, e.g. Odysseus’
fabulous swim followed by his natural exhaustion.” Cf. further Puelma (1989).
34 See Chrysaffis (1981) 27; cf. Ong’s (1975) 12–15 well-known analysis of the use of the
definite article in the opening of Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms.
immediately described: he is an “old rustic” (ὁ γέρων . . . βοῶν ἐπίουρος

ἀροτρεύς). At the end of l. 3, readers have already formed further presup-
positions. The setting of the scene must be rural (l. 2: “the task which he
held in his hands” points to some sort of manual occupation). The speak-
ers do not know each other; the rustic addresses his interlocutor as ξεÎ¹Í‡νε
(“stranger”). This stranger must have addressed the rustic first and must
have asked him for information; his speech must have contained several
requests (l. 3 ὅσσ’ ἐρεείνεις, “all that you ask”), which we will be able to
reconstruct from the answers that the old man provides.
Until now, everything we have read is unspecific; what we see before
us is a generic scene, a dialogue between an old man and a stranger in a
rural setting. If our Greek reader was impatient, (s)he must have tried to
guess who the speakers could be, and (s)he must have done so by using
her or his literary competence, by connecting the presupposed scene in
our poem with scenes from other narratives.35 A number of textual hints
will have helped Greek readers inferring a context for the conversation
between the two unnamed characters. First, there is the metrical form and
the dialect of the poem: both suggest an epic context. A conversation in
a rustic setting could also have been understood as a marker of a bucolic
poem, but in this case, the dialect would presumably have been Doric.
This epic connection was supported by the opening words of the poem:
formulaic juxtapositions such as τὸν δ’ . . . προσέειπε were considered so
typical of epic poems that they could serve as generic markers.36 Thus,
our Greek readers will have inferred that the scene they had before their
eyes belonged into an epic context and that at least one of the characters
might be a heroic (or possibly divine) figure.
Readers may have felt reminded of individual epic scenes which were
similar to what they inferred about this opening. One obvious model was
Odysseus meeting Eumaios in Odyssey 14.37 Since the poem was written
35 On the relation between intertextuality and presupposition, see Culler (1981) 114–118.
36 Our clearest examples for this device are from the Roman period: Pollianus, AP 11.130
τοὺς κυκλίους τούτους τοὺς “αὐτὰρ ἔπειτα” λέγοντας / μισῶ (on this poem, see Nisbet [2003]
188–193) and Martial 1.45, where the Greek formula τὸν δ’ ἀπαμειβόμενος is quoted in a
Latin epigram. For the concept of “genre-marking,” see Zanker (1998).
37 The similarities with the Odyssean Eumaios will be emphasized later in the poem
when Herakles is attacked by the dogs and the old rustic dispels them by throwing stones
at them (68–83); this is in close parallel to Eumaios and the dogs attacking Odysseus
(Od. 14.29–47); see Gutzwiller (1981) 31; Kurz (1982) 23–26. However, Hunter (1998) 116
is right to caution that this is more a generic model than a precise intertext: “Eumaeus
seems to lie behind virtually every Hellenistic representation of ‘the good countryman
(or -woman)’.”
in the Hellenistic period, readers will also have thought of a model which
was fairly widespread in contemporary narrative, the divine or heroic
visitor who meets a humble character in her or his rustic abode.38 All
these intertextual reminiscences helped Greek readers in forming their
assumptions and suppositions about what “preceded” the opening line of
the poem.
As soon as they reached l. 7 with the words “king Augeas,” our read-
ers would have been able to position the scene they were reading within
a mythological (and thus narrative) framework. We can safely assume
that our Hellenistic readers knew the basic facts:39 Eurystheus’ order that
Herakles should clean the stables as one of his labors, Herakles’ voyage
to Augeas and the fulfillment of Eurystheus’ order, Herakles’ demand of
a reward, his quarrel with Augeas, and Augeas’ son Phyleus as a witness
in this quarrel. Thus, our reader could now conclude that the “stranger”
must be Herakles and that the question which he had uttered “before the
poem began” must refer to king Augeas and his cattle; (s)he would have
no trouble locating this scene at the beginning of this particular epic epi-
sode, the moment when Herakles arrives in Pisa at Augeas’ estate and
wishes to speak to the king himself.
As the narrative progresses, readers are provided more and more details
and have to rely less on their presuppositions to understand the text. Nev-
ertheless, they also receive further details about the initial gap in the nar-
rative. When the old man asks Herakles to tell him “what is the purpose
of your visit” (l. 35 οὗτινος ὧδε κεχρημένος εἰλήλουθας) and whether it is
Augeas himself or one of his servants whom he wishes to speak (ll. 36–37
ἠέ τι Αὐγείην ἢ καὶ δμώων τινὰ κείνου / δίζεαι οἵ οἱ ἔασιν), readers in retro-
spect see their assumption confirmed that this is indeed a depiction of
the hero’s arrival in Pisa and that he had not yet revealed these details.
Moreover, the old man is as yet unaware of Herakles’ identity (ll. 38–41),
so we know that the hero has not announced who he is.40 Even though
we have never read or heard Herakles’ initial speech to the rustic, we have
38 Callimachus’ Theseus and Hekale or his Herakles and Molorchos come to mind. Sim-
ilar hospitality scenes are transmitted in later texts (e.g., Philemon and Baucis in Ovid’s
Metamorphoses 8 or Hyrieus in Ovid’s Fasti 5), but earlier narratives may have existed; see
Rosokoki (1995) 99–101; Hollis (22009) 341–354; for a metapoetical reading of Callimachus’
hospitality scenes, see Ambühl (2004) 40–43 (who points out that ultimately, all these
hospitality-scenes allude to the Odyssean Eumaios).
39 See Gow (21952b) vol. 2, 438–439.
40 See Hunter’s (1998) 122–129 brilliant interpretation of this ignorance of Herakles’
identity as the depiction of a world “before kleos” and before epic story-stelling.
by now a clear mental image of what it must have been: Herakles has
addressed him and has asked to be taken to his master. Since the coun-
tryman mentions “the flocks of king Augeas” without further explanation
(ll. 7–8 “the fleecy flocks of king Augeas graze not all in one pasture nor
in one place”), we can conclude that the identity of the cattle was not the
content of Herakles’ question.
As Zanker (1996) 416–420 has convincingly shown in his interpretation
of the poem, not only does the rustic’s lengthy reply draw a vivid picture
of the landscape and set it before the readers’ eyes, it can also be under-
stood as suggesting the entire story of the actual cleaning of the stables,
which is never narrated in the poem. A Hellenistic audience would read
every detail of his description, especially the enumeration of the different
herds in ll. 9–11 and the praise of the meadows in ll. 13–17, with the knowl-
edge that this is the salient point of Herakles’ task: cleaning the immense
stables of these vast herds.41
After making these initial inferences, a Hellenistic audience would be
able to read the remainder of the first section as confirmation of their ini-
tial assumptions. We hear that Herakles is indeed looking for king Augeas
(ll. 43–44), that the king is present on his estates (ll. 54–57), and that his
son Phyleus, who has an important function in the traditional myth, is
present as well (l. 55). Part of the reader’s pleasure derives from the fact
that the rustic is still unaware of Herakles’ identity, yet forms, on the basis
of the evidence available to him, correct assumptions about his interlocu-
tor: his physique shows that he is not an ordinary mortal, but a “child of
immortals” (ll. 38–41); the lion-skin and the club arouse his curiosity, yet
he hesitates to ask (ll. 62–67). Hunter’s suggestion that the poem is here
obliquely alluding to other depictions of Herakles in which he was shown
to be less polite and less patient with his interlocutors is entirely plausible.42
Such allusions, then, and the difference between the readers’ knowledge
and the countryman’s ignorance add to the text’s significance.
The first section of our poem thus allows readers, after some initial
guesswork, a full appreciation of the curtailed narrative. Logical infer-
ences and recourse to generic and intertextual hints let them reconstruct
41 Given the essentially mythical and “unrealistic” qualities of Augeas’ estates (Gutz-
willer [1981] 31 calls it “a sense of tranquillity and timelessness”), I find Hunter’s (1998)
124–125 suggestion that the description may be a reflection of changes in agricultural hab-
its during the Hellenistic era less than convincing.
42 Hunter (1998) 116–117.
the situation. After the abrupt beginning, the narrative pace is rather lei-
surely; it would not be out of place in a full-scale epic.43
We do not know if readers were in any way warned after l. 84 that a
new section started—would a papyrus have some sort of mark or sign to
signal the beginning of a new part, or at least some blank space? This sec-
ond part begins with a periphrastic time-marker. We have not been told
at what time of the day the dialogue between the old man and Herakles
took place, but since this marker refers to late afternoon or early evening,
we infer that what follows will take place the same day, at a later time.44
This is important because it will remind the audience that we are still wit-
nessing events before the cleaning of the stables. However, we also get a
clear impression that between ll. 84 and 85, events must have taken place:
Herakles is going with Augeas and his son, inspecting the cattle (l. 110).
Our inferences must now move in two directions: we must harmonize
what we read now with what we have learned before, and we must form
new assumptions about the temporal gap between the first part and the
second. We thus infer that Herakles must have spoken to the king and
must have told him about the purpose of his visit. Moreover, the reader’s
impression that the description of Augeas’ vast herds was a hint at the
immense task that lies before Herakles is now confirmed when the effect
these herds have on the hero is described (112–117):
ἔνθα καὶ ἄρρηκτόν περ ἔχων ἐν στήθεσι θυμόν
᾿Αμφιτρυωνιάδης καὶ ἀρηρότα νωλεμὲς αἰεί
ἐκπάγλως θαύμαζε θεοῦ τόγε μυρίον ἕδνον
εἰσορόων. οὐ γάρ κεν ἔφασκέ τις οὐδὲ ἐώλπει
ἀνδρὸς ληίδ’ ἑνὸς τόσσην ἔμεν οὐδὲ δέκ’ ἄλλων
οἵτε πολύρρηνες πάντων ἔσαν ἐκ βασιλήων.
Even though the spirit in his breast was stout and always resolute, Amphit-
ryon’s son marveled beyond measure when he looked at the immense gift of
the god. For no one would have expected or thought that such a vast herd
could belong to one single man, not even to ten kings who are rich in cattle
beyond others.
43 Gutzwiller (1981) 31 calls this the “epic formulation of . . . pastoral scenes.”

44 Again, the experience of hearing and reading (mostly epic) narratives will have
helped readers in forming this assumption; see Hunter (1998) 118–119, with parallels from
Hellenistic authors and from Homer. Hunter points out that the half-line ἠέλιος μὲν ἔπειτα
is Homeric, but does not mark an especially strong break in the narrative: “[A]s such,
this verse suggests continuity (ἔπειτα) while gesturing towards a new beginning.” On the
significance of the name “Helios” in this line, see Gutzwiller (1981) 32.
The text does not spell out why Herakles’ surprise is “excessive” (ἐκπάγλως)
and why it is unlike his usual resolute and “unbreakable” (ἄρρηκτον) man-
ner, but readers who know what Herakles has to do will have understood
the hint: the hero sees before him a deed which may surpass even his
strength.45
The transition from part two to part three is as abrupt as the beginning
of the second part. After Herakles’ short fight with the bull Phaethon, we
suddenly see him and Phyleus on their way “to the town” (l. 153 εἰς ἄστυ).
This third part presents one of the thorniest narratological problems of
the poem: Herakles and Phyleus appear rather relaxed and carefree; their
conversation is only concerned with the killing of the Nemean lion. Are
readers nevertheless to assume that this conversation takes place after the
quarrel between Herakles and Augeas in which Phyleus took the hero’s
side against his father and that the young man is on his way into exile?
Gutzwiller (1981) 83 has cautiously argued against this interpretation:
for her, the “jovial mood” of the dialogue between Herakles and Phyleus
makes it unlikely that readers should be thinking of such serious busi-
ness as the young man’s exile (and his return to power after his father’s
death). I fully agree that the contrast between this cheerful dialogue and
the (pre-)supposed quarrel is somewhat troubling; however, a number
of points makes me hesitantly accept that Greek readers would indeed
assume that Phyleus was on his way into exile: Phyleus has hardly any
existence outside of his role in the quarrel between Augeas and Herakles.
If the poem mentions him so prominently (he is present in all three parts
of the text), this must have reminded its audience of this function. More-
over, Herakles mentions quite casually that the Nemean lion was the first
task that Eurystheus ordered him to undertake (204–205). This seems to
presuppose that Phyleus knows already who Eurystheus is and why Her-
akles has to obey his orders; as our summaries of the mythological tradi-
tion emphasize, this was precisely the point which was debated in the
wrangle with Augeas.46
One last argument could be made, and it will allow us a look at the
poem as a whole: as we have seen, the narrative structure of the text is
characterized by ellipses; readers have to supply the main points of the
story. In “regular” narratives, presupposition is most often used at the
45 Pace Zanker (1996) 417 n. 13, who claims that “the correct sense of 114 is ‘Heracles
marveled beyond measure at’ . . . the gift of the gods.” This does not take into account the
καὶ . . . περ in l. 112.
46 This argument has been made by Zanker (1996) 419.
beginning of the text. Our poem, however, consciously keeps its readers
guessing even at later points in the text: part one of the poem appeared
to be a prelude to the meeting between Herakles and Augeas. Again and
again, we are told that the old rustic and Herakles will find the king (see
ll. 43–44, 60, 61); the first part ends with the two of them walking “briskly”
(l. 84 ἐσσυμένως) to the king’s house—yet it is precisely this first encoun-
ter that falls in the narrative gap between lines 84 and 85 and that must
be inferred by readers. In a similar way, the main event which has caused
Herakles’ visit to Augeas’ estate and which seems to be the main reason
for his attention to the size of Augeas’ herds is his cleaning of the stables;
it is also passed over in silence. Attentive readers will have realized that
ellipsis is the characteristic feature of this poem; hence, they will not have
found it difficult to postulate that another important event, the discord
between Phyleus and his father Augeas, must have occurred in one of the
narrative gaps.
Throughout the text of Theocritus 25, then, readers are invited to reflect
on the status of said and unsaid, on narrative expansion and narrative
ellipsis. They become aware of the different ways in which readers fill
gaps in narrative, relying on linguistic signals, prior knowledge of the
mythological tradition, or intertextual references. We have already seen
that Aristotle was keenly aware of the technique and the consequences of
presupposition in literature. We could also point to the interests of Helle-
nistic scholars as evidenced by the Homeric scholia, where the term κατὰ
τὸ σιωπώμενον is often used to analyze the narrative:47 the Homeric schol-
ars were very alert to the question which details of the narrative had to be
supplied by the audience of the Homeric poems. Hellenistic readers, then,
were quite conscious that even the most expansive epic narrative still had
to leave some gaps for its audience to fill, and they could identify ellipses
as a device that made readers participate in establishing the meaning of
a narrative. Callimachus’ fr. 57.1 (quoted above, pp. 266–267) is an expres-
sion of this awareness.
We would like to know which knowledge ancient readers (or at least
some ancient readers) of Theocritus 25 used in order to make sense of the
discontinuous narrative: was there a canonical version, was there even an
epic account of Herakles’ adventure in Augeas’ stables? Unfortunately, the
evidence we have is too scanty to allow definitive judgment. The name
“Augeas” occurs in a testimony about Panyassis’ Heraclea (21 Bernabé), but
47 See Meinel (1915) and Richardson (1990) 99–100.

modern editors generally emend.48 We know that the myth was treated
in Callimachus’ Aetia (fr. 76–77 Pf.). Knowledge of this Callimachean ver-
sion would certainly add further layers of allusion and intertextual play
to a reading of our poem, but unless new papyrological discoveries are
made, we will not be able to make solid assumptions about the relation-
ship between the two texts.
If Brommer is right in maintaining that the Augean stables were not
depicted on early vases and that literary versions were relatively late,49
we may assume that there was no widely known, full epic account of this
adventure of Herakles. This would mean that our poem invited its readers
not so much to remember a canonical version as to construct or imagine
what such a version would have been like. As we have seen, the narrative
pace and manner of our poem closely resemble conventional epic texts.
When readers (re-)construct the arrival of Herakles at Augeas’ estate and
his first encounter with the old rustic, his interview with the king, the
cleansing of the stables, and the quarrel with Augeas, they are thus look-
ing at a mirage, at an epic poem that exists only in and because of their
own interpretive collaboration. In his interpretation of the poem, Hunter
(1998) 128–129 has convincingly argued that it presents “ ‘pre-epic,’ a form
in which the silences wait for ὁ ποιητής to fill them.” One could also say
that the poem inscribes itself in an imaginary pre-text which it produces
itself (or rather, which it encourages its readers to produce) and brings
with it its own counter-text. Its parts suggest a total which is more com-
plete, yet this “unabridged” version exists only as a mental image in the
mind of the readers.
Reading Theocritus 25, then, is a meditation upon the limits and prob-
lems of (epic) narrative. In an extreme form, our poem demonstrates what
can be found in all narratives: if every story is no more than an imagi-
nary construct, a negotiation between a few signposts and huge lacunae,
can we ever be certain that we perceive more than a figment of our own
imagination? To what extent is the meaning of a narrative produced by
the text, to what extent is it a product of the audience’s collaboration?
One sign that Theocritus 25 can indeed be read as a metanarrative, a
narrative about narrative, is an element which serves as a “MacGuffin”
48 Matthews (1974) 52–57 makes arguments against the transmitted Αὐγέαν that I find
convincing; Librán Moreno (2006) postulates a lacuna and wants to keep “Augeas” (or pos-
sibly “Agias”), a name she thinks refers to a “minor deity of the underworld.” In both cases,
the Panyassis testimony does not refer to our Augeas.
49 Brommer (21972) 28–29: “mit Abstand die seltenste in der griechischen Kunst und
zugleich diejenige, die erst am spätesten belegt ist.”
in the text. Herakles’ trademark lion-skin is prominent in all three parts

of the poem; it is one of the features that provide the text unity. In the
first part, its sight puzzles the old rustic who feels an urge to inquire into
the identity of the as yet unkown stranger, but does not dare to speak up
(62–67):
ὣς εἰπὼν ἡγεῖτο, νόῳ δ’ ὅγε πόλλ’ ἐμενοίνα,
δέρμα τε θηρὸς ὁρῶν χειροπληθῆ τε κορύνην,
ὁππόθεν ὁ ξεῖνοςÂ· μεμόνει δέ μιν αἰὲν ἔρεσθαιÂ·
ἂψ δ’ ὄκνῳ ποτὶ χεῖλος ἐλάμβανε μῦθον ἰόντα,
μή τί οἱ οὐ κατὰ καιρὸν ἔπος προτιμυθήσαιτο
σπερχομένουÂ· χαλεπὸν δ’ ἑτέρου νόον ἴδμεναι ἀνδρός.
Thus he spoke and led the way, yet much he wondered in his heart when
he looked upon the lion-skin and the ponderous club, whence the stranger
came. Time and again, he desired to ask him, but he would catch the word
back as it came to his lips lest he should address his companion at an incon-
venient moment as he was in a hurry; it is difficult to know the mood of
another man.
For the old rustic, then, the lion-skin is a sign which he cannot quite read.
He feels motivated by it to ask questions, but fears that these may be
inopportune. Thus, the hidden message of the lion-skin remains hidden to
him. Whereas the readers of the poem are in a better position to grasp the
meaning of the lion-skin, he is not able to solve the riddle of the stranger’s
identity.
In the second part, we witness a new attempt to “read” the lion skin;
again, this attempt is unsuccessful (138–144):
τῶν μέν τε προφέρεσκε βίηφί τε καὶ σθένεϊ ᾧ
ἠδ’ ὑπεροπλίῃ Φαέθων μέγας, ὅν ῥα βοτῆρες
ἀστέρι πάντες ἔισκον, ὁθούνεκα πολλὸν ἐν ἄλλοις
βουσὶν ἰὼν λάμπεσκεν, ἀρίζηλος δ’ ἐτέτυκτο.
ὃς δή τοι σκύλος αὖον ἰδὼν χαροποῖο λέοντος
αὐτῷ ἔπειτ’ ἐπόρουσεν ἐυσκόπῳ ῾Ηρακλῆι
χρίμψασθαι ποτὶ πλευρὰ κάρη στιβαρόν τε μέτωπον.
Far first of these in his strength and power and mettle was the mighty Pha-
ethon, whom all the herdsmen likened to a star because he shone out bright
and conspicuous to see as he moved among the other cattle. Now Phaethon
saw the dry skin of the grim lion, and right away launched himself on the
watchful Herakles to dash his mighty brow and front against his ribs.
Phaethon belongs to a group of twelve bulls that protect Augeas’ herds
against “swift beasts” (134 θοοὶ . . . θῆρες). When Phaethon sees the skin, he
interprets it as a sign of danger and moves to attack Herakles; the text
adds that it was the “dry skin” (142: σκύλος αὖον ἰδών) to emphasize that
this is a “misreading” of the sign.50
Finally, the skin is the center of attention in the third section of the
poem: Phyleus has heard a quite inaccurate account (170 οὐκ οἶδ’ ἀτρεκέως)
about Herakles’ fight against the Nemean lion. Now he sees the skin itself
and reads it as a “clear sign” (175 δέρμα δὲ θηρὸς ἀριφραδέως ἀγορεύει)
that none other than Herakles must be the man about whose deed he
has heard rumors many years ago. Herakles answers his questions and
emphasizes that Phyleus’ inferences are correct; he alone is capable of
telling the story in full detail (197–198 τὸ γὰρ πολέων περ ἐόντων / ᾿Αργείων
οὐδείς κεν ἔχοι σάφα μυθήσασθαι). Herakles’ narrative of how he obtained
the skin closes the poem.
The various readings and misreadings of the very item which is Her-
akles’ defining characteristic in so many images are thus a central motif
throughout the poem. By having recourse to the proper epic authority,
Phyleus finally manages to decode the hidden message of the lion-skin;
his inferences about this sign turn out to be right. It is thus perhaps not
too far-fetched when we see in Herakles’ treatment of the skin a metaphor
of what has happened to epic narrative in our poem: Herakles at first finds
no way of cutting up the skin; neither iron nor stone will do (274–275
οὐκ ἔσκε σιδήρῳ / τμητὴ οὐδὲ λίθοις).51 Herakles ends up dividing the skin
with the lion’s claws (276–277 ἔνθα μοι ἀθανάτων τις ἐπὶ φρεσὶ θῆκε νοῆσαι /
αὐτοῖς δέρμα λέοντος ἀνασχίζειν ὀνύχεσσι). In the same way, our poem has
presented epic narrative divided into small parts, using epic technique.
This metapoetical reading of the lion-skin52 in Theocritus 25 is sup-
ported by one important literary detail: as a number of fragments from
Callimachus’ work make clear, Herakles’ fight against the Nemean lion
figured in the Aetia, most probably in the Victoria Berenices which opened
50 Pausanias 1.27.7 transmits a “Troizenian” myth that Herakles visited Pittheus. He laid
down his lion-skin for dinner. When children came into the house, all others were fright-
ened by the sight of the skin, only little Theseus took an ax from one of the servants and
tried to attack it “because he believed it was a [real] lion” (τοὺς μὲν δὴ λοιποὺς παῖδας, ὡς
τὸ δέρμα εἶδον, φεύγοντάς φασιν οἴχεσθαι, Θησέα δὲ ὑπεξελθόντα οὐκ ἄγαν σὺν φόβῳ παρὰ τῶν
διακόνων ἁρπάσαι πέλεκυν καὶ αὐτίκα ἐπιέναι σπουδῇ, λέοντα εἶναι τὸ δέρμα ἡγούμενον). Is the
similarity of the motif just a coincidence, or is our text alluding to this tradition?
51 The transmitted text appears to offer a third means of cutting, but the words οὐδὲ μὲν
ὕλῃ give no satisfactory sense; Chryssafis’ (1981) 260–261 explanation that ὕλη here means
“metal” fails to convince me.
52 I am grateful to Ivana Petrovic who gave a number of decisive hints in the discussion
at the Zurich workshop.
the third Book;53 it was there narrated as part of an aetiological explanation

of the foundation of the Nemean Games. A few fragments (about whose
location within the Aetia we have no certain knowledge) seem to sug-
gest that the lion-skin played an important role in Callimachus’ narrative.54
If we accept this reconstruction of the poetical tradition, ll. 162–171 gain
additional significance:
ξεῖνε, πάλαι τινὰ πάγχυ σέθεν πέρι μῦθον ἀκούσας,
εἰ περὶ σεῦ, σφετέρῃσιν ἐνὶ φρεσὶ βάλλομαι ἄρτι.
ἤλυθε γὰρ στείχων τις ἀπ’ ῎Αργεος—ἦν νέος ἀκμήν—
ἐνθάδ’ ᾿Αχαιὸς ἀνὴρ ῾Ελίκης ἐξ ἀγχιάλοιο,
ὃς δή τοι μυθεῖτο καὶ ἐν πλεόνεσσιν ᾿Επειῶν
οὕνεκεν ᾿Αργείων τις ἕθεν παρεόντος ὄλεσσε
θηρίον, αἰνολέοντα, κακὸν τέρας ἀγροιώταις,
κοίλην αὖλιν ἔχοντα Διὸς Νεμέοιο παρ’ ἄλσος.
‘οὐκ οἶδ’ ἀτρεκέως ἢ ῎Αργεος ἐξ ἱεροῖο
αὐτόθεν ἢ Τίρυνθα νέμων πόλιν ἠὲ Μυκήνην.’
Stranger, a long time ago I heard a tale about you (if indeed it was about
you) that I just now was turning in my mind. When I was just a youth, an
Achaean man came walking here from Helice on the coast. He told a story,
while many Epeans listened, that in his presence some Argive killed a wild
beast, a monstrous lion that cursed the countryside and kept its hollow lair
hard by the precinct of Zeus. “Whether he was of holy Argos itself or if he
lived in the town of Tiryns or Mycenae, I do not know exactly.”
As we have learned since the discovery of the Lille papyrus, the unusual
αἰνολέοντα is a clear allusion to Callimachus (257.21 SH; as far as we know,
the word occurs only in these two passages). Phyleus’ seemingly hazy rec-
ollection of an earlier version of the myth could thus be read as an “Alex-
andrian footnote,” a precise reference to an intertext that our poem evokes
and alludes to.55 The fragmentary transmission of the Callimachean ver-
sion prevents us from understanding the full extent of the allusion (does
our poet hint at learned variants in Callimachus’ text when he mentions
three possible cities as the birthplace of Herakles? does “Helice on the
coast” carry any special significance?), yet it seems clear that Phyleus’ ref-
erence to the Aetia is a wink at the audience: it makes clear that Herak-
les’ lion-skin is so much more than a mere lion-skin; it opens up vistas
53 See esp. Henrichs (1977); cf. above, my n. 26.

54 See frs. 677 and 597 Pf. = 268 B+C SH. Henrichs (1977) argues convincingly for seeing
these fragments as part of the Victoria Berenices.
55 This suggestion (which I find entirely plausible) was tentatively made by Richard
Hunter during the discussion.
on Callimachus’ narrative and through it on older mythological and epic

traditions. And it is perhaps more than a coincidence that Callimachus’
fr. 57 Pf = 264 SH,56 in which the Hellenistic aesthetics of audience col-
laboration is so elegantly summarized, belongs to the Victoria Berenices:
perhaps the poet of Theocritus 25 took these lines as inspiration for his
own narrative, which explores the limits of the reader’s ability to “suggest
to himself ” what the poet is unwilling to tell.
I would thus conclude that our poem is a meditation on different man-
ners of storytelling and on readers’ ways of making sense of narrative
ellipses. It is a Hellenistic experiment with epic voices and epic silences,
with surprising openings and unexpected endings. As such, it is connected
with a number of other Hellenistic and pre-Hellenistic narrative texts. In
his interpretation of the poem, Hunter (1998) has convincingly pointed
to dramatic literature and to Homeric book-openings.57 One might also
look for parallels in the Theocritean corpus:58 the way in which the
“actual events” are not narrated, but have to be supplied by the reader in
“mimetic” poems such as Id. 15; the way in which readers have to fill nar-
rative gaps to make sense of the conflicting depictions of the relationship
between Galateia and Polyphemus in Id. 6. One could point to mythologi-
cal narratives in Pindar and Bacchylides, which are often brief and allusive
and demand a high degree of audience collaboration.59
We could thus say that Theocritus 25 is a typical Hellenistic text exactly
because of its experimental, unusual features. Should we call it an epyl-
lion, then? The contributions in this volume demonstrate that it is dif-
ficult to find a definition of this elusive tag. Some of the characteristics
that seem to be present in a majority of epyllia are certainly absent from
our poem. If we compare it to the two other narratives about Herakles
in the Theocritean corpus, we see that it has no erotic sub-plot (as Id. 13
does), no focus on the domestic, “private” side of its protagonists (as Id. 24
does), that it does not subvert or call into question the values of epic. The
labor Herakles is undertaking in this poem may be less than heroic, yet
he remains a strong, towering figure (just look at the way his muscles are
56 See above, pp. 266–267.

57 Hunter (1998) 119 and 126.
58 Gutzwiller (1981) 31–38 provides a very thorough analysis of the “pastoral” elements
of Id. 25. This is an aspect which I could not treat in this paper, but I fully accept her
interpretations and refer the reader to her treatment.
59 For the importance of lyric narrative as a model for Hellenistic poets, see now Mor-
rison (2007).
described in 148–149), and the poem ends on a triumphant note with his
victory over the formidable lion.
In sum, then, we have to say that the poem is a Hellenistic experiment,
but an experiment that was not, as far as we know, followed by later poets.
There are other examples of similar “unsuccessful” experiments: some
years ago, S.West (2000) has argued that Lycophron’s Alexandra can be
seen as an attempt to create a new form out of preexisting genres; the
Megara is another such experiment. Both texts have obvious similari-
ties to our poem.60 And perhaps this is one way of looking at this elusive
entity, the epyllion: as a maze of roads taken and not taken, as a constant
search for the limits of epic narration. If we accept this broader definition
of the term “epyllion,” we may indeed say that Theocritus 25 which con-
sists more of narrative ellipses than of narrative proper and which alerts
its readers to this aesthetic principle by the shrewd use of a metapoetical
metaphor, belongs to the group of texts we like (or hate) to call “epyllia.”
60 See Hunter (1998) 125–126.

Figure 1: Obtained from the French National Library’s “Gallica” system

(<http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k72544w.image.f87.langFR>)
(accessed June 17, 2012).
Figure 2: Callierges’ note in the 1545 reprint by Camerarius, obtained from

Google Books (<http://books.google.de/books?id=1OIPAAAAQAAJ>)
Achilles at Scyros, and One of his Fans:
The Epithalamium of Achilles and Deidameia
(Buc. Gr. 157–158 Gow)
Marco Fantuzzi
The Epithalamium of Achilles and Deidameia is a poem whose beginning

(the first 31 and a half lines) has come down to us in the collection of
anonymous texts appended to the Bucolic sylloge in two manuscripts
of the Laurentian family, which suggest the title ᾿Επιθαλάμιος1 ᾿Αχιλλέως
καὶ Δηιδαμείας for it. The ms. Tr also ascribed the poem to Theocritus,
probably for no other reason apart from the title, since the Theocritean
Epithalamium of Helen and Menelaus (Id. 18) also contained mythological
characters. The title transmitted in the manuscripts was probably a late
and general editorial classification based on the fact that the main narra-
tive in the surviving part of the text deals with the courting of Deidameia
by a cross-dressing Achilles, which at least in part takes place in a bed-
chamber. In fact, the poem has none of the features of the archaic lyric
genre of the ἐπιθαλάμιον or of a text like the Theocritean Epithalamium
of Helen and Menelaus, which is a hexameter adaptation of this original
lyric genre. Instead, this episode of Achilles’ erotic life is one of those short
but self-contained mythological/erotic stories which are usually labelled
“epyllia,” even though it is introduced by a brief bucolic dialogue between
two shepherds in lines 1–9. This combination of dialogic-bucolic setting in
the first lines and mythological/erotic tone of the narrative proper gives
the poem a complex bucolic-erotic flavour, and makes it easily under-
standable in the context of an (ex-)bucolic/erotic poetics, such as that
advertized in Bion’s fr. 9 and 10 (see below).
* * *
As Statius claims at the beginning of his Achilleid, many parts of Achilles’
life were foreign to the Homeric epic: quamquam acta viri multum inclita
cantu / Maeonio, sed plura vacant eqs. (“the hero’s deeds, it is true, are
1 So X; ᾿Επιθαλάμιον Tr before correction.

284 marco fantuzzi
much famed in Maeonian song, but more are yet to celebrate etc.,” 1.3–4).2
Certainly Achilles’ youth was, as a whole, a theme foreign to Homer, or
was at least passed over in silence by him,3 with no hint of his cross-
dressing at Scyros—yet this was the episode that the Flavian poet nar-
rated most extensively in the first Book, before his plan of creating a full
biography of Achilles was interrupted.4
In the Iliad, when Odysseus and Nestor wanted to enlist Achilles for
the Trojan War, they went to Peleus’ house and not to Scyros (11.769–775).
From Od. 11.506–509, however, we know that Odysseus went “by ship” to
Scyros in order to recruit Achilles’ son Neoptolemos to join the war, and
in Il. 19.326 Achilles’ son Neoptolemos is said to be growing up on Scyros.
In light of the description of Scyros as a city (Il. 9.668: ᾿Ενυῆος πτολίεθρον)
that Achilles conquered, the ancients disputed whether Homer’s “Scyros”
was the island of the Sporades located off the East coast of Euboea, or
a city (cf. Σ ad loc.). While there is no mention in the Iliad of Achilles’
cross-dressing and love affair with Deidameia on the island, the hint at
Neoptolemos being raised in Scyros might in principle presuppose this
affair. It is difficult to reconcile a love story, however, with the reference
to Achilles’ conquest of Scyros which occurs at Il. 9.668.5 Therefore, the
issue of whether or not Homer knew of the cross-dressing episode is usu-
ally solved by modern scholars, in one way or the other, according to
their willingness to accept the idea of Homer knowing but passing over
in silence (vs. simply ignoring) narratives which featured in the poems of
the epic cycle. According to Proclus’ summary of the Cypria (PEG p. 41 =
2 Cf. Barchiesi (1996) and Ripoll/Soubiran (2008) 8–14. All the translations from Statius’
Achilleid are by Shackleton Bailey (2003).
3 As was already observed by some of the ancient Homeric scholars: cf. Eustath. ad
Il. 9.666–668 (782.47–49). Curiously enough, it was precisely Achilles’ education and cross-
dressing that became the two most popular themes in the iconography of Achilles in the
Roman world from the first century AD onwards; see Cameron (2009). Statius’ attention
to, and celebration of, Roman villas, which is visible in many occasional poems of the
Silvae, may have influenced the amount of space allotted to Achilles’ cross-dressing in the
Achilleid (see Konstan [1997] 83).
4 Statius clearly intended to tell the whole story of Achilles’ life, and so an extended
treatment of his heroic deeds at Troy would have been unavoidable for him. As Aricò
(1996) 198–199 has recently warned, it would be rash to infer from what he actually wrote
on Achilles’ youth that Statius intended to also privilege the unheroic and romantic aspects
of Achilles’ life after Scyros. However, it may be a telling indication of Statius’ own attrac-
tion to Achilles’ youth that most of the allusions to Achilles in the Silvae concern Chiron
and Scyros: Silv. 1.2.215–217; 2.1.88–89; 2.6.30–31; 5.3.193–194; Dilke (1954) 6–7.
5 Although, Statius may have attempted to reconcile Achilles’ love for Deidameia and
his subsequent sack of Scyros; cf. Cameron (2009) 21.
achilles at scyros, and one of his fans 285
p. 73 West), Scyros does not appear to have been an island where Achilles
went to hide himself. Instead, he disembarked at Scyros because of a tem-
pest “as they [were] sailing away from Mysia,” the first time that the Greek
fleet sailed from Aulis to Troy, but they ended up landing at the Teuthra-
nian kingdom of Telephus, as they mistook this land for Troy. There Achil-
les “made love to” or “married” (γαμεῖ) Deidameia, the daughter of king
Lycomedes.6 How their intercourse came about is left untold by Proclus.
The cross-dressing disguise of Achilles, however, was not necessarily the
device that paved the way for this: it may have been a war-rape, which
took place after the conquest of Scyros recorded in Il. 9.666–668, and may
have been narrated at greater length in a pre-Iliadic tradition.7 The Little
Iliad also appears to have included a narrative similar to the one of the
Cypria (as is commonly assumed, within a flashback included in the nar-
rative of the mission to fetch Neoptolemos to join the war):8 it would have
been a serious storm which tossed Achilles off course on leaving Telephus
and compelled him to moor at the island—so serious that only with dif-
ficulty he could land: Πηλεΐδην δ᾽ ᾿Αχιλῆα φέρε Σκῦρόνδε θύελλα, / ἔνθ᾽ ὅ γ᾽
ἐς ἀργαλέον λιμέν᾽ ἵκετο νυκτὸς ἐκείνης (“as for Achilles the son of Peleus,
the storm carried him to Scyros; there he made the harbor with difficulty
that night,”9 PEG 24 = 4 West).
However, according to the testimony of Σ D Il. 19.326, the κυκλικοί
offered a version which included the transvestism of Achilles and the mis-
sion of Odysseus (together with Nestor and Phoenix) to enlist Achilles in
the war. It has been suggested that the reference to the κυκλικοί points
to the Cypria and that this poem included a narrative of Achilles’ stay at
Scyros quite similar to the later version which became standard (PEG 19
6 ἀποπλέουσι δὲ αὐτοῖς ἐκ τῆς Μυσίας χειμὼν ἐπιπίπτει καὶ διασκεδάννυνται. ᾿Αχιλλεὺς

δὲ Σκύρῳ προσσχὼν γαμεῖ τὴν Λυκομήδους θυγατέρα Δηϊδάμειαν. “As they are sailing away
from Mysia, a storm catches them and they become dispersed. Achilles lands on Scyros
and makes love to Lycomedes’ daughter Deidameia.” (Translation by West [2003b], with
a modification.)
7 Cf. PEG Cypr. °40 = adesp. 17 West ἔπλεον εἰς Σκῦρον Δολοπηίδα Bernabé. The Σ Τ Il.
9.668, which preserves this fragment, comments, either off-hand in reaction to the epithet
of Scyros or based upon the substantial narrative of Achilles’ motivations, which is pres-
ent in the narrative (translation by West [2003b]): “Achilles took Scyros when they were
recruiting for Aulis, because there were Dolopes there, who had revolted from Peleus’
rule . . . That was also when he fathered Neoptolemus.” For speculations about this pre-
Iliadic tradition, cf. Leaf (1912) 242–248 and Dué (2002) 3–4; 8–9; 61–65.
8 Cf. e.g. Davies (1989) 66.
9 Translation by West (2003b).
286 marco fantuzzi
= 19 West).10 This opinion has been very well defended,11 but it cannot
be considered certain. If we believe that the silence of Proclus is more
reliable than Σ D Il. 19.326, we may instead suppose that the Iliad, the
Little Iliad, and the Cypria knew of a version of the story—which perhaps
existed before the transvestism version and was clearly an alternative to
it—in which Achilles, already a member of the expedition against Troy,
was blown to Scyros by a storm while sailing back from the land of Tele-
phos, and on that occasion he had the opportunity of meeting Deidameia
and having sex with her.12 In any case, at least in Homer and in the Little
Iliad (we do not know for certain about the Cypria) neither the fact that
the young Achilles was led to Scyros by an anxious protective parent nor
the disguise of cross-dressing and its detection by Odysseus is attested. In
the Little Iliad Achilles was simply “cast away” on the island by a tempest
independently of his or his parent’s will. Therefore, there was no deliber-
ate dodging of the draft, and Achilles’ heroic ethos and reputation were
not sullied by an implied suspicion of cowardice. Indeed, at least some
of the ancients embraced with sympathy this thoroughly heroic version
commenting on Il. 9.667–668, the passage where Achilles’ conquest of
Scyros is mentioned, the schol. ex. T to line 668 observes:
Σκῦρον ἑλών· οἱ μὲν νεώτεροι ἐκεῖ τὸν παρθενῶνά φασιν, ἔνθα τὸν ᾿Αχιλλέα ἐν
παρθένου σχήματι τῇ Δηιδαμείᾳ †κατακλίνουσιν†, ὁ δὲ ποιητὴς ἡρωϊκῶς πανÂ�
οπλίαν αὐτὸν ἐνδύσας εἰς τὴν Σκῦρον ἀπεβίβασεν οὐ παρθένων, ἀλλ᾽ ἀνδρῶν διαÂ�
πραξόμενον ἔργα, ἐξ ὧν καὶ τὰ λάφυρα δωρεῖται τοῖς συμμάχοις.
“Having taken Scyros”: Post-Homeric poets say that there [= in Scyros] was
the gynaeceum where they have Achilles, disguised as a girl, lie down in bed
[?] with Deidameia. The poet, instead, dressed him up in his panoply in a
heroic way and had him disembark on Scyros to do not women’s work, but
that of men, and he [Achilles] also presents his comrades with spoils from
these deeds.13
The intervention of Thetis, who would have hidden the young Achilles
in Scyros by disguising him in women’s clothes before entrusting him to
10 Cf. Severyns (1928) 285–291. In any case, in the version ascribed to the κυκλικοί by the
Σ D, contrary to the standard versions of Achilles at Scyros, it was Peleus and not Thetis
who tried to save their son from his foretold death at Troy.
11 See most recently Burgess (2001) 21.
12 As recently argued by Heslin (2005) 203, in the context of a spirited criticism of the
idea that Σ D Il. 19.326 includes a reliable summary of the episode as narrated in the Cypria.
See already Kullmann (1960) 191–192.
13 The same Σ continues presenting Neoptolemus’ conception in connection with
Achilles’ conquest of Scyros (i.e. as a rape?): see above, n. 7.
the local king Lycomedes, the consequent transvestism of Achilles while

seducing Deidameia, the daughter of Lycomedes, and the mission of Odys-
seus and Diomedes, who unveiled the real gender of Achilles—the main
points, in other words, of what was to become the standard version of the
story—were recounted, as we know from a papyrus hypothesis,14 in the
Scyrioi, a lost tragedy of Euripides that was probably produced between
450 and 430,15 and more or less at the same time Polygnotus depicted
“Achilles living his life together with the girls” in a painting now lost.16
Since the fragments from Euripides’ Scyrioi are tantalizingly few,17 we
have very little evidence of the poetic history of Achilles at Scyros before
Statius.18 To our knowledge, apart from the relatively expanded narrative
of the Epithalamium of Achilles and Deidameia, this story was hinted at
only by Lycophron in Al. 276–280 (see below, pp. 300–301) and possibly re-
told by him elsewhere at greater length.19 And yet little attention has been
paid to the fact that the version narrated in the Epith. has quite peculiar
features, or at least differing from Statius’ best known version of the myth.
In fact, in accordance only with Lycophron’s treatment, the Epith. empha-
sizes Achilles’ compliance with the cross-dressing and passes over Thetis’
role in silence.
* * *
The idea that Bion was the author of the Epith. is an old one. The humanist
Fulvio Orsini (Fulvius Ursinus) had already published the Epith. together
with the texts of Bion in 1568.20 He expressed no rationale for his ascrip-
tion, but his idea was quite sensible. There is no definitive evidence to
prove (or disprove) that the Epith. was authored by Bion of Smyrna, and
therefore it cannot be dated back to the first half of the first century BC
14 TrGF vol. 5.2, pp. 665–666 Kannicht.

15 Cf. Jouan (1966) 216–218.
16 Cf. Pausan. 1.22.6: λέγουσιν ὁμοῦ ταῖς παρθένοις ᾿Αχιλλέα ἔχειν ἐν Σκύρῳ δίαιταν, ἃ δὴ καὶ
Πολύγνωτος ἔγραψεν. Polygnotus’ painting is usually dated to 450 (cf. LIMC I.1, 57) and was
possibly executed for Cimon, who conquered Scyros (Heslin [2005] 199–201).
17 There is general agreement that Sophocles’ Scyrioi dealt with the mission the Greeks
sent to fetch Neoptolemos from the island so that he could participate in the Trojan War
after the death of Achilles, and did not deal with Achilles’ cross-dressing: TrGF vol. 4,
p. 418 Radt.
18 As lamented already by Heslin (2005) 193.
19 Eustath. ad Il. 19.327 (1187.14) refers to Palamedes as exposing Achilles γυναικιζόμενος
in Lycophron—but this action of Palamedes is not recounted in the Al. However, accord-
ing to Al. 183–185 Lycophron appears to have believed that Neoptolemos was the son of
Iphigeneia, not Deidameia.
20 Ursinus (1568) 240–241.
288 marco fantuzzi
with certainty.21 There are, however, some hints that may lead us to sup-
pose that the poem is either Bion’s work or the work of an imitator of
Bion. It is clear from the Epitaph for Bion 93–97, which was written by
a devoted pupil of Bion, that this poet left behind some kind of poetic
school after his death. The same Epitaph for Bion includes plausible inter-
textual models of the phrasing and the motifs conveyed by the initial
exchange between the two shepherds whose exchange prefaces the nar-
rative of Achilles’ stay at Scyros (Epith. 1–7):
(ΜΥΡΣΩΝ) Λῇς νύ τί μοι, Λυκίδα, Σικελὸν μέλος ἁδὺ λιγαίνειν,
ἱμερόεν γλυκύθυμον ἐρωτικόν, οἷον ὁ Κύκλωψ
ἄεισεν Πολύφαμος ἐπ᾽ ᾐόνι <τᾷ> Γαλατείᾳ;
(ΛΥΚΙΔΑΣ) κἠμοὶ συρίσδεν, Μύρσων, φίλον, ἀλλὰ τί μέλψω;
(ΜΥΡ.) Σκύριον <ὅν>, Λυκίδα, ζαλώμενος ᾆδες ἔρωτα,
λάθρια Πηλεΐδαο φιλάματα, λάθριον εὐνάν,
πῶς παῖς ἕσσατο φᾶρος, ὅπως δ’ ἐψεύσατο μορφάν.
(Myrson) Will you sing for me some sweet Sicilian song, Lycidas—some
charming and delightful song of love such as the Cyclops Polyphemus sang
to Galateia on the sea-shore?
(Lycidas) I too should like to pipe, Myrson, but of what am I to sing?
(Myr.) Of love in Scyros, Lycidas, the song you used to sing in admiration;
of the stolen kisses of Peleus’ son and his stolen wedlock; how though a boy
he put on a woman’s robe, and feigned another form.22
Myrson’s initial invocation of Lycidas in Epith. 1 to “sing some sweet Sicil-
ian song” (Σικελὸν μέλος ἁδὺ λιγαίνειν) is clearly connected to the invoca-
tion of Bion to perform a last bucolic song for Core in the Epitaph for Bion
119–121: ἀλλ’ ἄγε Κώρᾳ / Σικελικόν τι λίγαινε καὶ ἁδύ τι βουκολιάζευ· / καὶ κείνα
Σικελά (“Nay, come sing to the Maid some song of Sicily and make her
sweet rustic melody: she too is Sicilian”).23 Uncertainties of authorship and
relative chronology compel us to remain undecided about the direction
of this intertextual connection, but every possible interpretation involves
some kind of Bionean relevance for both texts. In fact, if the Epith. is by
Bion, then the author of the Epitaph may have borrowed from it, as was
21 According to Reed (1997) 29 the rhetorical style of the Epith., in particular, is differ-
ent from that of Bion’s extant works: “[E]ach theme is exploited for a few rhetorical turns,
then dropped. Bion’s manner is more organic and carefully wrought: he allows each idea
to build on the one before it, and keeps a single theme in view throughout a passage.”
However, my analysis below shows that the succession of themes in the Epith. may involve
a rhetorical strategy which is not loose at all, but, rather, focuses consistently on the under-
lying structures of erotic-bucolic poetics.
22 Translations from the Epithalamium are by Gow (1953), with occasional modifications.
23 Translations from the Epitaph are by Gow (1953), with occasional modifications.
the case for the Bionean Epitaph for Adonis, which the Epitaph for Bion
systematically imitates.24 Or, alternatively, in the Epith. an imitator of
Bion may have re-used a line from the Epitaph for Bion or a line of Bion
which the author of the Epitaph for Bion had also independently adopted.
Indeed, the author of the Epitaph may be the same pupil/imitator of Bion
who also composed the Epith. The description of the μέλος, which Myr-
son bids Lycidas sing in the Epith., as Σικελόν = “bucolic” is in fact only
paralleled in the refrain of the Epitaph, where the “Sicilian Muses” are
invoked (Σικελικαί . . . Μοῖσαι), later echoed by Virgil’s Sicelides Musae of
Ecl. 4.1.25 Thus “Sicilian” appears to be either an epithet first attached to
bucolic poetry by Bion’s imitator in the Epitaph (or Bion before him?),
or at least a post-Theocritean generalization which seems first attested
in connection with Bion’s bucolic song.26 Indeed, the refrain of the Epi-
taph, while mimicking the refrain of the invocation of the Muses to sing
which is addressed to the Muses in Theoc. 1 (64, 70, 73, etc.),27 turns the
Muses invoked sic et simpliciter as “Muses” by Theocritus into Σικελικαὶ
24 Cf. Mumprecht (1964) 38–43.

25 Virgil’s Sicelides is a Graecism both in form and prosody, since the first syllable is
artificially lengthened, and this quantity had a few Hellenistic precedents, one of which
was our passage of the Epitaph: Clausen (1994) 130.
26 Theocritus has references to his Syracusan fatherland (11.7, 28.16–18), but in the Epi-
taph both Σικελικαί . . . Μοῖσαι of this refrain (8, 13, 19, etc.: ἄρχετε Σικελικαί, τῶ πένθεος
ἄρχετε, Μοῖσαι “begin, Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge”) and Δωρὶς ἀοιδά of line 12 appear to
be regional epithets which have a wider geographic extension than merely Syracuse and
may have originated from post-Theocritean reflections on Theocritus’ poems or traditions
concerning Daphnis and other pastoral Sicilian prototypes; cf. Mumprecht (1964) 67–68;
Fantuzzi (2008). Reed (1997) 165 maintains that “Sicilian” in the Epith. “refers to the cir-
cumstances of the narrated singing, not to genre,” since the tale of Achilles at Scyros is
not bucolic. However, in the Epith. the term practically introduces a specific kind of erotic
song with bucolic frame, and thus seems to be in tune with the ex-bucolic and erotic poet-
ics of Bion’s fr. 10. This poetics may also have been hinted at in lines 80–84 of the Epitaph,
a synthesis of the themes of Bion’s poetry, where one line points to Bion’s recusatio of
military/epic themes (in opposition to Homer, to whom Bion is compared), two lines are
given to bucolic topics, and two other lines to erotic topics for which no bucolic focus is
emphasized: κεῖνος δ’ οὐ πολέμους, οὐ δάκρυα, Πᾶνα δ’ ἔμελπε / καὶ βούτας ἐλίγαινε καὶ ἀείδων
ἐνόμευε / καὶ σύριγγας ἔτευχε καὶ ἁδέα πόρτιν ἄμελγε / καὶ παίδων ἐδίδασκε φιλήματα καὶ τὸν
῎Ερωτα / ἔτρεφεν ἐν κόλποισι καὶ ἤρεθε τὰν ᾿Αφροδίταν. “The other’s strains were not of wars
or tears but of Pan; as a neatherd he made music, and tended his cattle as he sang. Pan-
pipes he fashioned [cf. Bion fr. 5], and milked the sweet heifer; taught the kisses of boys,
fostered love in his bosom [cf. Bion fr. 9], and challenged Aphrodite [cf. Bion fr. 14].”
27 ἄρχετε βουκολικᾶς, Μοῖσαι φίλαι, ἄρχετ’ ἀοιδᾶς (“begin, dear Muses, begin the pastoral
song,” 64, 70, etc.), ἄρχετε βουκολικᾶς, Μοῖσαι, πάλιν ἄρχετ’ ἀοιδᾶς (“begin, Muses, begin
again the pastoral song,” 94, 99, etc.), or λήγετε βουκολικᾶς, Μοῖσαι, ἴτε λήγετ’ ἀοιδᾶς (“cease,
Muses, come cease the pastoral song,” 127, 131, etc.). Translations from Theocritus are by
Gow (1953), with occasional modifications.
290 marco fantuzzi
Μοῖσαι (see also Epitaph 121, where to confirm Core’s certain attention to
the bucolic song, which Bion is suggested to sing in lines 119–120 quoted
above, the author argues: καὶ κείνα Σικελά “she too is Sicilian”). Further-
more, Myrson, one of the two shepherds in the framing exchange which
introduces the narrative of the story of Achilles at Scyros in the Epith.,
appears elsewhere as a shepherd only in Bion’s fr. 2, where he is again
the member of a couple of shepherds engaged in poetic dialogue. As for
the name of the other shepherd in Epith. 1–9, Lycidas, this was inherited
from Theoc. 7, where it was the name of the foundational goatherd who
invested Simichidas/Theocritus with the role of bucolic singer, and in the
Epith. it is the name of the shepherd who is asked to perform and who
does indeed sing. And yet Lycidas also has a special relevance in Bion’s
poetry. In Bion’s fr. 9.10 it is the name of the poet’s beloved within the con-
text of erotic poetry containing bucolic elements, a poetic mode which
also appears to be promoted in fr. 10 and to which Bion (or a character
of his, if the first-person speaker of fr. 9 and 10 is not the author) declares
his total dedication.28
In fact, if fr. 9 and 10 deal with the same poetics, as seems plausible,
then the ex-pastoral inclination for erotic poetry promoted by Bion (or by
a character of his) in fr. 10.5–13:
ἐγὼ δ’ ὅσα βουκολίασδον,
νήπιος ὡς ἐθέλοντα μαθεῖν, τὸν ῎Ερωτα δίδασκον,
ὡς εὗρεν πλαγίαυλον ὁ Πάν, ὡς αὐλὸν ᾿Αθάνα
ὡς χέλυν ᾿Ερμάων, κίθαριν ὡς ἁδὺς ᾿Απόλλων.
ταῦτά νιν ἐξεδίδασκον· ὃ δ’ οὐκ ἐμπάζετο μύθων,
ἀλλά μοι αὐτὸς ἄειδεν ἐρωτύλα, καί με δίδασκε
θνατῶν ἀθανάτων τε πόθως καὶ ματέρος ἔργα.
κἠγὼν ἐκλαθόμαν μὲν ὅσων τὸν ῎Ερωτα δίδασκον,
ὅσσα δ’ ῎Ερως με δίδαξεν ἐρωτύλα πάντα διδάχθην.
But I set about teaching Eros all the rustic songs I used to sing—naïve, as if
he wanted to learn—how Pan invented the cross-pipe; Athena, the double
pipe; Hermes, the tortoise-shell lyre; sweet Apollo, the box-lyre. These things
I did teach him, but he paid my words no heed; rather he himself sang to
me of little love affairs and taught me the desires of mortals and immortals
and the deeds of his mother. And I forgot all the things I was teaching Eros,
and learned all the little love affairs that Eros taught me.
would parallel the author’s (or his character’s) inability to sing of anything
other than love, as stated in fr. 9.8–11:
28 On Bion’s erotic-pastoral poetry and its influence on Latin erotic poets of the first
century, cf. Fantuzzi (2003); Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004) 171–190.
ἢν μὲν γὰρ βροτὸν ἄλλον ἢ ἀθανάτων τινὰ μέλπω,

βαμβαίνει μοι γλῶσσα καὶ ὡς πάρος οὐκέτ’ ἀείδει·
ἢν δ’ αὖτ’ ἐς τὸν ῎Ερωτα καὶ ἐς Λυκίδαν τι μελίσδω,
καὶ τόκα μοι χαίροισα διὰ στόματος ῥέει αὐδά.
For, if I sing of any other mortal or immortal, my tongue trembles and no
longer sings as before; but if I sing anything for Eros and Lycidas, then the
song flows freely through my mouth.29
Both fragments, if read together, may thus point to the cancellation of
even the memory of the specialized bucolic contents that the persona
loquens had been accustomed to sing before his momentous encounter
with Eros.
Some bucolic elements are preserved, however, in the erotic poetics
promoted by Bion (or Bion’s character), since the name of the beloved
of the “I” who is speaking in fr. 9, Lycidas, is unequivocally Theocritean,
as we have made clear above. Therefore, the poetics professed in the two
fragments (if they can be read in connection with each other), and in
any case at least in fr. 10, documents another example of the fortunes of
bucolic poetry. In particular the transition from bucolic to erotic in Bion’s
personal experience (or that of his character) and/but at the same time
the retention of bucolic protagonists is a piece of evidence of the perva-
sive influence of bucolic poetry, which at least from the first century BC
onwards often provided other genres with the atmospheric features of its
landscape and characters.
Besides, the story of Achilles at Scyros that is portrayed in the Epith.
does not belong to bucolic lore but, rather, appears to be an erotic story
belonging to epic mythology. However, the way it is introduced in the
Epith. contributes to its bucolicization by prefacing this non-bucolic con-
tent with a brief bucolic frame. No erotic-pastoral narrative by Bion sur-
vives that we can identify as such with certainty, but if we try to infer what
Bion’s erotic-pastoral poetry would have been from the poetics which may
be surfacing in his fragment(s) (9–)10, then we may quite reasonably sup-
pose that the Epith. exemplified/mimicked those poetics (exemplified, if
the poem was by Bion; mimicked, if it was by an imitator).
On the one hand, the episode of Achilles’ youth that Lycidas is going to
sing displays a strong, although erotically distanced, connection to the epic
tradition: Πηλεΐδαο φιλάματα (“the kisses of Peleus’ son”) of line 6 seems to
be a reversal of the μῆνις . . . Πηληϊάδεω ᾿Αχιλῆος (“the anger of Achilles son
29 Translations from Bion’s fragments are by Reed (1997).

292 marco fantuzzi
of Peleus”), the stated subject of the Iliad in its first line.30 On the other
hand, the bucolic frame achieves a sort of appropriation of the up-coming
erotic-epic narrative of Achilles at Scyros: thanks to the frame, this narra-
tive is presented as the song of a shepherd who is endowed with a sweet-
ness comparable to the songs sung by the bucolic Cyclops. The Cyclops
is an especially well-chosen parallel suggested by Myrson to introduce an
erotic-mythological tale set in a pastoral frame, since he had featured in
Theoc. 6 and 11, and perhaps also in Bion’s fr. 16, precisely as a sort of
pre-heroic mythological character lent to the erotic sphere of the bucolic
world. As a mythological figure in the Homeric Odyssey, the Cyclops had
been a frightening and brutish cannibal, but he was also ironically and suc-
cessfully transformed into a helpless and pathetic lover.31 Thanks to this
parallelism with the Cyclops in a bucolic setting, the young Achilles of the
Epith., who seems to have nothing in common with the frightening and
outrageous Iliadic Achilles, is anticipated as an erotic-bucolic character
of the same sort as the post-Odyssey young Cyclops of Theocritus, who is
still a monster, but tenderly in love, and has little left of his epic past as
a repugnant cannibal. In other words, the brute of the Odyssey and the
relentless warrior of the Iliad represented the traditional Homeric past of
the two characters whom, many centuries after Homer, the Epith. chooses
to cast in the beginning of their careers as tender lovers of an elegiac bent.
There is also a similar asymmetry between literary and biographical his-
tory, for in both cases love comes in their lives before the deeds of Achilles
in the Iliad or of the Cyclops in the Odyssey, but the early years of both
appear to have been excavated and elaborated by poetry from their lives
in a period much later than Homer. This is another significant point of
contact which would have led the reader to recognize the reason of Myr-
son’s blurring of the boundaries between the Cyclops and Achilles.
Beyond this similarity, however, Achilles of the Epith. has nothing of
the erotic awkwardness of the Homeric Cyclops and is a much more tal-
ented lover: it is precisely the statement of their similarity as lovers which
invites comparison between their success as lovers. The Cyclops of Theoc.
11.14–15 is sitting alone (αὐτὸς) on the beach with his heart wounded by

31 It is impossible to say how far, before Theocritus, Philoxenus went in bucolicising
and romanticising the atmosphere in which the Cyclops operated in the dithyramb titled
after him. But the significant role of Odysseus in his story (PMG 818, 823–824), not exclud-
ing the episode of the blinding of the Cyclops (PMG 820), leads us to suspect that Philox-
enus did not go very far, and that “the love-story was evidently no more than a sub-plot”
(Hordern [2004] 285).
love, languishing from daybreak (ἐξ ἀοῦς) but never managing to get in
touch with Galateia in the narrative of this poem (even in Theoc. 6, for the
sake of the strange matrimonial strategy that he professes in lines 32–33,
the Cyclops avoids paying attention to her when she comes out of the
sea and seems to flirt with him, so that she has to pursue him while he
pretends not to love her any more: lines 15–19). Quite differently, in the
Epith. Achilles practices a more promising and concrete pressing of the
object of his desire: from daybreak (ἐξ ἀοῦς, line 22) to night he was sit-
ting besides Deidameia (παρίζετο, ibid.) in a sort of siege which looks like
a successful sexual stalking. And, in fact, Achilles attains his sexual goal
of being an effective lover, most probably before the end of the Epith.,
whereas even Theoc. 6 had left it quite ambiguous as to whether the
Cyclops actually conquers Galateia or merely fabricates a fantasy in which
he conquers her.
The initial frame of the Epith. involves other specific metaliterary
devices that are concerned with the poem’s bucolic pedigree and its
incorporation/outdoing. In fact, it also engages in a sort of allusive chal-
lenge to the programmatic first two and a half lines of Theoc. 1. In these
lines Thyrsis had already defined the sweetness of the new bucolic song
by creating an analogy between the music of nature and the music of the
shepherd’s song:
ἀδύ τι τὸ ψιθύρισμα καὶ ἁ πίτυς, αἰπόλε, τήνα,
ἁ ποτὶ ταῖς παγαῖσι, μελίσδεται, ἁδὺ δὲ καὶ τύ
συρίσδες.
Sweet is the whispered music of that pinetree by the springs, goatherd, and
sweet too your piping.
Theocritus’ shepherd Thyrsis thus presents the music of bucolic song as
an analogical extension of the sounds of the natural world,32 and the
shepherd of the Epith. defines his bucolic-erotic song as an analogical
variation of the erotic songs of the bucolic Cyclops. In fact, there is a
closely woven net of intertextual references in the Epith. which corrobo-
rates the analogy between the passionate love of the Cyclops and that of
Achilles, and leads the readers to perceive the latter as a variation on a
bucolic theme. To begin with, λῇς (“you will”), the first word in Myrson’s
invitation to Lycidas to sing in Epith. 1, precisely echoes the first word in
Thyrsis’ invitation to the goatherd to play the syrinx in Theoc. 1.12. Above
32 Ch. Hunter (1999) 68–71.

294 marco fantuzzi
all, the dichotomy συρίσδειν/μέλπειν expressed by Lycidas in Epith. 4, and

the emphasis on the sweetness of the song requested by Myrson in Epith.
1â•‚2 (μέλος ἁδὺ . . . ἱμερόεν γλυκύθυμον “sweet song . . . charming delightful”)
together challenge the equalisation formulated by Thyrsis in Theoc. 1.1–3
between the sweet whispering of the leaves, which constitutes the “song”
of the pines and is representative of the voice of bucolic nature (ἁδύ τι
ψιθύρισμα . . . μελίσδεται), and the sweetness of the music played by the
goatherd (ἁδὺ δὲ καὶ τύ συρίσδες). The pastoral frame of the Epith. also
challenges the proud statement of the Cyclops in Theoc. 11.38: συρίσδεν
δ’ ὡς οὔτις ἐπίσταμαι ὧδε Κυκλώπων (“and I can pipe as no other Cyclops
here”). In fact, through the καί of κἠμοί in Epith. 4 Lycidas emphasizes that
he can play the syrinx as well as the Cyclops, to whose song his perfor-
mance should be similar according to Myrson’s wish (2–3).
The Cyclops thus stands as both referent or comparandum and ago-
nistic challenge, and this double status may be another small clue that
the Epith. is either the work of Bion or of a pupil/imitator, and anyway
it certainly confirms the intertextual connection between the Epith. and
the Epitaph for Bion. With a witty shift from Bion the author to Bion the
protagonist of his stories,33 this latter poem imagines Bion as not only a
successful wooer of the Nereid, unlike the Cyclops (and we know that
Bion wrote on the Cyclops and Galateia: fr. 16), but also as her most suc-
cessful lover: for love of him did she look on him more sweetly than the
waves of her watery abode (thus following the advice the Theocritean
Cyclops [11.43–44 and 49] had given her—in vain—not to rate her waves
too highly); she also joined him on dry land (as the Cyclops implored,
unheeded, in Theoc. 11.42) and devoted herself to shepherding his cattle
(perhaps thus sharing his property, as the Cyclops hoped to entice her in
Theoc. 11.42). Cf. Epitaph 58–63:
κλαίει καὶ Γαλάτεια τὸ σὸν μέλος, ἅν ποκ’ ἔτερπες
ἑζομέναν μετὰ σεῖο παρ’ ἀιόνεσσι θαλάσσας·
οὐ γὰρ ἴσον Κύκλωπι μελίσδεο. τὸν μὲν ἔφευγεν
ἁ καλὰ Γαλάτεια, σὲ δ’ ἅδιον ἔβλεπεν ἅλμας,
καὶ νῦν λασαμένα τῶ κύματος ἐν ψαμάθοισιν
ἕζετ’ ἐρημαίαισι, βόας δ’ ἔτι σεῖο νομεύει.
Galateia too weeps for your song—Galateia, whom once you would delight
as she sat by you on the sea-beaches, for your music was not as the music
of the Cyclops. Him the fair Galateia would fly, but on you she looked more
33 Cf. Di Nino (forthcoming).

gladly than on the sea, and now, the waves forgotten, she sits on the lonely
sands, and still herds your kine.
While openly challenging the Cyclops, the author of the Epith. may have
also extended his agonistic horizon, and challenged in general the erotic
songs of bucolic poetry. Quite significantly in metaliterary terms, by using
the strong interrogative ἀλλὰ τί μέλψω; (“but of what am I to sing?”) Lycidas
problematizes the choice of contents of his song, and thus implicitly points
to the variety of his repertory. In fact, the Cyclops of Theoc. 6 and 11, or
the goatherd of Theoc. 3 (the other main erotic singer in Theocritus), had
no choice for the content of their songs, and were limited to speaking of
their own pains in love.34 In the same vein, other performances of bucolic
singers in Theocritean poetry had focused only on bucolic stories as the
contents of their songs (this applies both to Thyrsis of Theoc. 1 singing
of Daphnis, and to Tityrus of Theoc. 7 singing of Daphnis and of Coma-
tas). Thus it seems that the bucolic singers of Theocritus were special-
ized in singing their own pains in love or of the pains of other shepherds,
in a more or less exclusive self-representation. On the contrary, Lycidas
has such a varied repertory that he can respond positively to Myrson’s
prompt (5–9) by performing the mythological—and thus obviously extra-
bucolic—story of Achilles and Deidameia. In conclusion, Lycidas’ ἀλλὰ τί
μέλψω involves a particular emphasis pointing to the contrast between
the breadth and variety of Lycidas’ repertory and the limitations of the
Cyclops evoked by Myrson, for whom the only possible subject of song
was his love for Galateia.35
The poetological relevance and awareness of this insertion of a mytho-
logical narrative into the pastoral world is not only visible in the com-
parison with the Cyclops, but also clear in the incipit of the actual song.
Lycidas’ tale of the love story between Achilles and Deidameia begins in
Epith. 10–20 with its “archaeology”:
34 In this same way the Cyclops of Bion’s fr. 16 is also obsessively limited in his choice
of themes, since he promises to walk his way to the shore ψιθυρίσδων (“whispering”) and
λισσόμενος Γαλάτειαν ἀπηνέα (“beseeching cruel Galateia”), with the intention of devoting
himself forever to the “sweet hopes” of love until he reaches extreme old age.
35 Of course the phrase reflects “a convention taken by the bucolic poets from the prac-
tice of the bards composing on a specific thematic kernel of the mythological tradition”
(as remarked by Sistakou [2008] 172). But the total openness of the question (and the
absence of the short list of exemplary alternative options which are often suggested after
the proposition of aporia, e.g. in the Homeric hymns) points in the direction of highlight-
ing the great varieties of themes that Lycidas is able to perform.
296 marco fantuzzi
ἅρπασε τὰν ῾Ελέναν πόθ’ ὁ βωκόλος, ἆγε δ’ ἐς ῎Ιδαν,

Οἰνώνῃ κακὸν ἄλγος. ἐχώσατο <δ’> ἁ Λακεδαίμων
πάντα δὲ λαὸν ἄγειρεν ᾿Αχαϊκόν, οὐδέ τις ῞Ελλην,
οὔτε Μυκηναίων οὔτ’ ῎Ηλιδος οὔτε Λακώνων,
μεῖνεν ἑὸν κατὰ δῶμα φυγὼν δύστανον ῎Αρηα.
λάνθανε δ’ ἐν κώραις Λυκομηδίσι μοῦνος ᾿Αχιλλεύς,
εἴρια δ’ ἀνθ’ ὅπλων ἐδιδάσκετο, καὶ χερὶ λευκᾷ
παρθενικὸν κόρον εἶχεν, ἐφαίνετο δ’ ἠύτε κώρα·
καὶ γὰρ ἴσον τήναις θηλύνετο, καὶ τόσον ἄνθος
χιονέαις πόρφυρε παρηίσι, καὶ τὸ βάδισμα
παρθενικῆς ἐβάδιζε, κόμας δ’ ἐπύκαζε καλύπτρῃ.
The herdsman once bore off Helen and to Ida took her, a bitter sorrow
for Oenone. And Lacedaemon was wrathful and gathered all the Achaean
folk; nor was there any Greek, not in Mycenae or Elis or Sparta, who stayed
at home escaping the cruel war. Only Achilles lay hid among Lycomedes’
daughters and was schooled to wool, not weapons; in untanned hand he
carried a maiden’s broom, and looked like a girl. Womanlike as they he bore
himself; as theirs the bloom upon his snowy cheeks. His walk was maiden-
like and with a veil he covered his hair.
The well-known, almost hackneyed tale of the origins of the Trojan War is
presented here from a peculiarly tendentious point of view, which renews
the motif in a striking way. By calling Paris ὁ βωκόλος antonomastically,
the Epith. gives such great emphasis to his profession that no room is left
for his name. The bucolicization of Paris is not an isolated initiative of the
author of the Epith., since it is also paralleled in the first line of Ps.-Theoc.
27 τὰν πινυτὰν ῾Ελέναν Πάρις ἥρπασε βουκόλος ἄλλος (“another herdsman,
Paris, bore off the prudent Helen”). Here a girl, who seems to have just
allowed herself to be kissed by Daphis (the beginning of the poem is lost),
justifies her yielding to a shepherd through this paradigm. The relative
chronology of these two uses of Paris as the paradigmatic bucolic seducer
cannot be determined, since Ps.-Theoc. 27 has been tentatively dated to
quite different times.36 In any case, the pastoral characterization of Paris
36 See Beckby (1975) 516 for an outline of conjectures about the chronology. The poem
has also been ascribed to Bion by Gallavotti (1946), but there is little textual evidence
to support this authorship. The intensely erotic character of its contents should not be
considered sufficient proof, of course, especially since the strongly pastoral characters and
contents of this poem do not appear to be in agreement with what we can reconstruct or
conjecture about Bion’s post-pastoral erotic pastoral poetry, which we have tried to define
above. An intertextual point of contact might seem to exist between Ps.-Theoc. 27.68
φώριος εὐνά (“stolen bed of love”) and Epith. 6 λάθρια Πηλεΐδαο φιλάματα, λάθριον εὐνάν
(“stolen kisses of Peleus’ son and his stolen bed of love”), as Beckby (1975) 562 has pointed
out. What we have in Ps.-Theoc. 27, however, is the traditional motif of sex as ontologi-
cally furtive, namely consummated in private, which dates from Il. 6.161 and Mimn. fr. 7.3
is reinforced in the Epith. by mentioning his bucolic partner, the nymph

Oenone, and his bucolic landscape, Mount Ida. In fact, Paris is said to
have returned with Helen to Mount Ida where he had been a cowherd,
although he should have logically concluded the pastoral phase of his life
and regained his status as a prince in Troy before departing to Sparta, and
therefore he had no reason for going back to Ida after being recognized as
a prince.37 On this detail, the Epith. is in tune with what Agamemnon says
of Paris in Eur. IA 75–76 ἐρῶν ἐρῶσαν ᾤχετ᾽ ἐξαναρπάσας / ῾Ελένην πρὸς ῎Ιδης
βούσταθμ(α) (“he carried Helen off, in mutual desire, to his steading on
Ida”). However, in Euripides Agamemnon’s phrase pointedly emphasized
the infamously low status of a shepherd’s life, thus expressing the same
contempt for both Paris and Helen conveyed in lines 73–74 by an oppos-
ing reference to the luxurious Asiatic fashion of Paris’ apparel.38 In a quite
different way, the specification of Paris’ return to Ida seems to be adopted
with some bucolic sympathy in Epith. 10, and it is joined structurally to the
pains of Oenone, who belongs to the same pastoral world of Ida as the pre-
Helen Paris. By opening a window onto Paris’ pastoral life with the nymph
on Mount Ida and focusing on Helen’s abduction primarily as an upheaval
of the bucolic peace of Paris’ life with Oenone,39 this incipit bucolicizes
the Trojan War in the most radical way: with Troy being unmentioned, it
is as if Paris’ home is and remains, even after Helen’s abduction, Mount
Ida. A reader who sticks closely to this introduction is not inclined, at least
on the first reading, to rethink the standard scenario, according to which
the abduction of Helen caused the destruction of Troy: thanks to the
Â� entili/Prato and is particularly widespread in Latin love elegy (cf. most recently Â�McKeown
G
[1989] vol. 2, 101; Floridi [2007] 164–165). Differently, in Epith. 6 the motivation behind the
metaphor changes: the kisses and sex which Achilles enjoyed with Deidameia are “stolen,”
since he acquired them thanks to his cross-dressing disguise.
37 The more logical perspective, according to which Paris comes back from Sparta to
Troy, and not to Mount Ida, already appears, e.g., in Stesich. PMG 192 and Hdt. 2.117. In
fact, the recognition of Paris as a prince naturally follows the judgment of the gods, as in
the narrative of Helen’s rape he is expected to be a prince: Stinton (1965) 56–57. In Ovid’s
epistle from Oenone to Paris (Her. 5) the nymph appears to be near the sea when the ship
is carrying Paris back with Helen (63–64), but immediately after seeing the other woman
and understanding the nature of her relation with Paris she runs away to Ida in order to
open the floodgates of her pain (73): implevi . . . sacram querulis ululatibus Iden. “I filled
holy Ida with wailing cries of lamentation.” (Translation by Showerman/Goold [21977].)
38 An oxymoronic and not entirely coherent combination of derogatory suggestions
(cf. Stinton [1965] 56): does it point to some schizophrenia in Paris’ character? Differently
Jouan (1966) 172 n. 4: “[L]es étables de l’Ida sont ici une pure clause de style.”
39 As remarked by Gutzwiller (1981) 74: “[I]n the pastoral pleasance the conflicts of life
center on love, and war has no place.”
298 marco fantuzzi
wording of the Epith. the love story of Achilles and Deidameia becomes
the principal consequence of the sexual adventure of an unfaithful shep-
herd (the name Paris remains unmentioned) and the unhappy end of
the love which existed between him and the shepherdly Oenone. Apart
from its functional role in creating the bucolic frame, the emphasis of
the Epith. on Oenone is also relevant to the specific erotic contents of
the narrative which follows this frame—the story of Paris and Oenone is
never mentioned in Homer, and her name does not appear to be attested
before Hellan. FGrHist 4 F29 and Lycophr. Al. 57–68; in fact, it is “obvi-
ously well suited to the Hellenistic predilection for erotic motifs,” even
though it may have had old folkloric origins.40 Above all, this story shares
with Achilles and Deidameia and the Cyclops and Galateia the feature
of being a romantic story which involves the pre-Iliadic life of Homeric
characters, though its literary fortunes are actually post-Homeric, as it had
been passed over in silence by Homer. It is difficult to think of a bet-
ter companion story at which to hint, side by side with the Cyclops and
Galateia, at the beginning of the narrative of cross-dressing Achilles which,
as an erotic tale with mythological characters, was most likely interested
in advertising the quantity of untold, or relatively new, love stories which
could be developed from the recesses of the lives of mythological charac-
ters already celebrated by archaic epic for their martial deeds.
The same erotic-bucolic chauvinism may also be at work in the descrip-
tion of the broader consequences of Helen’s abduction. The primary reac-
tion which one might expect to be described was of course the reaction
of Helen’s husband. On the contrary, Epith. 11 does not oppose Menelaus,
who remains unnamed, but his city “Lacedaemon” to the βουκόλος, whose
pastoral habitat, Mount Ida, is promptly mentioned (whereas there is no
mention of the fact that he comes from and is destined to go back to Troy).
Of course, every reader could have easily integrated the names of the
characters and places of what was probably the most well-known Greek
40 Quotation from Stinton (1965) 40, who also argues (43) in favor of integrating the
name of the nymph into a lacunose passage of Bacchyl. fr. 20d.3, and draws an appeal-
ing comparison between the folkloric character of the βουκόλοι Paris and Daphnis. In a
post-Iliadic and post-Cyclic version, Paris did not fall on the battlefield, as seems to be
the case in the Little Iliad, but his death was caused by the resentment of the nymph
Oenone, who, because of his betrayal, refused to treat an arrow wound that only she could
heal. This motif of a mortal betraying the love of a goddess and receiving retribution in
return, which probably belongs to folklore, has a parallel in the folkloric characterization
of Daphnis, who in most versions of his story either died or was blinded in retribuition for
his infidelity to a nymph.
myth, but it is tempting to suppose that the Epith. may have purposefully
emphasizes the hatred (ἐχώσατο, “was wrathful,” 11) between a city, Sparta,
and a “herdsman” in order to highlight the opposition between city and
pastoral life. This opposition, which is only vaguely envisaged in Theocri-
tus, plays a substantial role in Virgil’s Eclogues and in Propertius’ pastoral
poems,41 and it would not be unexpected if the Epith. was by Bion, or
one of the Italian pupils of Bion:42 in particular, see Virgil’s Ecl. 2.60–62,
where Paris plays the role of the paradigmatic champion of pastoral life
over urban life:43
Habitarunt di quoque silvas
Dardaniusque Paris. Pallas quas condidit arces
ipsa colat; nobis placeant ante omnia silvae.
Trojan Paris and the gods dwelt in the woods too. Let Pallas have her cita-
dels, and let the woods be our delight.44
So much, then, for the strong bucolic emphasis that appears in the Epith.
The eroticized perspective in which the character of Achilles is introduced
in the Epith. is also strongly emphasized at the beginning of the narrative.
Lines 12–13 make it clear that no other Greek “stayed at home,” whereas, as
line 15 unequivocally declares, Achilles “hid himself among the girls.” Fur-
thermore, if the conjectural reconstruction of line 14 which is commonly
accepted in modern editions is correct,45 Achilles would have “run away”
(φυγών) from the war (῎Αρηα). In any case, at least the qualification of war
as δύστανος is telling. In Homer, and sometimes in later authors, δύστανος
means “unhappy/pitiable,” but this sense is impossible in our passage,
since the idea of contempt rather than pity is certainly expressed here,
as is often the case in Sophocles and Euripides.46 Therefore, as opposed
to the objective epithets used to describe Ares’ destructive negativity in
Homer (ἀνδροφόνος [“man slaying”], βροτολοιγός [“plague of man”], οὔλιος
[“baleful”], στυγερός [“hateful”]), δύστανος, a more evalutative/subjective
41 See, e.g., Stahl (1985) 181–182, 282–283; Knox (2006) 138–141.
42 The pupil of Bion who wrote the Epitaph for Bion speaks in line 1 of an “Ausonic
mourning” for Bion’s death. Thus he may have been an Italian, and his reference certainly
demonstrates that Bion had Italian fans.
43 Theodore Papanghelis, per litteras, also suggests the possibility that Virgil knew of
some pastoral text where the future Iliadic prince Paris featured as a still pastoral lover. If
so, the co-existence in the Epith. of the Achilles-Deidameia story and the story of the Cyclops
in love with Galateia would have relied on (and alluded to) another exact parallel.
44 Translation by Alpers (1979), with modifications.
45 The texts transmitted by the manuscripts are corrupt.
46 Cf. Bond (1981) 401.
300 marco fantuzzi
term, must have sounded like a condemnation of the war,47 conveying

precisely the “antagonistic” point of view one might expect from an erotic
poet or his characters.48 The same epithet is also apt for legitimizing what
seems to be Achilles’ initiative in dodging the draft in the text of the Epith.
Within the generalized mobilization described in lines 12–14, only Achilles
“was hidden” among the daughters of Lycomedes (15). Above all, the Epith.
does not mention anywhere that Achilles was at Scyros as a result of his
mother’s (or his father’s) protective intervention, as it is said in almost all
of the versions of the episode of the transvestite Achilles that we know,
apart from the hint to this effect in Lycophr. Al. 276–280:
ὁ νεκροπέρνας, ὃς προδειμαίνων πότμον
καὶ θῆλυν ἀμφὶ σῶμα τλήσεται πέπλον
δῦναι, παρ᾽ ἱστοῖς κερκίδος ψαύσας κρότων,
καὶ λοῖσθος εἰς γῆν δυσμενῶν ῥῖψαι πόδα,
τὸ σόν, ξύναιμε, κἀν ὕπνῳ πτήσσων δόρυ.
He, the trafficker in corpses, who, fearing beforehand his doom, shall endure
to do upon his body a female robe, handling the noisy shuttle at the loom,
and shall be the last to set his foot in the land of the foe, cowering, O brother,
even in his sleep before thy spear.49
In principle, we might suppose that Lycophron’s passage did not mention
the agency of Thetis simply because of its brevity, presupposing that every
reader would assume her role or Peleus’ role in hiding Achilles at Scyros,
which featured in most of the other tales of this episode. But within Alex-
andra’s pro-Trojan perspective and the strongly derogatory tone used in
her reference to the most harmful warrior of the opposite Greek army,50
Alexandra focuses on Achilles’ own fear and nightmares (κἀν ὕπνῳ): not
only, understandably, fear about his future death (προδειμαίνων πότμον),
but also fear about Hector’s mighty spear (πτήσσων δόρυ), which was not
going to harm Achilles directly—but did kill Patroclus. Consequently,
Lycophron’s passage presents Achilles’ stay at Scyros as a sort of unnatural
47 Interestingly enough, Achilles in Il. 19.324–325 is almost the only person in the entire
Iliad who uses strongly negative language for Helen, where she stands for the manifesta-
tion of the war.
48 In fact, the Latin elegiac poets (not far off in time and in space from the author of the
Epith., if this author was Bion or an imitator of Bion) developed the opposition/assimila-
tion of love and war, contrasting or paralleling real war with their own shared imagery of
the militia amoris. A discussion of the main passages (and of the Greek prehistory of the
militia amoris) in Murgatroyd (1975); see also Benediktson (1985).
49 Translation by Mair (21955).
50 On this concept see McNelis/Sens (2011).
dishonor that he unduly endorsed (τλήσεται).51 Compare this, however,

to the quite different passion of the young Achilles for the patria hasta
(“paternal spear”) in Stat. Ach. 1.41, where the dolor and the timores for his
future rather reside materno in corde (“in his mother’s heart,” 1.42; see also
materni . . . praesagia somni “his mother’s prophetic dream,” 1.22).52 As a
consequence, in Lycophron Achilles’ dishonorably late arrival (λοῖσθος) at
the battlefield of Troy becomes a sort of stain on his heroic record, which
destabilizes the heroic kléos that he acquired in the Homeric version of
the Trojan War.53
From a point of view that was radically different from that of the war-
like Alexandra (one with an erotic perspective and of course no hatred at
all for Achilles), the author of the Epith. pursued a different strategy with
essentially the same tool: silence about Thetis. Thanks to their mythologi-
cal competence, the readers of the Epith. could have easily assumed that
the boy Achilles had been accompanied by his mother or his father, when
deposited among the Scythian girls. But in fact, this is not stated in the
Epith., and in view of its silence about the superior parental power which
compelled Achilles to take on a female disguise, the following idea creeps
into the mind of the Epith.’s readers: that Achilles hid himself at Scyros,
dodging the draft as in Lycophron, though not out of fear, as in Lyco-
phron, but following his own erotic inclinations. With no trace, I repeat,
of the vilification with which Lycophron’s Alexandra taxed him, Achilles
in the Epith. is a hero of love whose choice appears to be in opposition to
the militaristic choice of the rest of the Greeks.
The fact that Achilles appears to be perfectly at ease in his cross-
dressing and is deeply feminized is another anti-militaristic element
that contributes to the erotic atmosphere and point of view of the Epith.
51 After beginning her representation of Achilles by depicting him as a ferocious and
enormous bird of prey (260–265), Alexandra concludes by imagining him being terrified
of Hector’s spear; cf. McNelis/Sens (2011) 69: “[T]he final words of the passage, πτήσσων
δόρυ, enact the diminution of Achilles from soaring predator to terrified prey, crouching
to avoid discovery.”
52 As remarked by Mendelsohn (1990) 298–304, during the stay at Scyros Thetis sub-
jugates Achilles to her female status, whereas Achilles’ interest for the patria hasta under
Chiron’s tutelage represents a victory of the paternal influence which Thetis can only over-
take momentarily. Achilles’ rape of Deidameia also seems to emulate his father’s rape of
Thetis, which is described e.g. by Ovid, Met. 11.238–240 (again Mendelsohn [1990] 304–305;
also Heslin [2005] 275–276).
53 Deconstructing the kléos of Achilles and constructing a greater-than-Homeric kléos
for Hector (quite often ascribing to him the images of martial greatness which Homer had
ascribed to Achilles) is a peculiar feature of Alexandra’s rhetorical strategy: cf. McNelis/
Sens (2011).
302 marco fantuzzi
Achilles is depicted as enjoying his situation with full compliance to

the demands of his disguise: he has white skin (16) and snowy cheeks
which blush shyly (19), he learns how to spin wool (16), he walks like a
woman (19–20), and he has a veil on his head (20).54 In conclusion, as
the author invites us to acknowledge, ἐφαίνετο δ’ ἠύτε κώρα· / καὶ γὰρ ἴσον
τήναις θηλύνετο (“he looked like a girl: womanlike as they he bore himself,”
17–18). Furthermore, in the Epith. it is precisely his committed embrace
of transvestism that Achilles exploits in the verbal strategies he uses to
conquer Deidameia. We cannot rule out the possibility that he had been
doing the same thing in other texts that narrated this episode of his life.
At any rate, at least in the most detailed poetic treatment of the myth
known to us, Statius’ Achilleid, from the beginning (1.318–324) to the end
(1.652–654) of his cross-dressing Achilles is aware that this disguise allows
him to stay close to Deidameia and to wait for a good opportunity to
satisfy his passion; but when he finally decides to move to the stage of
sexual conquest, he does this through the violence of rape, which he views
as his first male action in opposition to the extended repression of his
temper under female clothes: cf. 1.638–639 quonam usque premes urentia
pectus / vulnera, teque marem (pudet heu!) nec amore probabis? (“how long
will you suppress the wound that burns your breast, nor even in love (for
shame!) prove yourself a man?”). And he was also supposed to have raped
Deidameia with violence in the brief account made by Ovid, Ars amatoria
(1.681–704), where Achilles and Deidameia are presented as a paradigm of
the propriety of male force in the conquest of love subjects. On the con-
trary, in the scene with which the surviving fragment of the Epith. ends
(25–30), Achilles tries to reach his goal by furthering his pretense of femi-
ninity to the most extreme point:
πάντα δ᾽ ἐποίει
σπεύδων κοινὸν ἐς ὕπνον. ἔλεξέ νυ καὶ λόγον αὐτᾷ·
‘ἄλλαι μὲν κνώσσουσι σὺν ἀλλήλαισιν ἀδελφαί,
αὐτὰρ ἐγὼ μούνα, μούνα δὲ σύ, νύμφα, καθεύδεις.
αἱ δύο παρθενικαὶ συνομάλικες, αἱ δύο καλαί,
ἀλλὰ μόναι κατὰ λέκτρα καθεύδομες . . .’
And all his endeavour aimed that they should sleep together; indeed he said
to her: “Other sisters sleep with one another, but I alone and you alone,
maiden. Though both be girls of the like age and both fair, alone in our beds
we sleep . . .”
54 These details have already been pointed out by Gutzwiller (1981) 74 and King (1987) 180.
Not without awareness of the paradoxicality of this idea (cf. πάντα δ᾽ ἐποίει,
ἔλεξέ νυ καί), the author ascribes to Achilles a speech in which he appears
to appropriate the female voice of Sappho or a Sapphic character. In an
Aeolizing text usually ascribed to Sappho (168b Voigt),55 a woman (who
is possibly, but not necessarily, the author) expressed distress for her
nocturnal solitude in bed, perhaps implying that she hoped it would be
otherwise:56
δέδυκε μὲν ἁ σελάννα
καὶ Πληιάδες· μέσαι δὲ
νύκτες, παρὰ δ᾽ ἔρχεθ᾽ ὥρα·
ἐγὼ δὲ μόνα κατεύδω.
The moon has set
and the Pleiades. The night
is at its midpoint, the moment passes,
and I sleep alone.57
This fragment (or maybe a complete short poem?)58 is quoted as an anon-
ymous example of ionic tetrameter by Hephaestion, and is only ascribed
to Sappho by Byzantine paroemiographers.59 Therefore, its Sapphic
authorship has sometimes been questioned.60 Regardless of whether it is
by Sappho or by an imitator of her, the desire which it describes is most
probably erotic, and homosexual, and the memorable ἐγὼ δὲ μόνα κατεύδω
of the Aeolic text can be quite easily perceived as the intertext in the
background of line 28 of the Epith.: αὐτὰρ ἐγὼ μούνα, μούνα δὲ σύ, νύμφα,
καθεύδεις (female voices expressing sexual desire must have been few in
Greek poetry). The sense to be inferred from this intertextual connection
was that Achilles, disguised as a girl, was trying to deceive Deidameia by
taking on the additional disguise of a female homoerotic voice. But at
the same time the Achilles of the Epith. challenges the phrasing of the
“Sapphic” text, especially when he suggests that the feeling of solitude is
55 Beckby (1975) 562 already pointed out the parallel to Sappho 168b.
56 As remarked by Snyder (1997) 121. In fact, at least in Homer, μόνος seems to be a
specialized word that defines a threatening, or at least a tense and impairing, condition of
loneliness, whereas its (apparent) synonym οἶος can be used for every state of singleness
and does not imply stress (Goldhill [2010]).
57 Translation by Snyder (1997).
58 As suggested by Clay (1970) 126.
59 Arsen. 18.51 = Apostol. 5.98c CPG. A reference to Sappho in the allusion to this text in
Her. 15.155–156 leads us to suspect that Ovid considered it to be her work.
60 See in particular Page (1958) who argues against Sappho’s authorship, and Clay
(1970) who argues convincingly in favor of it.
304 marco fantuzzi
shared by both himself and Deidameia. Thus he transforms the original

nostalgic sense of the erotic solitude of a single person into a paraenetic
motivation for Deidameia to sleep in the same bed with another girl in
order that they might overcome this shared solitude. In other words,
through the allusion to Sappho Achilles hints at the erotic distress of his
solitude, but at the same time, for the sake of Deidameia’s innocent ears
(if they were innocently unaware of the eroticism of the model), he seems
to simply suggest an innocent sharing of the bed for companionship. In
the same two-fold semantical interplay, Achilles’ designation of the other
girls who surround Deidameia as συνομάλικες probably contained another
connotation which is particularly well-suited (and of good omen) to Achil-
les’ wishes, since twice Sappho had mentioned the ὐμάλικες of the bride
celebrating weddings in her epithalamia (30.7, 103.11) and, probably in her
wake, Theoc. 18.22 (another epithalamium) had also defined the singers of
the poem as συνομάλικες of Helen.61 Besides, νύμφα from the same line of
the Epith. is also charged with a convenient ambiguity whose promising
connotations Achilles could have exploited for himself without allowing
Deidameia to understand or be disquieted by his true intentions. Dei-
dameia would have believed that she was being addressed as a “marriage-
able maiden,” according to one of the two possible meanings of νύμφα.62
The word, however, is also a quite common designation of the bride—e.g.,
again, in the vocabulary of Sappho’s epithalamia (frs. 30.4, 103.2, 103b.2,
116, 117)—and thus Achilles might be hinting at this other meaning as a
sign of his wish, and an anticipation of his imminent erotic conquest.
* * *
We do not know the conclusion of the tale of Achilles at Scyros in the
Epith., but the customary size and nature of the plots of the epyllia (which
focus on the unknown/unhandled corner-episodes of larger myths and
among these uncommon episodes often opt for the erotic ones) invites us
to suppose that the Epith. was not concerned with the global coherence
of Achilles’ character outside of the borders of its narrative and that the
poet may have enjoyed highlighting the contrast between the monolithic
martial solidity of Achilles’ fiery character and the relaxed eroticism of
his incident at Scyros. Considering the anti-militaristic overtones which I
61 That this word had a special Sapphic coloring is proved by the fact that ὐμάλικες also
reappears in Theoc. 30.20, an Aeolic (male-)homoerotic poem.
62 E.g. in Il. 9.560.
have outlined above in the description of the outbreak of the Trojan War,
it is not easy to suppose, for instance, that in the lost part of the poem
the author was going to redeem Achilles’ martial honor by showing his
eagerness to get rid of his frock and/or to interrupt his cozy life at Scyros
in order to leave for war (as Statius emphatically does in the Achilleid: see
e.g. 1.855–863, 1.874–882).
It is appealing to suppose that the experiment of the Epith., or some
other version that is unknown to us in which Achilles was hyper-erotized/
hyper-feminized in a similar way, attracted the attention of Ovid in the
Ars amatoria (1.681–704) and triggered his reworking of the story. Dressed
in the garb of grave moralism, which was surely more than half-jesting
in the context of such a work as the Ars, Ovid’s silences and comments
about the story of Achilles’ stay at Scyros parodically re-propose a critical
discourse similar to the one which had been formulated in a more seri-
ous way by Horace (Ars poet. 119–122) about the opportunity for global
coherence for some characters to whom the literary tradition had granted
an especially monolithic characterization. A substantial dignification of
Achilles’ stay at Scyros is also erected by Statius’ Achilleid, which may also
have been at least in part a reaction to the Epith. or a similarly hyper-
erotized version of the tale, and was most likely in tune with the need for
epic consistency in Achilles’ biography, which Statius was going to write.
After Statius, no other Latin text develops the story of an Achilles who
appears to dodge the draft on his own initiative, while deeply enjoying
his transvestism—transvestism which by the way was a rigid taboo for
the Latin notion of masculinity.63 In a striking confirmation of Horace’s
stylistic dictum, the feminised super-star of erotic poetry who starred in
an epyllion like the Epith. in a role that belied his Iliadic future appears
to have quickly lost his battle with the Achilles of Ovid and Statius, whose
impatience for cross-dressing and virile rape were much more acceptable
incunabula of the warlike hero sung by epic.64
63 I will examine in detail the fortune of Achilles at Scyros in Ovid and Statius and his
shortcomings in relation to the Latin ideal of masculinity in my forthcoming book, Achil-
les in Love.
64 R. Hunter, C. McNelis, G. Rosati, T. Papanghelis, C. Tsagalis, and Gareth Williams
contributed suggestions to this paper, and Kristin Robbins remolded its English form. To
all of them goes my sincere gratitude.
part 4
The Late Roman Republic and the Augustan Period

“εἰς ἔπη καὶ ἐλεγείας ἀνάγειν”:
The Erotika Pathemata of Parthenius of Nicaea
Jacqueline J.H. Klooster
1. Introduction
The first-century BC Greek author Parthenius of Nicaea tends to turn up in

discussions of Latin “epyllion.” In the past, it has for instance been claimed
with some insistence that he was personally responsible—through his
influence on Gaius Helvius Cinna, author of the allegedly seminal “epyl-
lion” Zmyrna—for introducing this type of poetry in Rome. Thus, it was
asserted, he became nothing less than the driving force behind the so-
called “neoteric school.”1 Even if one does not subscribe to this particular
idea—as few nowadays do—, enough interesting issues regarding Parthe-
nius and epyllion remain. In this paper I will investigate what, if anything,
Parthenius’ Erotika Pathemata (EP)2—a collection of prose accounts of
unhappy, often fatal passions—may tell us about “epyllion” and its generic
affiliations. I use the term “epyllion” here as shorthand for “short narra-
tive hexameter poems of Hellenistic stamp”; this does not imply that I
subscribe to its perception as a clearly circumscribed recognized generic
category in antiquity. In fact, the illustration of the continuity between,
and blurry boundaries of, all sorts of hexametric and elegiac poetic sub-
forms will be one of the aims of this paper.
Taking stock of the corpus that is usually subsumed under the term
“epyllion,”3 we might posit that there appear to be two categories or
1 Clausen (1964) 187–188; Otis (21966) 27; Lyne (1978a) 173–174; Lyne (1978b) 54–55. Oth-
ers, more skeptical on the issues of both epyllion’s existence as a genre and Parthenius’
influence on Roman poetry, resist the notion that the efflorescence of short hexameter
epics in first century BC Rome should be laid at the door of this poet. Notoriously, this
debate also involves the discussion of whether there was a “neoteric school” (based on the
passages in Cic. Ad Att. 7.2.1; Tusc. 3.45; Orator 161) and what its connection with Parthe-
nius—and epyllion—was. For a skeptical approach to this question see Crowther (1976)
65–71, Rose (1994), Lightfoot (1999) 54–76, Francese (2001) 9–15.
2 On the translation of the phrase Erotika Pathemata, see Lightfoot (1999) 367–368;
Francese (2001) 69–73; “sufferings in love” probably best covers the meaning.
3 A great deal of evidence from the Hellenistic and Roman periods is either lost or hard
to comprehend. See Fantuzzi (1998a) 31–32 for a list of (possible) Hellenistic epyllia and their
titles. Roman epyllia would have included Cinna’s Zmyrna, Calvus’ Io, Catullus’ Carmen 64.
310 jacqueline j.h. klooster
perhaps “families” of epyllia, one focusing on erotic subject matter (e.g.

Theocritus’ Idyll 13 [Hylas], Moschus’ Europa, Catullus’ Carmen 64, [Ver-
gil’s] Ciris), the other on the unheroic and “domestic” side of heroic tales
(e.g. Callimachus’ Hecale, Theocritus’ Idyll 24 [Heracliscus] and Vergil’s
Moretum). It is especially in the second category that an Auseinander-
setzung with heroic epic in the manner of “scherzhafte Leichtigkeit” (to
quote Fantuzzi [1998a] 32) may be sought, if we are willing to admit these
defining characteristics as valid. The first, erotic epyllion, often treats its
melodramatic or pathetic erotic subject matter in a less obviously paro-
dist way. It is this first erotic category that became predominant in Latin
literature as e.g. Cinna’s Zmyrna, Calvus Io, Catullus’ Carmen 64, and the
“epylliac” episodes in Ovid’s Metamorphoses show; whether it proliferated
on quite the same scale in the Hellenistic period is hard to say. In the fol-
lowing I will concentrate in particular on this category of erotic epyllion
and the question of its generic affiliations.
Why might the EP seem interesting for a discussion of this kind of epyl-
lion? Let us look at the following illustrative passage from them.
(1) ᾿Î‚λέξανδρος <δὲ> ὁ Î€ριάμου βουκολῶν κατὰ τὴν ῎ÎŽδην ἠράσθη τῆς Îıεβρῆνος
θυγατρὸς Οἰνώνης. λέγεται δὲ ταύτην ἔκ του θεῶν κατεχομένην θεσπίζειν περὶ
τῶν μελλόντων καὶ ἄλλως δὲ ἐπὶ συνέσει φρενῶν ἐπὶ μέγα διαβεβοῆσθαι. (2) ὁ
οὖν ᾿Î‚λέξανδρος αὐτὴν ἀγαγόμενος παρὰ τοῦ πατρὸς εἰς τὴν ῎ÎŽδην, ὅπου αὐτῷ οἱ
σταθμοὶ ἦσαν, εἶχε γυναῖκα καὶ αὐτῇ φιλοφρονούμενος < > μηδαμὰ προλείψειν
ἐν περισσοτέρᾳ τε τιμῇ ἄξειν· (3) ἡ δὲ συνιέναι μὲν ἔφασκεν εἰς τὸ παρὸν ὡς δὴ
πάνυ αὐτῆς ἐρῴη· χρόνον μέντοι τινὰ γενήσεσθαι, ἐν ᾧ ἀπαλλάξας αὐτὴν εἰς τὴν
ÎŁὐρώπην περαιωθήσεται κἀκεῖ πτοηθεὶς ἐπὶ γυναικὶ ξένῃ πόλεμον ἐπάξεται τοῖς
οἰκείοις. (4) ἐξηγεῖτο δὲ ὡς δεῖ αὐτὸν ἐν τῷ πολέμῳ τρωθῆναι καὶ ὅτι οὐδεὶς αὐτὸν
οἷός τε ἔσται ὑγιῆ ποιῆσαι ἢ αὐτή. ἑκάστοτε δὲ ἐπιλεγομένης αὐτῆς <ταῦτα>
ἐκεῖνος οὐκ εἴα μεμνῆσθαι. χρόνου δὲ προϊόντος ἐπειδὴ ῾ÎŁλένην ἔγημεν, ἡ μὲν
Οἰνώνη μεμφομένη τῶν πραχθέντων τὸν ᾿Î‚λέξανδρον εἰς Îıεβρῆνα, ὅθενπερ ἦν
γένος, ἀπεχώρησεν, ὁ δὲ παρήκοντος ἤδη τοῦ πολέμου διατοξευόμενος Φιλοκτήτῃ
τιτρώσκεται. (5) ἐν νῷ δὲ λαβὼν τὸ τῆς Οἰνώνης ἔπος, ὅτε ἔφατο αὐτὸν πρὸς αὐτῆς
μόνης οἷόν τε εἶναι ἰαθῆναι, κήρυκα πέμπει δεησόμενον ὅπως ἐπειχθεῖσα ἀκέσηταί
τε αὐτὸν καὶ τῶν παροιχομένων λήθην ποιήσηται, ἅτε δὴ κατὰ θεῶν βούλησιν [τε]
ἀφικομένων. (6) ἡ δὲ αὐθαδέστερον ἀπεκρίνατο, ὡς χρὴ παρ’ ῾ÎŁλένην αὐτὸν ἰέναι
κἀκείνης δεῖσθαι· αὐτὴ δὲ μάλιστα ἠπείγετο, ἔνθα διεπέπυστο κεῖσθαι αὐτόν. τοῦ
δὲ κήρυκος τὰ λεχθέντα παρὰ τῆς Οἰνώνης θᾶττον ἀπαγγείλαντος ἀθυμήσας ὁ
᾿Î‚λέξανδρος ἐξέπνευσεν. (7) Οἰνώνη δὲ ἐπεὶ νέκυν ἤδη κατὰ γῆς κείμενον ἐλθοῦσα
εἶδεν, ἀνῴμωξέ τε καὶ πολλὰ κατολοφυραμένη διεχρήσατο ἑαυτήν.
(1) When Priam’s son Alexander was a shepherd on Mount Ida, he fell in
love with Oenone, the daughter of Cebren. It is told that she was able to
prophesy about the future when inspired by one of the gods and that she
was very celebrated, besides, for her keen intelligence. (2) And so Alexan-
der took her from her father’s house to Ida, where his steadings were, and
made her his wife; he <promised> her lovingly that he would never leave
the erotika pathemata of parthenius of nicaea 311
her and that he would hold her in ever-increasing honour. (3) She would
reply that she understood very well that he was totally devoted to her for
the time being, but that there would come a time when he would abandon
her and cross over to Europe and there, infatuated with a foreign woman,
would bring war upon his own people. (4) She went on to explain that it
was fated for him to be wounded in the war and that nobody would be able
to heal him save her, herself. But whenever she mentioned this, he would
not allow her to continue. Time went by, and Paris married Helen; Oenone
reproached him for what had happened and went back to Cebren and her
family home. But then, once the war began, Paris was wounded in a duel
of arrows with Philoctetes. (5) He remembered Oenone’s words, when she
had said that he could be healed only by her, and he sent a herald to beg
her to come quickly and cure him, to forget about the past since it had all
happened through the will of the gods. (6) She responded, haughtily, that he
would have to go to Helen and make the request of her. Nevertheless, she
made all haste to the place where she had found out he was lying. But the
herald reported back Oenone’s words too soon, and Alexander lost all heart
and died. (7) When Oenone arrived and saw him now dead and lying on
the ground, she shrieked, and amidst great lamentation ended her own life.
(EP 4, transl. Lightfoot [1999], adapted)
Reading this account, one might be tempted to think it was the synopsis
of an “epyllion”: it fits almost to perfection the (predominantly content-
related) criteria frequently invoked to define this problematic category
of poem.4 In a narrative fashion, centering on a limited number of char-
acters, it treats a little-known erotic episode from the life of one of the
protagonists of heroic Epic, Alexander (Paris), concentrating rather on
the psychological implications of his first love-affair than on the war he
caused. In focusing on an un-heroic, even “bucolic” episode from the young
Alexander’s life, it presents us with a picture of him before he became
the famous Paris of the Iliad.5 The story’s real protagonist moreover is
a woman, the nymph Oenone, and the outline provides various cues for
her to indulge in prophecies (3, 4), speeches (4, 6) and laments (7) thus
creating interesting possibilities for a-chronological narrative and digres-
sion. The subject matter is sentimental and full of pathos, but does not
necessitate an endless or complicated narrative; it would allow handling
on a relatively brief scale.
4 Cf. on these criteria Baumbach in this volume, pp. 144–145; see also Fantuzzi’s (1998a)
description of epyllion. For the opinion that this could be epyllion-material, cf. Lightfoot
(1999) 68.
5 Cf. Pseudo-Moschus’ Epithalamium of Achilles and Deidamia 10–11; the story eventually
told in that poem likewise focuses on the erotic “prequel” of Achilles’ heroic life. Another
famous example is Theoc. Id. 11: Polyphemus as shepherd in love with Galatea.
In thinking this the stuff of epyllion, would we be anywhere near the

truth? Perhaps; since Parthenius himself writes in his remarkable dedi-
catory preface to the EP that he has collected this and other stories for
Cornelius Gallus (he of Vergil’s 6th and 10th Eclogues) with the express
purpose that the latter might “render the most appropriate ones in hex-
ameters and elegiac verses” (2: αὐτῷ τέ σοι παρέσται εἰς ἔπη καὶ ἐλεγείας
ἀνάγειν τὰ μάλιστα ἐξ αὐτῶν ἁρμόδια). If fully narrative poems were envis-
aged, this could well have included epyllia. But this is certainly not the
only possibility. The material also seems eminently fit for treatment in the
segmented narratives of hexametric catalogue poetry, or in the exempla
of Latin love elegies, to name only some examples.6 In the following I
will investigate the question of what kind of poetry Parthenius may have
expected Gallus (and perhaps others) to write.7 The issue of whether this
might have included epyllion will be addressed and the apparent lack of
differentiation between elegy and hexameter for practical purposes will
receive special attention.8
2. Parthenius and the Erotika Pathemata
Since the life of Parthenius is often taken to impinge on the importance

of his works, I will offer a brief biography. The Suda states that he was a
Hellenized Greek from Bithynia, either Nicaea or Myrlea (Apamea) who
was brought to Rome as a young(ish) man in 73 BC, during the Mithridatic
Wars.9 The Cinna among whose loot Parthenius ended up is commonly
identified with Gaius Helvius Cinna, the poet of the (lost) “epyllion”
6 The version of Ovid’s Heroides 5 shows that other elegiac treatments in other hard to
define genres such as the fictive elegiac epistle (cf. Ars am. 3.346) were equally possible.
7 Cairns (1979) 226 reasonably assumes that the dedication to Gallus is also a rhetori-
cal ploy by which Parthenius is “commending his own handbook to the general public, by
declaring it to have been written ‘by appointment to Cornelius Gallus’.”
8 Prima facie, this lack of differentiation contrasts with statements like: Callimachi num-
eris non est dicendus Achilles / Cydippe non est oris Homere, tibi (Ov. Rem. am. 381–382) and
plus valet in amore Mimnermi versus Homero (Prop. 1.9.11). But it is of course possible that
such rigid separations of epic and elegy were tendentious or disingenuous. Ovid’s “epic”
Metamorphoses treat a great amount of erotic material, while his elegiac Fasti do not, or
at least not prominently. In Ars am. 1.11–18 Eros is explicitly compared to Achilles, which
seems a provocative statement.
9 Suda s.v. Î€αρθένιος. See Lightfoot (1999) 11 and Francese (2001) 17–24 on the justifica-
tion of the date of his arrival in Rome. It is usually assumed that Parthenius was already
an accomplished poet when he was brought to Rome, on the grounds that the fragments
of the Arete refer only to geographical landmarks in the region of Bithynia. Of course this
need not be conclusive.
Zmyrna (hailed by Catullus in Carmen 95; the same Cinna is probably

named in Ecl. 9.35), or else with his father.10 The information that Parthe-
nius lived until Emperor Tiberius (ἐβίω μέχρι Τιβερίου τοῦ Îıαίσαρος) can
be correct only if it is taken to mean that Tiberius (born in 42 BC) was a
(very) young man while Parthenius was still alive, since he only became
emperor in 14 AD.11
According to the Suda, Parthenius was a poet in various meters (μέτρων
διαφόρων ποιητής), whose major works included the elegiac Aphrodite, and
one or more poems on his dead wife Arete.12 Today this poetical output is
virtually lost, the longest comprehensible poetical fragment being six lines
long.13 Yet we hear that once Parthenius was among the favorite poets of
Emperor Tiberius and that Hadrian thought highly of him.14 Apart from
finding favor with princes, Parthenius’ poetry seems to have been admired
by what may be considered able judges, namely Vergil and Cornelius
Gallus. Macrobius (Sat. 5.17.18) quotes a line (Georg. 1.437) which Vergil
purportedly translated from Parthenius and states that he was Vergil’s
grammaticus in Graecis.15 The phrase probably signifies that Parthenius
acted as Vergil’s consultant in matters of Greek mythology, poetry, (geo-
graphical) nomenclature and the like.16 What supports this notion is the
dedicatory preface of the EP, as noted addressed to the elegist Cornelius
10 For troubles surrounding the identification of this Cinna, see Lightfoot (1999) 12–13.
Clausen (1964) argued that the Zmyrna was influenced by Parthenius on the grounds of
the occurrence of the obscure Cyprian river Satrachus in this epyllion and in Parthenius
fr. 29, in the context of an Adonis-narrative (Adonis was the son of Zmyrna and Cinyras.)
Otis (21966) 27 concurred.
11 Assuming that Parthenius came to Rome as an adult, this would lead to impossibly
high old age. It has been suggested, however, that this information was influenced by the
fact that Tiberius greatly admired Parthenius’ poetry (cf. Suet. Vit. Tib. 70).
12 ἔγραψε δὲ ἐλεγείας, ᾿Î‚φροδίτην, ᾿Î‚ρήτης ἐπικήδειον τῆς γαμετῆς, ᾿Î‚ρήτης ἐγκώμιον ἐν
τρισὶ βιβλίοις. See Lightfoot (1999) 30–33 on the question whether this implies one or more
elegies on Arete.
13 In referring to Parthenius’ works I adopt the numbering of Lightfoot’s (2009) edition.
14 Tiberius: Suetonius Vit. Tib. 70.2; Hadrian: IG XIV 1089 (Kaibel Ep. Gr. 1089; GVI 2050;
Page FGE 568–571), an epigram to commemorate the restoration of Parthenius’ grave in
Tivoli.
15 Cf. similar claims in Aul. Gell. Noct. Att. 13.27.1; 9.9.3. The fact that Donatus says that
Vergil bore the sobriquet Parthenias (“Parthenius’ little friend” perhaps rather than “the
maidenlike”) might confirm this.
16 Cf. e.g. the way in which the word grammaticus is used in Suet. Vit. Tib. 70: Maxime
tamen curauit [sc. Tiberius] notitiam historiae fabularis usque ad ineptias atque derisum;
nam et grammaticos, quod genus hominum praecipue, ut diximus, appetebat, eius modi fere
quaestionibus experiebatur: “Quae mater Hecubae, quod Achilli nomen inter uirgines fuisset,
quid Sirenes cantare sint solitae.”
Gallus, in which Parthenius says he has compiled a collection of love sto-

ries as a hypomnema for Gallus.17
Î€Î‚ΡΘÎŁÎšÎŽΟÎ£ ÎıΟΡÎšÎŠÎłÎŽΩÎŽ ÎfiÎ‚ÎłÎłΩÎŽ ΧÎ‚ÎŽΡÎŁÎŽÎš.
(1) Μάλιστα σοὶ δοκῶν ἁρμόττειν, Îıορνήλιε Îfiάλλε, τὴν ἄθροισιν τῶν ἐρωτικῶν
παθημάτων ἀναλεξάμενος ὡς ὅτι πλεῖστα ἐν βραχυτάτοις ἀπέσταλκα. τὰ γὰρ
παρά τισι τῶν ποιητῶν κείμενα τούτων, μὴ αὐτοτελῶς λελεγμένα, κατανοήσεις
ἐκ τῶνδε τὰ πλεῖστα· (2) αὐτῷ τέ σοι παρέσται εἰς ἔπη καὶ ἐλεγείας ἀνάγειν τὰ
μάλιστα ἐξ αὐτῶν ἁρμόδια. <μηδὲ> διὰ τὸ μὴ παρεῖναι τὸ περιττὸν αὐτοῖς, ὃ δὴ
σὺ μετέρχῃ, χεῖρον περὶ αὐτῶν ἐννοηθῇς· οἱονεὶ γὰρ ὑπομνηματίων τρόπον αὐτὰ
συνελεξάμεθα, καὶ σοὶ νυνὶ τὴν χρῆσιν ὁμοίαν, ὡς ἔοικε, παρέξεται.
Thinking, Cornelius Gallus, that the collection of sufferings in love was very
appropriate to you, I have selected them and sent them to you in as brief a
form as possible. For those among the present collection that occur in cer-
tain poets where they are not narrated in their own right, you will find out
for the most part from what follows. You too, will be able to render the most
suitable of them in hexameters and elegiacs. Think none the worse of them
because they lack that quality of refined elaboration which you pursue. For
I have collected them after the fashion of a little notebook and they will, I
trust, serve you in the same way. (transl. Lightfoot [1999])
What did this “little notebook” look like? The entire collection consists of
36 short stories, which might qualify as “myths” in that they tell—more or
less—traditional tales that address questions of some relevance to soci-
ety; in particular how (not) to handle erotic desire.18 However, many are
strictly bound to local traditions (e.g. the Southern-Italian aetiological tale
of Hipparinus and Antileon, EP 7) and some concern individuals from the
relatively near past (e.g. Cleonymus and Chilonis, EP 23, contemporaries
of Pyrrhus of Epirus). In general, the supernatural and the gods play a
minor role.19 According to a recognizably Hellenistic aesthetic, the stories
17 The writing of prose hypomnemata, anything from thematically ordered compila-

tions to synopses and epitomes of works of prose and poetry, for the use of other authors,
be they poets or writers of prose, was broadly practiced in the Hellenistic and Roman era.
Books were expensive and often hard to come by, and browsing the libraries was a time-
consuming activity which many authors who also fulfilled public roles (like Cornelius Gal-
lus, who held various high military functions) simply lacked the time for. On the history
and characteristics of hypomnemata see Lightfoot (1999) 217–222; Francese (2001) 37–46
with further bibliography there. See further Lightfoot (1999) 368–371 on translation and
interpretation of the preface of the EP.
18 Cf. Burkert’s (1979) definition of myth: “a traditional tale with secondary, partial ref-
erence to something of collective importance” (23).
19 E.g. in EP 15 Daphne is said to be the daughter of Amyclas rather than of the river
Ladon, and in 20, Orion is a boorish lout rather than a giant; the gods play significant roles
only in 15 (Apollo, in love with Daphne), 27 (Athena avenging a poor weaving woman) and
33 (Niobe arousing Leto’s anger).
either concern obscure characters (e.g. Herippe and the Gaul, EP 8), or
else relate little-known events from the lives of well-known characters
(e.g. Odysseus and Aeolus’ daughter Polymele, EP 2; Paris and Oenone,
EP 4, Achilles and Peisidice, EP 21). The single topic is intractable erotic
passion, mostly resulting in gruesome bloodshed: murder, mutilation and
suicide are rife (the exceptions are EP 1, 2, 12, 16, 30, where no one gets
killed). In this respect they not only differ from the topics of Hellenistic
poets like Callimachus or Theocritus,20 but also from the Romance novel,
with which they have sometimes (mistakenly) been connected.21
The collection concentrates on heterosexual couples and especially on
women and their feelings, although it contains two stories of male homo-
sexual lovers (EP 7, 24). Among its erotic themes, two taboo motifs unfa-
miliar from Hellenistic poetry, but frequent in Latin epyllia (inspired by
the EP?), keep returning: there is a striking concentration of incestuous
passions (father and daughter EP 13, 33; mother and son EP 17, 34; brother
and sister EP 2, 5, 11, 31), and we also find a large number of tales involving
a girl’s irresistible passion for the enemy’s commander (mostly) leading to
high treason (the so-called Tarpeia-motif, EP 5, 9, 21, 22, 23).22 Of course
the incest-theme has a long history in Greek literature (the story of Oedi-
pus may already be found in Od. 11.271–280, apart from its famous treat-
ment in Sophocles’ tragedies), but the great concentration here suggests
that the theme was for some reason very much en vogue.23 Approaching
this issue from a poetical angle, Francese plausibly suggests that it was
used by poets of the age
20 The exception that comes to mind is [Theocritus] 23, the so-called Suicide para-
clausithyron.
21 So most prominently Rohde (31914) 121–127.
22 A good third is the breach of moral codes of hospitality (EP 2, 14, 18); other plots
centre on the effects of erotic jealousy or suspicion, mourning for deceased beloveds, illicit
affairs, or greed. The majority of these incest and treason stories may be reduced to a
simple pattern: the protagonist becomes aware of his/her abject passion; he/she tries to
resist; he/she succumbs; the passion is consummated and/or revealed; disaster ensues. Cf.
Francese (2000) 151–155, building on the structural analysis of incest narratives in Latin
poetry by Verducci (1985) 181–234.
23 Two fragments of Parthenius’ own poetry (frs. 28 and 33) also treat this theme,
and there is further evidence that he wrote on Smyrna and her father (fr. 29). Cinna and
Ovid treated the Smyrna-story as well; Ovid further also treated the Byblis-story and the
story of the siblings Macareus and Canace (which is not found in extant fragments of
Parthenius).
to extend the boundaries of the love story genre, rather than to evoke the
primal shiver of tragedy. The shock of the act remains, but it is derived not
from the violation of the taboo, but from the juxtaposition of the incest with
normal romantic codes, which it ironizes and denaturalizes.24
As Francese recognizes, this may be applied more broadly to encompass
the theme of high treason for erotic motives, or other perverse and unhappy
passions as well (cf. the pseudo-Vergilian Ciris, Prop. 4.4, Tarpeia).
Where did Parthenius find this material? The Byzantine scholiast has in
many cases noted which other, earlier, authors also told the story25 and,
as far as it may be checked, these indications appear to be essentially cor-
rect, although it is unclear whether they refer to sources or rather parallels
of Parthenius’ accounts.26 Despite the fact that in the preface Parthenius
specifically emphasizes the part of the stories that derives from poetical
sources (τὰÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€παρά τισι τῶν ποιητῶν κείμενα), a great number of them
are actually referred by the scholiast to historiographical27 or even peri-
patetic-philosophical28 prose accounts, suggesting that Parthenius must
have browsed more than just the scrolls of poetic predecessors.29 Yet, for
some reason these prose authors apparently were not thought interesting
24 Francese (2001) 152.

25 The EP are preserved in the Codex Palatinus Graecus 398 dating from the ninth
century, together with works by Antoninus Liberalis and Hanno The Carthaginian. In
some cases the scholiast clearly did not find parallels and noted a ligature of the Ο and Υ,
presumably meaning οὐ (“I could not find anything”); sometimes even this indication is
absent. It is generally accepted that these indications (Lightfoot [1999], passim calls them
manchettes) were not provided by Parthenius himself. Parthenius does occasionally name
and quote authors, cf. discussion below.
26 Whenever the version named by the scholiast survives, Parthenius’ own treatment
does not have the appearance of a mere synopsis, cf. Francese (2001) 84–89, an analysis of
the parallels or sources of EP 9.
27 EP 4: Cephalon of Gergithia, Trojan Histories; EP 4: Nicander, On Poets (?); EP 6: The-
agenes; Hegesippus, Pallenian History; EP 7: Phanias of Eresus; EP 8: Aristodemus of Nysa,
Histories; EP 9: Andriscus, Naxian History; EP 11: Aristocritus, Milesian Histories; EP 14: “The
writers of Milesian History”; EP 15: Phylarchus, Book 15 of his Histories; EP 16: Hegesippus,
Pallenian History; EP 19: Andriscus, Naxian History; EP 25: Phylarchus; EP 29: Timaeus, Sicil-
ian History; EP 33: Xanthus, Lydian History; Neanthes; EP 34: Hellanicus, Trojan Histories;
Cephalon of Gergithia; EP 36: Asclepiades of Myrlea, Bithynian History.
28 EP 9 and EP 18: Theophrastus, Political Crises; EP 14: Aristotle (an unnamed work).
29 EP 1: Nicaenetus of Samos, Lyrcus; Apollonius of Rhodes, Caunus; EP 2: Philetas,
Hermes; EP 3: Sophocles, Euryalus; EP 5: Hermesianax, Leontion; EP 11: Apollonius of Rho-
des, (The Foundation of ) Caunus; EP 13: Euphorion, Thrax; Dectadas (? unattested name);
EP 30: the otherwise unknown Diodorus of Elea, Elegies; EP 22: Licymnius of Chios (lyric
poetry); Hermesianax; EP 25: Euphorion, Thrax; EP 27: Moero, Curses; EP 28: Euphorion,
Apollodorus; Apollonius, Argonautica; EP 33: Simmias of Rhodes.
enough to be named on their own account. This implies that Parthenius’

concern is not so much with the correct rendering of his sources as with
anecdote and plot; where his material derives from is much less interest-
ing than to what use it may now be put.30
In some cases more than one version of a particular story is given. Thus
in EP 11, where the variant of the story stems from the question whether it
was Byblis who fell in love with Caunus or vice versa, Parthenius quotes
verse elaborations of both stories, noting that the story that it was
Byblis, the version he has versified himself, is the majority view (EP 11.3
οἱ δὲ πλείουςÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€φασίνÂ€.Â€.Â€.). This seems not so much to imply that he holds
this to be more likely as that he perhaps thinks it offers a fine opportu-
nity for painting a maiden desperately in love (cf. the general tendency to
concentrate on women’s feelings).31 But we may equally think that he is
offering Gallus the possibility of inserting both variants in his final elabo-
ration, a mannerism not rare in Hellenistic poetry.32
Parthenius claims that the material he has taken from other poets has
not been treated independently or completely (μὴ αὐτοτελῶς λελεγμένα);
the stories are only alluded to in earlier authors, not told in their own
right.33 In many cases this is arguably the reason for the fact that they are
abstruse and out of the way. Of course this answers perfectly to a taste
that prefers the piquancy of untrodden paths combined with the learn-
ing of the library. It allows the envisaged versifier the paradoxical erudite
originality of a “new” and yet traditional story, which he may treat as he
likes, unhampered by overwhelming examples set by famous predeces-
sors. A fortiori this would apply for—obscure—prose authors.
30 This may be contrasted with the way in which Callimachus names his prose source,
Xenomedes of Ceos in fr. 75.76 (Acontius and Cydippe), where he explicitly calls him
πρέσβυς ἐτητυμίῃ μεμελημένος “the old man concerned with truth.” In general, the exten-
sive mining of prose treatises for material (without explicit source-indications) is a well-
established characteristic of learned Hellenistic poetry.
31 Other instances: 14: Cleoboea is alternatively named Philaechme; 26: Apriate was
killed by Trambelus or killed herself; 28: Cyzicus died because he wanted to save Cleite
from her incestuous father, or because the Argonauts accidentally killed him; 32 gives an
additional note on the origins of the name of the thicket where Anthippe is accidentally
slain; 33 provides an obscure variant of the Niobe-story.
32 Cf. Lightfoot (1999) 272, quoting Lyne (1978b) 125 on Ciris 54–91. We may also think
of Callimachus’ Hymn to Zeus, where variations of the myth are made into a major theme,
or Ap. Rhod. Argon. 4.982–990.
33 See Lightfoot (1999) 369.
3. “ἐλεγειοποιὸς καὶ μέτρων διαφόρων ποιητής”: The Poetry of Parthenius
We set out to answer the question what kind of poetry Parthenius expected
the EP to inspire, and in particular whether epyllia might be among them,
and if so, how they might differ from elegies. Since the EP’s preface does
not appear to address in any detail theoretical issues of contemporary
generic classification, I have likewise chosen to approach the question
from a practical angle, and compare the material in the EP with the kind
of poetry that was de facto composed by Parthenius and his addressee.34
To begin with, we may look at the fragments of Parthenius’ own poetry.
Elegies clearly take pride of place among his works,35 but he apparently
wrote in (many?) other meters besides. Some surviving fragments attest
to his writing hexameters (frs. 33–34), but there are no recognizable lyric
or iambic fragments. The Aphrodite and Epicedium of Arete and the Enco-
mium of Arete in Three Books are repeatedly singled out in the testimonia
and may therefore be major works.36 They appear to have been elegiac;
the two last titles may however refer to the same work.37 Despite the
unrevealing formulation in the Suda (περὶ μεταμορφώσεως ἔγραψε), it is
likely that Parthenius’ Metamorphoses too were a work of poetry.38 Other
sources attest to the existence of more elegiac and hexametric poems with
titles suggesting either mythological subject matter (consisting perhaps of
hymns and narrative poetry, just possibly “epyllia”) or more personal top-
ics (possibly epicedia, epithalamia and propemptika).39
34 Also, a complete discussion of the difficult material of ancient theories about epic
and elegy would go beyond the scope of a single paper. For some useful remarks on what
ancient theorists say about form and content of small epic, see Koster (1970) 124–130 and
Gutzwiller in this volume.
35 Cf. Suda s.v. Î€αρϑένιος; the epigram by Hadrian (SH 605d), Erycius AP 7.377, Pollianus
AP 11.130.
36 Suda; SH 605d (Hadrian?) also singles out Arete among his achievements.
37 Parth. frs. 2–5, a heavily-mutilated vellum codex with marginal scholia, were con-
vincingly argued by Pfeiffer (1943) 23–32 to derive from the lament on Arete. I follow Light-
foot (1999) 134, who tentatively assumes that the epicedium should be identified with the
three-book encomium. The only problem with this identification is that epicedia were
usually briefer.
38 Cf Lightfoot (1999) 113, on the basis of Suda Îš 261, on a poet Nestor, who wrote
Μεταμορφώσεις, ὥσπερ καὶ Î€αρθένιος ὁ Îšικαεύς, and fr. 24, a scholium on Dionysius Per-
iegetes reproducing the account of the name of the Saronic sea which Parthenius would
have given in his Metamorphoses.
39 The titles Aphrodite (fr. 7), Delos (frs. 10–12), Leucadiae (fr. 14) (elegiac), Anthippe (frs.
15–16), Heracles (frs. 19–22), Iphiclus (fr. 23) and Metamorphoses (fr. 24ab) (either hexamet-
ric or elegiac) suggest narrative treatment of myth, while Arete (frs. 1–5), Epicedium for
Archelais (fr. 6), (To) Bias (frs. 8–9) (elegiac), Crinagoras (fr. 13), Epicedium for Auxithemis
Ancient testimonies mostly align the style and subject matter of Parthe-
nius’ poetry with that of Callimachus and Euphorion.40 He is also named
in combination with Lycophron and Rhianus.41 Critics take him to task for
his long-windedness, perhaps in digressions, and his difficult, recherché
vocabulary is remarked upon, as is his choice of obscure myths.42 The epi-
grammatist Erycius (AP 7.377), finally, harshly abuses the (dead) Parthe-
nius, calling him a slave and condemning his elegies on what appear to
be moral grounds (μιαρογλώσσου, l. 2; μυσαρῶν ἀπλυσίην ἐλέγων, l. 4), and
because he would have spoken in offensive terms of Homer’s Odyssey and
Iliad (ll. 5–6). A more or less consistent picture emerges: Parthenius was a
learned, “Hellenistic” poet, writing in a recherché vocabulary and digres-
sive style on abstruse, insalubrious subjects of the kind Euphorion liked
(we shall see that he too favors perverse affairs with violent endings), in a
style influenced by Callimachus. On these grounds he has been seen as the
last of the Alexandrians, the man who “brought Callimachus to Rome.”43
Parthenius’ two longest surviving poetical fragments seem to bear the
characterizations of the testimonia out. Although it is unknown from
which poems they derive and what their precise function in the context
was, they may serve to illustrate his erudition, his sophisticated language
and meter,44 and the “elegant, even mannered construction of [his] lines,
their careful syntactic balance, imagery and euphony.”45 Of the two frag-
ments, one is elegiac (fr. 28) and one hexametric (fr. 33), but they are
remarkably alike in subject matter, in that both treat stories of maidens
suffering from pernicious incestuous passions, in one case for the girl’s
(fr. 17) and Propemptikon (fr. 26) (hexametric or elegiac) suggest more personal poetry. It
is hard to know what to make of the title Eidolophanes (fr. 18, either hexametric or ele-
giac) or of the claim in a scholium on Vergil that Parthenius wrote a Greek Moretum (cod.
Ambrosianus T 21 sup = fr. 25).
40 Respectively Luc. De hist. conscr. 56–57, AP 11.130 and Luc. De hist. conscr. 56–57,
Suet. Tib. 70.2.
41 Respectively Artemidorus Oneirocr. 4.63; Suet. Tib. 70.2.
42 Respectively Luc. De hist. conscr. 56–57, AP 7.377 and AP 11.130, Galen De sent. med.
ap. Kalbfleisch (1942) 377 and Artemidorus Oneirocr. 4.63.
43 Clausen (1964) 187–188; Seth-Smith (1981) 63.
44 Fr. 33 includes two four-syllabic spondeiazontes at verse end; cf. Cicero (Ad Att. 7.2.1)
who appears to name this as a mannerism favored by the poetae novi.
45 Cf. Francese (2001) 47–58; Lightfoot (2001) 177–181, 187–191; van Groningen (1953)
emphasizes the importance of euphony for Parthenius; Clausen (1964) 190 has pointed to
the elaborate structural symmetries in fr. 33.
own father (fr. 28: Comaetho and Cydnus), in the other for her brother
(fr. 33: Byblis and Caunus, quoted by Parthenius himself in EP 11).46
παρθένος ἣ Îıιλίκων εἶχεν ἀνακτορίην,
ἀγχίγαμος δ’ ἔπελεν, καθαρῷ δ’ ἐπεμαίνετο Îıύδνῳ,
Îıύπριδος ἐξ ἀδύτων πυρσὸν ἀναψαμένη,
εἰσόκε μιν Îıύπρις πηγὴν θέτο, μῖξε δ’ ἔρωτι
Îıύδνου καὶ νύμφης ὑδατόεντα γάμον.
A maiden ruling over the Cilicians,
to wedlock near, she raved with love for Cydnus,
lighting a torch for him from Cypris’ shrine;
till, rendering her a spring, Cypris conjoined
of river and nymph an aqueous match.
(fr. 28, Comaetho, transl. Lightfoot [1999])
ἡ δ’ ὅτε δή <ῥ’> ὀλοοῖο κασιγνήτου νόον ἔγνω,

κλαῖεν ἀηδονίδων θαμινώτερον, αἵ τ’ ἐνὶ βήσσῃς
Î£ιθονίῳ κούρῳ πέρι μυρίον αἰάζουσιν.
καί ῥα κατὰ στυφελοῖο σαρωνίδος αὐτίκα μίτρην
ἁψαμένη δειρὴν ἐνεθήκατο· ταὶ δ’ ἐπ’ ἐκείνῃ
βεύδεα παρθενικαὶ Μιλησίδες ἐρρήξαντο.
And once she knew her cruel brother’s intent,
her shrieks came thicker than the
nightingales’ in woods who ever mourn the Thracian lad.
Her girdle to a rugged oak she
tied, and laid her neck within.
And over her Milesian maidens rent their lovely robes.
(fr. 33, Byblis, transl. Lightfoot [1999])
If we wanted to tease out possible generic differences from these frag-
ments, it may be noted that whereas the elegiac Comaetho-fragment sug-
gests very brief and contained treatment (Lightfoot [1999] 179 speaks of
an “Alexandrian footnote”), the hexametrical Byblis-fragment seems to
have been part of a slightly longer narrative. Judging by the context of
its citation in Eustathius (quoting Stephanus Byzantius), the Comaetho-
fragment moreover derives from a description of a fountain at the Cilician
village of Glaphyrae.47 This suggests a geographical, aetiological narrative,
perhaps focusing on metamorphoses, since Comaetho turns into a spring;
the story may therefore derive from Parthenius’ Metamorphoses. All the
46 It may or may not be relevant that an author named Parthenius apparently made it
his specialty to write of παρθένοι, (fr. 28.1; fr. 33.6). In relation to fr. 28, the editors of SH
moreover point out that Cydnus had a son named Parthenius who became the eponym of
the Cilician city Parthenia.
47 Steph. Byz. ap. Eustath. Il. 2.712 = 327.37; cf. Lightfoot (1999) 177–178.
same, it may have been part of an elegy enumerating the fates of unhappy
maidens, or more broadly exemplifying unhappy loves, in the manner of a
thematically inspired catalogue like Hermesianax’ Leontion.
The hexametric Byblis-fragment has tentatively been interpreted as
part of an “epylliac” digression embedded in a longer narrative, e.g. incor-
porated in an ekphrasis shedding light on the fate of the protagonists of
the main story through contrast or analogy (cf. Moschus’ Europa).48 All
the same, it may have been the ending of a longer narrative in a poem on
a small scale (cf. Theocritus’ Idyll 13). Alternatively, it may have been one
tale of unhappy love in a series, again in the popular manner of Hellenis-
tic catalogue poetry, only in hexameters (e.g. Moero’s Curses, Euphorion’s
Thrax).49 Although it does not contain, in its present state, a metamor-
phosis, the context suggests that there may well have been one;50 so this
fragment too could possibly derive from the Metamorphoses, if they were
hexametric rather than elegiac.
So what can we say about Parthenius’ output? Lightfoot states that the
question of whether it included epyllia is “misguided, if it presupposes any-
thing too precise,” since, in the manner of Allen,51 she sees the existence of
epyllia as a definable category as “a self-generated problem caused by the
modern imposition of the word on innocent ancient sources.” However,
even if we take the term loosely, “we simply do not know whether any
of Parthenius’ poems were straight narratives on mythological themes . . .
The Anthippe, for example, could have been [a straight narrative on a
mythological theme], but could also have been, for example, a mono-
logue by the distressed heroine, like the Megara.”52 The elegiac side is
somewhat more revealing: since we hardly hear of any substantial Greek
elegy (narrative or otherwise) in the centuries following Callimachus, this
automatically makes Parthenius’ elegies more or less unique in his own
time.53 Moreover, if the Arete was indeed a multi-book elegy, which had
as its theme or motif the death of the poet’s wife, it may have owed some-
thing to one of the only three other known (long) elegies named after
48 Cazzaniga (1961) 51 n. 20 suspects that it was part of an ekphrasis.

49 The fact that the Thrax of Euphorion is actually named as the source of the story of
Apriate and Trambelus (EP 26) illustrates that the EP would have been perfectly adaptable
to curse poetry.
50 Cf. Lightfoot (1999) 438.
51 Allen (1940) 1–26; 515–518; (1958) 515–518.
52 Lightfoot (1999) 49.
53 Cf. the discussion of scanty testimonies for Hellenistic (post-Callimachean) elegy in
Lightfoot (1999) 24–28. It may be noted that epigram (by then a genre in its own right)
was flourishing.
women, the Nanno of Mimnermus, the Lyde of Antimachus and the Leon-
tion of Hermesianax.54 This suggests a literary sensibility that looked back
to the heyday of Hellenism and beyond.55 Fragments from the Arete are
too scanty, however, to confirm whether it was predominantly personal in
the manner of Latin elegy, or predominantly mythical like its Hellenistic
predecessors.
4. Chalcidico quae sunt mihi condita versu: The Poetry of Gallus
The next avenue to go down would naturally be a discussion of the poetry

of Gallus, the elusive elegist to whom the EP were offered according to
the preface. Practically nothing of his poetry survives apart from the
scanty remains from Qaşr Ibrīm, and we are therefore relegated to the
testimonia, which point to love-elegy.56 Servius, for instance, notes about
his poetical production: amorum suorum de Cytheride [= Lycoris] scripsit
libros quattuor; which may well indicate a volume under the title Amores.
We do not know either at what point in his career the EP were offered to
him. Was he already an established poet of love elegy by then? And if so,
then why might Parthenius expect him to write hexametric poetry, and
what kind?
Such questions inevitably lead to the tantalizing Vergilian Eclogues 6
and 10, where echoes of Gallan poetic themes have been suspected. On
the basis of these Eclogues, it has been surmised that Gallus at some
point was inspired by Euphorion in themes or style, although it remains
debated whether he incorporated these themes or style into his elegies,
or was (considering) writing hexameters on them.57 At Ecl. 10.50 Gallus is
54 The single other known example of a multi-book elegy is Callimachus’ Aetia, which
does not concentrate only on erotic motifs; it may have been a response to Antimachus’
Lyde. About the contents of the Nanno little is known (cf. West [1974]; Bowie [1997a]). The
Lyde appears to have contained a collection of (tragic) myths which the poet told himself
to reconcile himself to the death of Lyde (cf. Matthews [1996], Wyss [1936]). The Leontion
is a catalogue elegy modeled after the Hesiodic Ehoeae, recounting the purported love-
affairs of famous poets and thinkers. From the fragments of the Arete it is hard to see to
which (if any) of these elegies the poem owed anything.
55 It has been suspected that the Arete inspired the elegiacs by Calvus on his dead wife
or mistress Quintilia; see Courtney (1993) 208 on frs. 15–16.
56 Prominently among them Quint. 10.1.93, Ovid. Am. 1.15.29–30, Tr. 4.10.53, Prop.
2.34.91–92, Mart. 8.73.6 etc. See in general Courtney (1993) 259–270, with bibiography.
57 Pace Courtney (1993) 262. He thinks Chalcidico at 10.50 refers to the obscure alleged
inventor of elegy Theocles of Chalcis, because he cannot believe that Vergil meant to say
that Gallus had written hexameters, the meter in which Euphorion predominantly wrote.
made to refer to Chalcidico quae sunt mihi condita versu, which is gener-
ally taken as a reference to Euphorion of Chalcis (cf. Quint. 10.1.56), and
hence to poetry in his style and/or meter. It seems that the remark of
Servius on Ecl. 6.72 his tibi Grynei nemoris dicatur origo may shed some
more light on what kind of topics this could have included. He states hoc
autem Euphorionis continent carmina, quae Gallus transtulit in sermonem
Latinum (“this is treated in the poems of Euphorion, which Gallus trans-
lated into Latin”). Hoc must mean Grynei nemoris origo “(the origin of)
the Grynean wood.” The exact reference of carmina, quae is unclear, how-
ever (perhaps rather the Euphorionic corpus as a whole rather than a par-
ticular poem), as is the exact meaning of transtulit (which might denote
anything from exact translation to creative emulation). Yet, the connec-
tion with Euphorion is more than likely.58 There is moreover a probable
connection with Parthenius too, since he wrote about the Grynean wood
himself (fr. 10, the elegiac Delos). Such poems on (the foundation of) the
Grynean wood might have incorporated the contest between Calchas and
Teiresias as recounted by [Hesiod] in the Melampodia, or, more likely, the
(aetiological) tale of the Amazon Gryne, raped by Apollo.59
So this brings us to the next practically blank space in literary history,
the fragmentary poet Euphorion, who, from what fragments we have,
appears to have favored abstruse mythological tales in obscure language.
The testimonia and fragments suggest that he wrote mainly in hexam-
eters.60 There is however another important link back from Euphorion to
Parthenius, since the scholiast names Euphorion as a parallel or source
for three of the EP (13, 26, 28), which means he outnumbers all the other
authors indicated in the “manchettes.” We might tentatively suggest,
then, that at least these three tales would have seemed likely to appeal to
Gallus, if he was, as Vergil implies, an emulator of Euphorion. What kind
of stories are they? Two involve incest between father and daughter (13:
Harpalyce and Clymenus; 28: Cleite and Piasus),61 the former ending in
fratricide and anthropophagism; the third (26: Apriate and Trambelus) is
Fantuzzi (1998b) 268 proposes that Euphorion is thought of as an elegist because Gallus
was inspired by him.
58 Of course this has been related with Cicero’s sneer at the cantores Euphorionis (Cic.
Tusc. 3.45), who may or may not have included Gallus.
59 Cf. Lyne (1978a) 186; Lightfoot (1999) 149–151.
60 On Euphorion see most recently Magnelli (2001); older studies include Meineke
(1843), van Groningen (1953) and (1977).
61 The first of the two variants related is attributed to Euphorion; the second to Apol-
lonius Rhodius, Argonautica 1.
a story of attempted rape resulting in murder or suicide. They stand out,

especially EP 13, for their perverse and ghastly character. It is not exactly
what we would picture in Roman love elegy, even by a poet who is char-
acterized as durior than Propertius and Tibullus (Quint. 10.1.93). However,
as noted, the incest theme did enjoy a remarkable efflorescence in hexa-
metric Latin poetry of this period,62 and these themes derive from a Greek
hexameter poet (Euphorion) as well. This makes it marginally more likely
that if Gallus was indeed going to versify this particular material, he would
do it in hexameters rather than in elegiacs. Of course then the next—
unanswerable—question would be whether such hexameter poems would
be “epyllia,” like the Latin examples, or rather belong to the genre which
Euphorion appears also to have favored, the catalogue poem.63
5. Poetical Quotations in the Erotika Pathemata
Our final resource in attempting to answer what kind of poetry Parthenius

may have expected Gallus to write will be to look at the poetry Parthe-
nius himself quotes in the EP. These quotations are presumably meant
to exemplify poetic style,64 and it is suggestive that they include both
elegy (Alexander Aetolus EP 14) and hexameter poetry (Nicaenetus of
Samos EP 11; Parthenius EP 11; Apollonius of Rhodes EP 21;65 Nicander)
as if to provide examples of treatments in both generic types proposed
in the preface. But why were these authors and these passages selected?
Do they hold any clues for the kind of poetry Parthenius expected Gallus
to write? To begin with, all quotes save Parthenius’ own Byblis-fragment
derive from (early) Hellenistic poets, viz. Nicaenetus, Apollonius, Alexan-
der Aetolus, Nicander; this is unsurprising considering Parthenius’ own
stylistic preferences as characterized by the testimonia and borne out by
62 Cf. Cinna’s Zmyrna, later Ovid’s Myrrha (Met. 10.298–502) and Byblis (Met. 9.450) and
Macareus and Canace (Her. 11).
63 Euphorion’s Thrax, Chiliades and Arae or Poteriokleptes all appear to have been curse
poems. A number of Euphorion’s titles suggest mythological epyllia (e.g. Dionysus, Diony-
sus Kechènos, Hyacinthus), while some titles simply withstand interpretation (e.g. Apol-
lodorus, Artemidorus, Xenius, Polychares); see Fantuzzi (1998b).
64 The one exception appears to be the three-line hexameter quote in EP 34, from
Nicander, which appears to be inserted “only to illustrate the variant version of Corythos’
parentage” (a son of Helen and Paris, rather than of Oenone and Paris), Lightfoot (1999)
547. For this reason I exclude this fragment from discussion.
65 The author whom Parthenius names “the writer of the Lesbou Ktisis” is, since Müller,
usually identified with Apollonius of Rhodes.
his own fragments. Hexametric fragments dominate in quantity (4 to 1),

but the elegiac fragment by Alexander Aetolus stands out for its length
(34 lines).66 The passages from Nicaenetus, Apollonius and Alexander all
appear to relate complete stories.67 Parthenius’ and Nicander’s fragments
are only quoted to illustrate an episode (Byblis’ death) and a genealogical
point (Corythos’ mother) respectively.
Returning to our point of departure, we may wonder whether these frag-
ments exemplify in any way the handling of narrative Parthenius advises
Gallus to adopt in his own poetry. Considering the statement in the pref-
ace that the stories Parthenius collected from poetry were retold because
they were not narrated in their own right, this does not appear prima
facie likely, although we might argue that he has chosen these examples
precisely because now, in the context of his own clear prose summary,
Gallus may enjoy them and see the charm of their allusive narrative style,
which he may wish to emulate. One of the reasons why the fragments are
interesting is that they show there were apparently many ways of treating
“epylliac” subject matter besides in an epyllion. They evoke the style of
catalogue poetry (Parthenius, and Alexander Aetolus, perhaps Nicaene-
tus), or look like digressions in longer narratives (in particular Parthe-
nius). Alternatively they may look like independent episodes in longer
colonization or foundation-epics (Apollonius, Nicaenetus). This does not
necessarily mean that Parthenius did not wish Gallus to write epyllia at
all: to cite a whole epyllion would simply have exceeded the scope of
Parthenius’ project. All the same, if he had wanted to, he might perhaps
have mentioned examples of epyllia by name. On balance, it seems epyllia
may have been among the possibilities, but only as one type among vari-
ous other types of poetry for which the material might be used.
The fragments show clear similarities in style and approach: all of them
use a learned vocabulary, characterized by glosses and rare geographical
epithets and patronymics; most of them include comparisons, if not full-
blown similes, and they are full of colorful adjectives, but they all have
their distinctive qualities as well, a selection of which may be highlighted.
Nicaenetus (EP 11) appears to tell the story of Byblis and Caunus in a
highly allusive, even elliptic fashion—although this may also be the effect
66 The longest of the other fragments is from the Lesbou Ktisis (22 lines); Nicaenetus’
fragment is ten lines; Parthenius’ six, and Nicander’s three.
67 Although in the fragment from Apollonius, Parthenius leaves out the lines in which
Peisidice’s dealing with Achilles must have been described. Cf. Lightfoot (1999) 502.
of lacunas in the text68—passing straightway from the mention of Cau-

nus’ love for Byblis to his wanderings (Βυβλίδα, τῆς ἤτοι ἀέκων ἠράσσατο
Îıαῦνος / βῆ δε †φερενδιος† φεύγων ὀφιώδεα †Kύπρον†, “Byblis, whom Cau-
nus loved against his will. He left all in the midday heat, the snaky Cyprus
fledÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€,” ll. 6–7). Byblis’ sad fate after her brother’s departure is said to be
like that of the ὀλολύγων (perhaps a nightingale, or a night owl).69 The
implication—not explicated elsewhere—is that Byblis loved Caunus
back. In its brevity and allusiveness, the fragment has a markedly enig-
matic character; prior knowledge of the myth would definitely be helpful,
or even necessary, for its understanding. It focuses on genealogy and the
foundation myth of Caunus’ city rather than on the psychological detail
of the incestuous passion between the siblings.
Parthenius’ own account of Byblis’ death (also found in EP 11) by con-
trast indicates a fuller and more (sym)pathetic treatment of the story
focusing on the emotions of the female protagonist. Caunus’ reaction to
Byblis’ love is qualified (and therefore presumably focalized by Byblis)
as “her cruel brother’s intent” (ὀλοοῖο κασιγνήτου νόον). With a traditional
comparison referring to the story of Tereus, Procne and Itys, the girl is said
to have lamented “more thickly than nightingales, who in the brushwood
lament ceaselessly over the Sithonian lad” (ἀηδονίδων θαμινώτερον, αἵ τ’ ἐνὶ
βήσσῃς / Î£ιθονίῳ κούρῳ πέρι μυρίον αἰάζουσιν).70 The unusual comparative
θαμινώτερον and the rare epithet Î£ιθονίος (Thracian) stand out.71 The sub-
sequent mention of Byblis’ hanging herself from a “rough oak” (στυφελοῖο
σαρωνίδος [note the ambiguity of the adjective, with its connotations of
cruelty]), mourned by maidens who rend their finely woven robes (indi-
cated with the “exquisite gloss” βεύδεα [cf. Lightfoot [1999] 442 ad loc.]),
invites compassion and emphasises Byblis’ fragility: like the maidens who
now mourn her, she was a delicate, anguished creature. Perhaps by jux-
taposing these two accounts Parthenius wished to illustrate how a story
that had been told allusively and in passing only (Nicaenetus) might be
elaborated into a independent, highly pathetic narrative, focusing on its
psychological implications.
68 White (1982), cf. Francese (2001) 141; contra Meineke (1843) 11–13, Martini (1902) 61,
Lightfoot (1999) 439.
69 Lightfoot (1999) 442: the line is modeled on Il. 9.563.
70 The mournful cries of the nightingale for Itys are a topos from Od. 19.518–523
onwards.
71 The rare epithet appears in Latin first in Ecl. 10.66, another suggestion of a connec-
tion between Gallus and Parthenius.
The fragment from the Lesbou Ktisis (EP 21) deals with the maiden Pei-
sidice, who falls in love with Achilles as he is attacking her city and prom-
ises to let him enter if he will marry her. He agrees, but, after all is said
and done, he is so disgusted with her treason that he has her stoned to
death by his men. The poetical fragment is characterized by a Homericiz-
ing vocabulary and a very overt narrator who directs the narratees’ atten-
tion through prolepsis (“fair Kypris, though, had injury in store”: θαλερὴ
δέ μιν ἄασε Îıύπρις, 6), (morally) evaluative language and the selection
of highly pathetic scenes (“with her own eyes she could endure to see
her parents riven with bronze”: ἔτλη δ’ οἷσιν ἰδέσθαι ἐν ὀφθαλμοῖσι τοκῆας /
χαλκῷ ἐληλαμένους, 13–14), and dramatic irony, opposing the protagonist’s
deluded hopes with her eventual fate (“so that she might live in Phthia
in the home of a hero, as his prudent wife—but he would not fulfil these
promises”: ὄφραÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€Φθίῃ δ’ ἔνι δώματα ναίοι ἀνδρὸς ἀριστῆος πινυτὴ δάμαρ.72
οὐδ’ ὅγ’ ἔμελλεν / τὰ ῥέξειν, 17–19). The effect is one of pathos. Overall the
narrator acts as if he is (and invites his narratees to be) perplexed and
shocked by the behavior of the love-crazed Peisidice, although he also
seems to pity her (αἰνότατον γάμον εἴσιδε, “she witnessed the bitterest mar-
riage,” 20; δυσάμμορος, “poor wretch,” 21).
From a formal point of view, the most experimental fragment doubtless
is the longest, the 34 lines of the elegiac Apollo by Alexander Aetolus (EP
14) which appear to take the form of a prophecy by the god, narrated in
the future tense. It has been suspected that, somewhat like Lycophron’s
Alexandra,73 the poem as a whole consisted of a series of such prophe-
cies, perhaps connected in theme.74 The fragment is quoted to illustrate
the story of Antheus, a beautiful young man who stays at the court of
Phobius the Neleid as a hostage. There the wife of Phobius, Cleoboea or
Philaechme (she is unnamed in the fragment), falls in love with him, and
tries to seduce him. Angered by his refusal, she makes him enter a well-
pit to retrieve an allegedly lost golden pitcher (or, as Parthenius records,
a partridge). When he is inside she sends a crushing millstone after him,
but afterwards, repenting of her deed, she kills herself.
72 The phrase, no doubt ironically underlining Peisidice’s misjudgment of her own acts,
evokes the prudent wife par excellence, Penelope, cf. Od. 11.445; 20.131; 21.103.
73 It is perhaps significant that both poets are said to have belonged to the Alexandrian
Pleiad, the guild of tragedians active under Ptolemy Philadelphus.
74 As we know from other Hellenistic poetry, prophecies were popular in encomiastic
contexts, cf. e.g. Callimachus Hymn to Delos 162–195. This may or may not apply to this text.
The device of telling the story (after the event) as if it was an inevi-
table disaster waiting to befall Antheus sometime in the future arguably
heightens its pathos. This also has repercussions for the trustworthiness
of the narrator. So, the direct speech (lines 20–25, the woman’s request to
retrieve the golden pail) implies that omniscient Apollo actually predicts
what the woman will say, as well as how she will phrase it. Another strik-
ing feature is the allusive narrative embedded in the comparison in lines
7–10, where it is stated that Antheus will be as fresh and attractive as the
son of a certain Melissus (10–15).
ἐλεύσεται ἔκγονος ᾿Î‚νθεύς
ὅρκι’ ὁμηρείης πίστ’ ἐπιβωσάμενος,
πρωθήβης, ἔαρος θαλερώτεροςÎ⁄ οὐδὲ Μελίσσῳ
Î€ειρήνης τοιόνδ’ ἀλφεσίβοιον ὕδωρ
θηλήσει †μέγαν υἱόν· ἀφ’ οὗ μέγα χάρμα Îıορίνθῳ
ἔσται καὶ βριαροῖς ἄλγεα Βακχιάδαις.
Antheus shall come, son of Assessus’ king,
his plea based on a hostage’s sure oaths,
in bloom of youth, fresher than spring—
no son so tender shall Peirene’s fruitful flood
rear for Melissus, whence shall come great joy to Corinth,
to cruel Bacchiads a woe. (transl. Lightfoot [1999])
This Melissus’ son, Actaeon, was desired by the aristocratic Bacchiad
Archias of Corinth and killed in a struggle when the latter tried to abduct
him. To avenge him, Melissus killed himself at the Isthmia, thus calling
down Poseidon’s anger on those responsible. As a result Archias went
into exile and founded Syracuse. The rather obscure story was presum-
ably taken from a writer of Sicilian history (e.g. Timaeus) and forms a min-
iature Erotikon Pathema in its own right. Parthenius may have thought
the passage a particularly attractive case of extremely allusive embedded
narrative, worthy of emulation, or at least consideration. Of course its
enigmatic nature fits in perfectly with the oracular language one would
expect from Apollo (think, mutatis mutandis, of the constant stream of
enigmas in the Alexandra of Lycophron). But more important is its func-
tion, which is not spelled out by the reference: the fate of Actaeon and its
results effectively foreshadow the fate of Antheus. Both beautiful young
men die as the result of being the object of a passion they do not return,
and both their deaths result in the exile of the ruler (Phobius leaves Mil-
etus as a result of his wife’s misdeeds like Archias left Corinth). Clearly we
are meant to see that, as narrator, Apollo cannot help but be prophetic,
even in an apparently innocuous comparison.75 Its form and function are

exquisitely intertwined and provide a puzzle: how alike are Antheus and
Actaeon and why?
As so many of the EP turn on parallel themes, it is not hard to see how
a similar effect could be achieved by embedding one story (e.g. EP 22,
the story of Nanis, daughter of Croesus, who betrays her city to Cyrus)
into the narrative of an analogous (e.g. EP 21, Peisidice) or contrasting one
(e.g. EP 9, Polycrite, who saves her city through the love of the enemy
commander).
In these necessarily brief discussions I hope to have hit upon some sty-
listic features that may have seemed particularly instructive or worthy of
emulation to Parthenius. Looking at cumulative evidence, I would say that
rare vocabulary, subtle comparisons, morally loaded adjectives, literary
allusions, and an overt narrator using unexpected narrative techniques
were definitely among the devices recommended to Gallus. This will pre-
sumably not come as a surprise; these are the hallmarks of Hellenistic
and “neoteric” poetic style, and they may be found in all its high genres,
including “epyllion.” What does, however, merit consideration is the fact
that most of the cited fragments do not appear to exemplify “epylliac” nar-
rative per se, but rather catalogue poetry or longer, episodic narrative.
6. Conclusion: “εἰς ἔπη καὶ ἐλεγείας ἀνάγειν” Revisited
Having considered the material from various angles, we may now once
more return to our original point of departure and ask: what kind of
poetry did Parthenius expect Gallus and others inspired by his collection
to write? Is it likely that epyllia were among them? If we define epyllia
as narrative poems centering on a single action or event, embellished
with various digressions, the evidence becomes rather meager. Apart from
the subject matter of most narratives in the EP (erotic, pathetic, by-ways
of the heroic world, a preoccupation with female protagonists and psy-
chology), there do not appear to be many pointers in that direction. But,
75 Prophetic foreshadowing similarly appears to be present in the ambiguous phrases

λιθόλευστον ἔρον (meaning Cleoboea’s reprehensible love “that deserves punishment by
stoning” but also suggesting the manner of Antheus’ death); καθαψαμένη (18, where Cleo-
boea clasps Antheus’ knees) foreshadows ὑπὸ δειρὴν / ἁψαμένη (38–39, of Cleoboea hang-
ing herself). And there are more examples.
paradoxically, precisely this subject matter is the criterion epyllia are usu-
ally defined with.
To begin with, Parthenius himself may or may not have written epyl-
lia: this is simply impossible to prove. Much less is it possible to deduct
from this that his writing in this field was the initial inspiration for Roman
poets to write epyllia.76 So how about Gallus? Although Gallus may have
written hexametric poetry if he wished to emulate Euphorion, it does
not follow that this would automatically have included epyllia, since, as
the fragments suggest, Euphorion also, or perhaps predominantly, wrote
catalogue poems. Interestingly, the poems quoted in the EP do not illus-
trate epylliac treatment either, but rather show how Parthenius’ material
had originally been used in elegiac and hexametric catalogues or histori-
cal episodic narratives. This means that, even if the possibility that the
EP inspired epyllia does not need to be excluded, the direct connection
between Parthenius and epyllion, once so fervently propounded, does
not appear to have much grounding in the surviving evidence. It is bet-
ter to say that the epylliac treatment some of the themes from the EP
and Parthenius’ own poetry eventually received shows that epyllia were
one way, and a highly successful one, in which the peculiar erotic themes
popular in various genres in this era might be handled. Rather than defin-
ing a genre, these themes appear to define an era in literary history.
The EP allow us tantalizing glimpses of what appears to have been
the amazingly rich poetic landscape of the Hellenistic and Roman era.
Besides narrative poetry, we get the impression that there must have been
a wealth of erotic mythological poetry in various forms. The sources the
poets drew on were diverse, probably including a wide variety of histori-
ography and peripatetic treatises as well as earlier poetry. This material
came to the poets in ways we might not have expected: embedded narra-
tives were collected, taken out of their contexts, and retold in prose to be
subsequently elaborated and embellished in verse.
Surprisingly enough, in this era, people like Parthenius who were prac-
ticed and knowledgeable in the fields of elegiac and hexametric poetry
thought that both meters might treat similar themes—in all sorts of man-
ners. Apart from subject matter, the poetic examples Parthenius quotes
reveal that a refined style was a characteristic uniting these genres at this
time. What this suggests is that the division between elegy (of any kind)
76 As Lyne had claimed. Lightfoot (1999) 68 shows that “epyllia” had been written
before Parthenius’ arrival in Rome, e.g. by the young Cicero.
and hexameter poetry (of any kind) was not as essential in this period
as the unifying characteristics they now shared above all else: recherché
topics, prominently among them erotic myths, and an utterly refined,
novel style.
This may make us wonder whether it is still valid to see this kind of
erotic hexameter poetry as standing in a direct or indirect Auseinanderset-
zung with heroic epic. In the first place this depends on how one defines
heroic epic (the Iliad is patently different from the Odyssey or from the
Argonautica). Still, before the Hellenistic era a pathetic treatment of erotic
stories is infrequent in epic. It is therefore perhaps more important to
note that erotic concerns were more emphatically at home in elegy from
an early point on (Mimnermus’ Nanno, Antimachus’ Lyde).77 We might
therefore consider whether it is not more likely that erotic epyllia (espe-
cially the later Latin examples) branched off from heroic poetry under
the influence of erotic elegies and formed, so to speak, elegiac little epics,
which had as much in common with elegy as with epic, or more.
77 For the great number of topic and modes that elegy could contain, cf. West (1974)
1–18; Bowie (1997a).
A Virgo infelix:
Calvus’ Io vis-à-vis Other Cow-And-Bull Stories
Regina Höschele
In his treatise on How to Write History Lucian advises the aspiring his-
toriographer to keep his account short and straightforward, to focus on
the essential and to restrain himself in describing mountains, walls, rivers
and the like: “You must not give the impression that you are making a
tasteless display of word-painting, and expatiating independently while
the history takes care of itself. Just a light touch—no more than meets the
need of clearness—, and you should pass on, evading the snare, and deny-
ing yourself all such indulgences” (57).1 He goes on to present Homer as an
exemplary narrator, since, in spite of being a poet, the old master quickly
passed by Tantalus, Ixion and Tityus in his depiction of the Underworld.
“If Parthenius, Euphorion, or Callimachus had been in his place,” Lucian
adds, “how many lines do you suppose it would have taken to get the
water to Tantalus’s lip; how many more to set Ixion spinning?” (57).2
Lucian’s sarcastic questions implicitly equate the excruciating tortures
of archetypical sinners in hell with the tantalizing sufferings of readers
faced with a narrative that indulges in digressions, revels in ostensi-
bly insignificant details, and thus continuously delays the main action.
Let’s face it: for all its cynicism this definition of Hellenistic story-telling
hits the mark. In fact, we may easily apply it to epyllia written in the
Alexandrian-neoteric style, with ekphraseis and other narrative detours
playing a major role, while the actual events, i.e. the purported subject
matter of the text, frequently seem marginalized.3 As is well known, all
three authors mentioned by Lucian had a major impact on Latin poets
of the first century BC. The influence of Callimachus on Catullus & Co.
1 If not otherwise indicated, translations are my own; here I am quoting the English ver-
sion of Fowler/Fowler (1905). μάλιστα δὲ σωφρονητέον ἐν ταῖς τῶν ὀρῶν ἢ τειχῶν ἢ ποταμῶν
ἑρμηνείαις ὡς μὴ δύναμιν λόγων ἀπειροκάλως παρεπιδείκνυσθαι δοκοίης καὶ τὸ σαυτοῦ δρᾶν
παρεὶς τὴν ἱστορίαν, ἀλλ’ ὀλίγον προσαψάμενος τοῦ χρησίμου καὶ σαφοῦς ἕνεκα μεταβήσῃ
ἐκφυγὼν τὸν ἰξὸν τὸν ἐν τῷ πράγματι καὶ τὴν τοιαύτην ἅπασαν λιχνείαν.
2 εἰ δὲ Παρθένιος ἢ Εὐφορίων ἢ Καλλίμαχος ἔλεγεν, πόσοις ἂν οἴει ἔπεσι τὸ ὕδωρ ἄχρι πρὸς
τὸ χεῖλος τοῦ Ταντάλου ἤγαγεν· εἶτα πόσοις ἂν ᾿Ιξίονα ἐκύλισεν.
3 Cf. the description of how a neoteric poet would tell the story of the three little pigs in
Ross (1975) 244. For the poetics of deferral in the Hesiodic Aspis cf. Bing in this volume.
334 regina höschele
is palpable throughout their writings.4 Cicero deprecatingly characterizes

the cantores Euphorionis as people despising the works of Ennius (Tusc.
3.45)—whether or not his remark is targeted at the so-called neoterics,
it surely attests to Euphorion’s popularity among a certain group of lite-
rati during that period.5 Last but not least, Parthenius, a prisoner of war
brought to Rome by Helvius Cinna (or his father) and commonly believed
to have contributed to the rising interest in Alexandrian poetry,6 dedicates
to Gallus his Erotika Pathemata, a prose collection of mostly esoteric love
stories, which the Roman author is invited to transform into elegies—and
ἔπη. What kind of hexameter narratives does Parthenius have in mind
here if not the sort of miniature epic that is usually referred to as “epyl-
lion” by modern scholars?7
In an article on the neoteric poets, Lyne identified the epyllion as “a (if
not the) typical genre of the school.”8 While it is very problematic to speak
of a “school” in connection with this literary movement,9 there can be no
doubt that the format and generic features of such small-scale epics would
particularly appeal to poets like Catullus. To be sure, his Peleus and Thetis
(c. 64) is the only extant epyllion we may properly classify as “neoteric,”
but we do know of others—although their remnants are meager at best,
they give evidence of a vibrant epyllic production in pre-Augustan Rome.
In fact, we can associate precisely one epyllion with each of the writers
conventionally named among the neoterics, which led Deichgräber to the
4 Cf. e.g. Wimmel (1960), Clausen (1964), Hunter (2006), Knox (2007) and Höschele
(2009).
5 On the meaning of the term cantores Euphorionis and its reference cf. Crowther (1970)
325–327, Allen (1972), Tuplin (1977) and (1979), Lightfoot (1999) 56–67 and Tilg (2006). For
Euphorion’s poetry cf. Magnelli (2002).
6 Clausen’s (1964) 187–188 hypothesis that Callimachus was brought to Rome by none
other than Parthenius proved to be highly influential. A critical discussion of Parthenius’
impact on Roman poetry is offered by Lightfoot (1999) 50–76; for a survey of his life cf.
Lightfoot (1999) 9–16.
7 On the Erotika Pathemata and elegiac epyllia cf. Klooster in this volume.
8 Lyne (1978a) 169. Similarly Wheeler (1934): “The composition of one of these minia-
ture epics became a mark of caste” (80) and “from the point of view of the young poets the
epyllion represented the pinnacle of artistic effort” (81).
9 The modern designation “neoterics” goes back to two phrases Cicero uses with refer-
ence to an unspecified group of new(er) poets: at Att. 7.2.1 he inserts a rather mannered
versus spondiacus, suggesting that Atticus may sell it to one of hoi neoteroi as his own; at
Orat. 161 Cicero observes that the poetae novi avoid a certain metrical practice found in
earlier poetry. On the two terms cf. Crowther (1970) 322–325. Firmly rejecting the idea of
a school, Courtney (1993) 189 postulates that we “should cease to use” the word “neoter-
ics.” Against this radical view cf. Johnson (2007) 177, who likewise rejects the notion of an
organized poetic school, but acknowledges the rise of a new aesthetics, which we may
well call “neoteric.”
calvus’ io vis-à-vis other cow-and-bull stories 335
assumption “daß jeder Neoteriker sich auf ein Epyllion beschränkte” ([1971]
61). He furthermore conjectured that all of them placed their one epyllion,
like Catullus, in the middle of their respective libellus; this hypothesis,
however, is entirely speculative (in fact, it strikes me as highly unlikely
that a whole series of books by different poets would have been structured
in exactly the same manner). Whatever the case, the genre seems to have
been quite the rage around the middle of the first century BC.
Cinna famously worked on his Zmyrna, a poem about Myrrha’s incestu-
ous love for her father (cf. Catullus c. 95),10 for nine years. The result of
his labors was a text of such obscurity that Lucius Crassicius Pansa felt
prompted to elucidate its learned verses in a commentary, which accord-
ing to Suetonius turned him into a celebrity over night (Gram. 18.1–2).11
Lucian would probably not have been too pleased with the narrative pace
of this text, nor with Cinna’s display of erudition and verbal virtuosity.12
Similar in spirit, if not as notorious, were in all likelihood Cornificius’
Glaucus,13 Valerius Cato’s Diana or Dictynna,14 and Calvus’ Io. In what fol-
lows, I would like to explore this last poem in more detail, examining
its remaining fragments in comparison with other epyllic epiphanies of
Zeus’ beloved. One of Io’s most striking features is, indeed, her repeated
appearance in the context of epyllia or epyllion-like tales. Judging from
our (admittedly limited) knowledge of ancient literature, we might even
call her epyllion’s It Girl, the epyllic heroine par excellence.
10 All that survives from this text is one word (8 H = 8 FPL) and three hexameters (9+10
H = 7+6 FPL). The fragments are quoted after Hollis (2007); for earlier editions see Bläns-
dorf (31995) and Courtney (1993). On Cinna’s Zmyrna cf. Hollis (2007) 14–15 and 29–38.
11 His scholarly achievement was even commemorated in an epigram, transmitted by
Suetonius, that wittily equates textual with sexual penetration: Uni Crassicio se credere
Smyrna probavit: / desinite, indocti, coniugio hanc petere. / Soli Crassicio se dixit nubere velle, /
intima cui soli nota sua extiterint. “Smyrna has agreed to entrust herself to one man alone,
Crassicius: cease, you unlettered ones, to seek her in marriage. She said she wanted to
marry only Crassicius, since her intimate parts were known exclusively to him.”
12 Ovid refers to Cinna as the “composer of slow-moving Myrrha” (conditor tardae Myr-
rhae, Ib. 539). He is most likely thinking of the long time it took Cinna to write his poem,
but Myrrha’s “tardiness” may also have manifested itself in the epyllion’s narrative speed.
13 The epyllion probably told of the sea-god Glaucus and his love for Scylla (cf. Ov. Met.
13.904–14.69); only a single line has come down to us (96 H = 2 FPL).
14 The Dictynna is completely lost—despite Cinna’s wish for its everlasting fame (14 H).
Cato’s poem may have dealt with the myth of Britomartis, which is told as an inset story
in the pseudo-Vergilian Ciris (294–309). The latter seems to be highly indebted to neot-
eric epyllia, in particular to Cinna’s Zmyrna; cf. Sudhaus (1907), Lyne (1978b) and Thomas
(1981). For a recent study of the Ciris, an epyllion about Scylla’s love of Minos and betrayal
of her father, see Bretzigheimer (2005).
In Moschus’ Europa Io’s fate is recalled by means of an ekphrasis and

serves as a mise-en-abyme of the main plot (37–62). Calvus has taken this
inset tale and turned it into the primary subject matter of his epyllion—
whether or not this reversal of narrative layers was coupled with the
insertion of another story into that of Io, we do not know. Vergil, at any
rate, once more uses Io’s rape and subsequent transformation into a cow
as a foil to the amorous entanglements of a (quasi-)epyllic heroine with
a bovine lover (Ecl. 6.45–60). Last but not least, Ovid’s Metamorphoses
(1.583–751) contains an amusing version of the tale complete with inset
story; like Vergil, the Augustan poet alludes to Calvus’ Io and plays with
the literary form of the epyllion, embedded, as it is, into the larger context
of an episodic epic.15
Before turning to the remaining fragments of the neoteric text, let us
briefly review the narrative function of Io’s ekphrastic appearance in
Moschus.16 The Hellenistic epyllion tells of Europa’s encounter with bovine
Zeus and her nautical journey from Phoenicia to Crete on the god’s back.
Moschus’ tale is full of erotic ambiguities and bristling with sexual ten-
sion, from the portrayal of the finely horned bull (ἠύκερως βοῦς, 153)—the
very symbol of masculine potency!—to the girl’s seemingly naïve curiosity
and more-than-willing engagement with the divine creature.17 The light-
hearted humor of this account18 stands in stark contrast to the traditional
theme of a maiden’s rape, which clearly lurks in its background and is
evoked in the pictorial representation of Io’s fate.19 The 26-line ekphrasis
of Europa’s basket20 starts with a delineation of the object’s history, which
15 I am not concerned here with Io’s appearance in other genres such as tragedy, for
which cf. Houriez (1992). In Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica Orpheus recalls the fate of Io as
the Argonauts cross the Bosporus, which is named after her (cf. my n. 29); for a reading of
this account vis-à-vis Ovid’s Metamorphoses cf. von Albrecht (1977).
16 On the Europa cf. Dornseiff (1955), Bühler (1960), Gutzwiller (1981) 63–73, Schmiel
(1981), Campbell (1991), Cusset (2001), Merriam (2001) 51–73, Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004)
215–224, Kuhlmann (2004) and Petrain (2006).
17 On Europa’s sexual awakening and the titillating quality of the text cf. Fantuzzi/
Hunter (2004) 216–220 and Gutzwiller (1981) 66–71. Europa is, inter alia, pictured holding
on to the “bull’s long horn” (τῇ μὲν ἔχεν ταύρου δολιχὸν κέρας, 126); for the obscene connota-
tion of κέρας cf. Pretagostini (1984).
18 Dornseiff (1955) 181 rightly characterizes the poem as “ausgesprochen witzig.” On the
humor of Europa’s speech cf. Dornseiff (1955) and Gutzwiller (1981) 72–73.
19 Cf. Kuhlmann (2004) 287: “Bei Moschos zeigt das Ambiente der Europa-Zeus-Hand-
lung auf der ersten narrativen Ebene jedoch keine dunklen Seiten oder gar Gewaltsamkeit,
wenngleich mit der Io-Darstellung auf der zweiten Erzählebene ein solcher Unterton im
Bewusstsein des Rezipienten erhalten bleibt.”
20 For the ekphrasis qua ekphrasis cf. in particular Perutelli (1978) 91–94, Manakidou
(1993) 174–211 and Petrain (2006).
spans three generations (37–42): Hephaestus first offered it as a gift to

Poseidon’s beloved Libya; she then passed it on to her daughter-in-law
Telephassa, according to Moschus a blood relation of hers (ἥτε οἱ αἵματος
ἔσκεν, 41),21 who in turn gave it to her own child, Europa.
The basket’s original purpose as a gift for the union of a god with a
mortal woman anticipates Europa’s affair with Zeus; her fate not only par-
allels that of her grandmother,22 but also finds its correspondence in the
narrative illustrated on the basket.23 The first vignette fashioned by Hep-
haestus depicts Io running across the sea in the shape of a cow (44–49),24
the second shows her in Egypt, regaining her human form through the
intervention of Zeus (50–54), while the third represents the dead body
of Io’s guardian Argus together with a bird rising from his blood (55–61).
Evidently, the reader has to be familiar with the myth to make sense of
these episodes by supplying the missing links25—a crucial detail lacking
from the account is, for instance, the actual rape (the pictorial narrative
only sets in after Zeus has slept with the girl, thus passing over the most
delicate moment). Significantly, Io is none other than the grandmother of
Libya and thus great-great-grandmother of our heroine: the penchant for
divine intercourse runs in the family!26
Moschus’ ekphrasis makes clever use of structural analogies between
various myths surrounding female descendants of Inachus; by putting the
story of her ancestor, so to speak, directly into Europa’s hands, the author
21 As Bühler (1960) 90–92 observes, a blood-relationship between Libya and Telephassa
is not attested elsewhere. He also discusses the different traditions regarding Europa’s
father (Phoenix vs. Agenor).
22 Gutzwiller (1981) 67 notes that the golden basket may be modeled on the golden
necklace, also manufactured by Hephaestus, that Zeus presents to Europa in the pseudo-
Hesiodic Catalogue of Women (fr. 141.3–7; 142 MW). For analogies between Libya and
Europa cf. Cusset (2001) 68–69.
23 For the proleptic function of the ekphrasis cf. Harrison (2001) 84: “Europa is in effect
given a coded warning which she cannot decipher and which only the reader and omni-
scient divine maker can unscramble.”
24 More precisely, the scene features her crossing of the Bosporus (Io is described as
ποντοπόρος βοῦς, 49); cf. Bühler (1960) ad loc. For this and other etymological games in the
poem cf. Paschalis (2003).
25 For the reader’s engagement in interpreting the scenes and their narrative anachrony
(the Argus episode, which comes last, actually represents the earliest stage) cf. Petrain
(2006).
26 As Hopkinson (1988) 206 remarks, “Europa inherits not only the basket, but also the
experiences depicted on it.” Moschus does not make Europa’s descent from Io explicit, but
relies on the reader’s knowledge to establish the link. He has the following genealogy in
mind: Inachus → Io + Zeus → Epaphus (+ Memphis) → Libya + Poseidon → Phoinix +
Telephassa → Europa + Zeus.
draws our attention to the resemblance of the two myths, utilizing the
one as a reflection of the other27 (as we shall see, Vergil continues this
game with subsequent generations of the Inachid clan). It is important to
note that the inset story does not simply replicate the framing narrative,
but offers a sort of specular inversion:28 Zeus’ transformation into a bull,
for example, is mirrored in Io’s metamorphosis into a cow, while Europa’s
centripetal journey from Asia to Europe (Crete) reverses Io’s centrifugal
migration from Europe to Asia (Egypt).29
In narrative terms, Io too can be said to have moved from periphery
to center, as Calvus turned her into the heroine of his epyllion, replacing
the fragmentary, allusive and anachronic version of Io’s story provided
by Moschus’ ekphrasis with a more detailed account. What this narra-
tive looked like, what events it related at what length and in what order,
we are unable to determine. Not more than six lines of the neoteric text
have come down to us, preserved by Servius Auctus and various grammar-
ians—here are the extant fragments (quoted after Hollis’ recent edition
and translation):
20 H (9 FPL)
a virgo infelix, herbis pasceris amaris
ah, wretched girl, you will feed on bitter grasses (Serv. Dan. ad Verg. Ecl. 6.47
“a virgo infelix”)
21 H (10 FPL)
mens mea, dira sibi praedicens omnia, vecors
my distraught mind, foretelling everything dreadful for itself ([Prob.] GLK
IV p. 234)
27 In addition, Hephaestus’ artfully fashioned basket, his μέγας πόνος (38), may be taken
as a metapoetic image for the poem as a whole; cf. Cusset (2001) 69.
28 On this phenomenon see Perutelli (1978). For the “clear, but shifting set of verbal
analogies and parallels” between the two stories, cf. Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004) 222–223.
29 Analyzing the geo-political significance of the Inachid myth, Calame (2000) 122 notes:
“on pourra dire qu’Eurôpé est appelée à suivre un itinéraire qui inverse dans sa direction
et dans ses figures celui de son arrière-grand-mère Iô.” Importantly, Io, Libya and Europa
are all eponymous heroines—no surprise, considering their lineage. Cf. Hannah (2004)
144: “Whatever else Inachid heroes and heroines might get up toÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€their primary function
within the superstructure of Greek myth is to found nations, to initiate royal genealogies,
and to lend their names to continents and ethnic groups, whether they be Greek or ori-
ental.” Io is thought to stand behind the names of the Ionian gulf (cf. Aesch. PV 733–734),
Euboea (cf. Hes. fr. 296 MW) and the Bosporus (cf. Val. Flac. 4.345–347, Apollod. 2.1). On
Io’s Euboean connection cf. Mitchell (2001).
22 H (11 FPL)
cum gravis ingenti conivere pupula somno
when the pupil, heavy with overwhelming sleep, <? began> to close (Prisc.
GLK II p. 479)
23 H (12 FPL)
frigida iam celeri superatur Bistonis ora
now in her haste she passes the chill Bistonian coastland ([Prob.] GLK IV
p. 226)
24 H (13 FPL)
sol quoque perpetuos meminit requiescere cursus
even the sun takes thought to rest his perpetual journeyings (Serv. Dan. ad
Verg. Ecl. 8.4. “requierunt flumina cursus”)
25 H (15 FPL)
partus gravido portabat in alvo
was carrying the unborn child in her laden womb (Charis, p. 101 B2 = GLK
I p. 80)
The first fragment in the series (20 H) is undoubtedly the most famous
one, as both Vergil and Ovid allude to it (their intertextual engagement
with Calvus will be discussed below). Scholars commonly attribute the
verse to the narrator of the epyllion; thus Hollis (2007) 64: “The present
line might be addressed to Io by her father Inachus when he discovers her
plight (cf. Met. 1.651sqq.), or even by Jupiter, but it seems most likely that
the poet is apostrophizing his own character, a mannerism much beloved
by CallimachusÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€and taken over, perhaps particularly from Callimachus,
by Roman poets.”30 This interpretation sounds, indeed, very plausible,
especially in view of the fact that the internal narrator of Eclogue 6, Sile-
nus, twice uses the phrase a virgo infelix to address Pasiphae, a character
within his song.31 There is, however, something we ought to take into con-
sideration, which might lead us to a different reading—one that has, to
my knowledge, not been suggested so far.
30 Cf. Deichgräber (1971) 52: “liegt nichts näher als die Annahme, daß der Dichter selbst
sprichtÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€Daran werden wir bei fr. 9 zuerst denken und jede andere Möglichkeit, etwa ob
Juppiter so gesprochen haben könnte, ausschließen.” Thus also Traglia (21974) 145, Lyne
(1978a) 173 and Courtney (1993) 205.
31 Note, too, how the Ovidian Hypermestra, in her letter to Lynceus (Ov. Her. 14.85–108),
evokes Io’s fate and addresses the wretched “cow-girl” at length, starting with the question
quid furis, infelix? (14.93).
For a reassessment of the line we have to turn to the next fragment

(21 H), where someone states that their frenzied mind (mens mea, vecors)
is predicting dire things to itself (dira sibi praedicens).32 The speaker is
most likely Io, envisioning the sufferings she will have to face as a result
of her union with Zeus.33 If so, she could refer to the general tribulations
of a bovine life (uttering the words shortly after her metamorphosis), or
the torments of her imminent flight (following the death of Argus).34 At
any rate, Io would thus experience “den Jammer ihres Schicksals zuerst
als Wissen um das Kommende und darauf als die furchtbare Erfahrung,
in welcher sich ihr Wissen als richtig erwies” (Deichgräber [1971] 53). The
idea that the awareness of future agonies might double the pain plays a
prominent role in Ps.-Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound, where the Titan hesi-
tates to reveal the full extent of the girl’s misery, deeming it better for her
not to know everything in advance.35 I think it very likely that Io’s self-
prediction was, at least to a certain degree, inspired by this Aeschylean
scene—are we to picture Calvus’ heroine as a docta puella, who knows
her Greek tragedians? Is she able to foretell the future, since she bears the
poetic memory of Prometheus’ prophecy in her mind—undergoing a sort
of intertextual anamnesis?36
If Calvus’ Io does draw her knowledge of impending evils from Ps.-
Aeschylus’ play, we may, in fact, think of another possible scenario for
her forebodings: Io’s visions could, I submit, have manifested themselves
in the form of a prophetic dream modeled on the ὄψεις ἔννυχοι (Aesch. PV
645) that had haunted her Aeschylean incarnation, before she was raped
by Zeus.37 In Prometheus Bound, Io relates how dreams tried to lure her
32 Hollis, following Morel, puts a comma before vecors and takes omnia as accusa-
tive object going with dira (“everything dreadful”). Alternatively, one might combine it
with vecors; thus Deichgräber (1971) 52–53, who translates: “Mein Sinn, sich Furchtbares
voraussagend, ganz ohne Besinnung” (53).
33 Cf. Pascal (1916) 37, Deichgräber (1971) 52–54, Courtney (1993) 205 and Hollis (2007) 65.
34 Deichgräber (1971) 53 opts for the latter: “Wenn die mens der Io Furchtbares
voraussagt, kann dieses Leiden nicht bereits eingetreten sein, der Vers gehört also eher
dorthin, wo die Flucht noch bevorstand.” According to Hollis (2007) 65 the fragment pos-
sibly shows Io driven mad by the gadfly.
35 Cf. Aesch. PV 624–630 and 776 (in particular v. 624: τὸ μὴ μαθεῖν σοι κρεῖσσον ἢ μαθεῖν
τάδε: “it is better for you not to learn this than to learn it”).
36 I find it unlikely that Calvus included Io’s encounter with Prometheus into his tale;
cf. Deichgräber (1971) 53–54.
37 Traglia (21974) 146 likewise attributes the mind’s prediction to an earlier phase.
According to him, Io might be recalling how her mind had foreseen a dire fate resulting
from Zeus’ passion, but would not believe it: “la mia mente, che pur pressagiva dentro di
sé tutti i mali terribili che sarebbero accaduti, stolta, non volle ad essi credere!”
into succumbing to the god’s passion (PV 647–654).38 Could it not be that,
in Calvus’ version, Io foresaw all the dreadful things to come while she
was asleep, that frightful premonitions emerged from her (literary) sub-
conscious? Significantly, it is not the girl herself who makes the prophecy,
but her mens, which is thus featured as a separate entity (one is reminded
of Homeric heroes and their θυμός).39 It is, I think, just about conceiv-
able—though hardly provable—that Io’s mind entered that visionary
state in a dream.40
Be that as it may, it is crucial to note that Calvus’ epyllion seems to
have contained a scene in which Io, or her mens, anticipated the evils
awaiting her. Is it not possible, then, that the words a virgo infelix, her-
bis pasceris amaris were uttered in this same context? The verb’s future
tense indicates that the speaker of this line is envisioning the diet bovine
Io will be condemned to consume (ironically, the grasses are bitter only
if viewed from a human perspective—as Hollis notes, they “are perfectly
normal fodder for a cow”).41 Clearly, the speaker could be the narrator
of the epyllion expressing his pity for the transformed girl—but since
we know that she herself foresees that dire future (dira sibi praedicens
omnia), why not suppose for a moment that these are, in fact, Io’s own
words, a self-apostrophe?
One might object that the girl would not refer to herself in the
second person. However, there are numerous parallels for this sort of
self-address: Theocritus’ Polyphemus, for instance, famously wonders
ὦ Κύκλωψ Κύκλωψ, πᾷ τὰς φρένας ἐκπεπότασαι; (“o Cyclops, Cyclops,
where have your wits flown?,” cf. Id. 11.72), and the shepherd of Eclogue
2, whose words are modeled on the Greek line, asks himself: a, Corydon,
Corydon, quae te dementia cepit? (“o Corydon, Corydon, what madness has
taken hold of you?,” Ecl. 2.69).42 We will encounter this Latin verse again
38 Let us recall, too, that Moschus’ Europa starts with a dream that anticipates her
departure into a foreign land; on this dream and its literary models (to which we should
add Io’s prophetic dreams in Aeschylus) cf. e.g. Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004) 216–219 and Kuhl-
mann (2004) 282–284.
39 Deichgräber (1971) 53 observes: “In einem Ich redet mens zu sich selbst, und das Ich,
welches spricht, spricht von dieser mens, die sich die Zukunft voraussagt. Sprechendes Ich
und in Besinnungslosigkeit prophezeiende mens stehen sich gegenüber, und das Ich ist
sich des Zustandes bewußt.”
40 If Io was shown asleep, the scene could have nicely balanced the fatal nap of Argus
(cf. fr. 22 H).
41 Hollis (2007) 61.
42 Rumpf (1996) 224–225 argues plausibly against Leach (1966) 430–431 that Corydon is
indeed the speaker of Ecl. 2.69–73. We may also be reminded of the self-address me mis-
eram, uttered frequently by elegiac heroines (e.g. Ov. Her. 5.149, 7.98, 15.204, 17.182, 19.65,
in connection with Vergil’s allusion to Calvus in Eclogue 6. For the time

being let us simply observe that self-addresses are by no means unheard
of in ancient literature. Io could very well have uttered the words a virgo
infelix, herbis pasceris amaris as she saw herself turned into a cow, be it
that the metamorphosis has already taken place or that she foresaw it in
a dream. Alternatively, the speaker of the line might be a nightly vision
addressing the girl in imitation of Ps.-Aeschylus’ ὄψεις ἔννυχοι. In fact, their
speech starts with the apostrophe ὦ μέγ’ εὔδαιμον κόρη (“o very happy girl,”
PV 647), which seems to be the direct model of Calvus’ a virgo infelix—
are we perhaps dealing here with a witty case of oppositio in imitando?
Of course, it is all too easy to read too much into tiny fragments, and I
am well aware of how speculative these considerations are. Nonetheless,
I think we should at least ponder the possibility that the words a virgo
infelix, herbis pasceris amaris were, in one way or another, connected with
Io’s own forebodings and spoken by someone other than the narrator.
Whether Calvus described the girl’s metamorphosis into a cow at any
length, we cannot tell.43 It is, however, conceivable that his account filled
a gap left open by Moschus’ ekphrastic narrative, which focuses entirely
on Io’s transformation back into a woman, starting, as it does, with the
observation that she still is a heifer (εἰσέτι πόρτις ἐοῦσα, 45) and showing Io
at the very moment when she resumes her human form (ἐκ βοὸς εὐκεράοιο
πάλιν μετάμειβε γυναῖκα: “from a cow with beautiful horns he once again
changed her into a woman,” 52). Significantly, Ovid too passes over the
first metamorphosis in no time (inque nitentem / Inachidos vultus mutav-
erat ille iuvencam; / bos quoque formosa est: “he had changed the appear-
ance of Inachus’ daughter into that of a brilliantly white heifer; / as a cow
too she is beautiful,” Met. 1.610–612), while giving a vivid account of how
Io’s bovine shape disappears (Met. 1.738–742).44 Could it be that Ovid did
19.121); for the occurrence of this expression in Ovid’s version of Io’s story cf. my discussion
below. Other examples for self-addresses are Catullus c. 8 and its models in New Comedy
(cf. Thomas [1984]) or Medea’s speech in Eur. Med. 401–409, for which see Schadewaldt
(1926) 192. On ancient self-addresses cf. also Leo (1908) 97–113.
43 It is also unclear whether Calvus attributed the transformation to Hera (cf. Aesch.
Supp. 299) or Zeus (cf. Hes. fr. 124 MW, Ov. Met. 1.610–612).
44 Vultus capit illa priores / fitque, quod ante fuit. Fugiunt e corpore saetae, / cornua
decrescunt, fit luminis artior orbis, / contrahitur rictus, redeunt umerique manusque, / ungu-
laque in quinos dilapsa absumitur ungues. “She regains her prior looks and becomes what
she had been before. Bristles flee from her body, the horns shrink, the eye’s circle narrows,
her wide mouth contracts, shoulders and hands return, and, cleft into five nails, her hoofs
disappear.”
not feel the need to go into any details in the case of the first transforma-
tion, since this scene had featured prominently in Calvus’ epyllion?
It is worthy of note that Vergil’s description of Turnus’ shield, which
is decorated with the image of his ancestor Io, might likewise have
combined an allusion to Moschus with a nod to the neoteric poet (Aen.
7.789–792):45
At levem clipeum sublatis cornibus Io
auro insignibat, iam saetis obsita, iam bos,
argumentum ingens, et custos virginis Argus,
caelataque amnem fundens pater Inachus urna.46
While Moschus’ ekphrasis seems geared towards Io’s transformation
back into a woman (εἰσέτι πόρτις), Vergil’s scene looks back to her initial
metamorphosis: it presupposes that the girl has just been changed into a
cow (iam saetis obsita, iam bos); Argus, whose slain body is represented
on Europa’s basket, still watches over the heifer on Turnus’ shield. Obvi-
ously we cannot make out whether these lines contain any verbal remi-
niscences of Calvus’ text, but if the Vergilian ekphrasis indeed evoked an
episode from the neoteric epyllion (which is not altogether implausible),
we would be dealing with a rather complex intertextual web, with two
ekphraseis standing vis-à-vis two narrative accounts subtly complement-
ing each other. Whereas Moschus pictures bovine Io before and during
her second metamorphosis (which is narrated in detail by Ovid), Vergil
shows her after the first transformation (which was probably described at
some length by Calvus).47 While Ovid, so to speak, turns a part of Moschus’
ekphrasis (the second vignette) into a narrative proper, Vergil’s ekphrasis
might have captured a moment from Calvus’ epyllion, transforming nar-
rative into (verbal) picture.
45 Cf. Hollis (2007) 62. For the link between Vergil’s description and Moschus’ ekphrasis
cf. Hannah (2004) 154–156; on Turnus’ shield and the symbolic value of Io cf. Gale (1997)
with further bibliography. Interestingly, Dido possesses a silver object which shows the
deeds of her ancestors: caelataque in auro / fortia facta patrum, seria longissima rerum /
per tot ducta viros antiqua ab origine gentis (“and engraved in gold the heroic deeds of her
forefathers, an endless series, carried on by so many men from the tribe’s most ancient
origin,” 1.640–642)—and she too traces her lineage back to Inachus! On the intratextual
connection between her silverware and Turnus’ shield cf. Hannah (2004) 153–154.
46 “But the smooth shield is adorned with Io, made of gold, raising her horns, already
covered with bristles, already a cow, an enormous image, as well as Argus, the virgin’s
guard, and her father Inachus, flowing from an embossed urn.”
47 Note how Valerius Flaccus adds another twist to the play with temporal adverbs
(“still” vs. “already”) by stating that Io was “not yet” (nondum) a goddess when she crossed
the Bosporus (4.346).
Unfortunately, we are unable to verify this hypothetical back-and-forth

between ekphrasis and narrative, as one crucial piece is missing, and it
does not lead anywhere to lose ourselves in further speculations.48 Let
us return, then, to what can be said about Calvus’ Io with a fair degree
of certainty. As 22 H indicates, the epyllion in all likelihood related how
Argus was put to sleep by Hermes. The single pupula mentioned in this
line possibly refers to the eye that was to close last.49 How the Olympian
lured Argus to sleep, whether with the help of his magic wand or by some
other means, is unclear. Once Io was set free, Juno presumably sent the
traditional gadfly after her.50 In any case, the cow’s long errant wander-
ings, her πολύπλανοι πλάναι—to use Ps.-Aeschylus’ marvelous phrase (PV
585)—, may have offered Calvus the opportunity to display his geographic
erudition in typically neoteric fashion,51 but once again we only get the
tiniest glimpse of what might have been a long catalogue of places: fr. 23
shows us Io passing by the Bistonian, i.e. Thracian, shore, while fr. 24
probably contrasted Io’s nonstop journeys with those of the sun, which,
though ever moving, does take its regular breaks. Lastly, Calvus’ epyllion
seems to have told of Io’s pregnancy (25 H)—according to the mythical
tradition, she gave birth to Zeus’ son Epaphus after resuming her human
form in Egypt.52
Quoted outside of their original context, these fragments do not per-
mit us to determine whether Calvus related the aforementioned events
48 For a list of motifs and phrases that might have played a role in Calvus’ text cf. Hollis
(2007) 62–64.
49 Cf. Deichgräber (1971) 54 and Hollis (2007) 66. Aliter Pascal (1916) 37, who takes
pupula as a poetic singular.
50 Sudhaus (1907) 482 argues that Ciris 184 ( fertur et horribili praeceps impellitur oestro:
“she is driven and goaded headlong by a terrible frenzy/gadfly”) goes back to a line in Cal-
vus’ Io; cf. also Lyne (1978b) 177. Vergil, in his discussion of the gadfly (Georg. 3.146–156),
refers to Io’s fate in a “two-line epyllion” (Thomas [1988] 69): hoc quondam monstro hor-
ribilis exercuit iras / Inachiae Iuno pestem meditata iuvencae (“with this beast Juno once
exerted her terrible anger, contriving a plague for the Inachian heifer,” Georg. 3.152–153).
Lyne (1978b) notes that Vergil might have transferred the adjective horribilis from oestro
(in Calvus) to iras.
51 Cf. Deichgräber (1971) 55: “Der Weg der Io wird mit Angabe der einzelnen Stationen
und damit unter Verwendung von Eigennamen in größerer Zahl nachgezeichnet gewesen
sein, zur delectatio des für diese hesiodeische Form der Poesie aufgeschlossenen Lesers.”
52 As his name indicates, Epaphus was engendered by the touch of Zeus (ἐπαφῶν). This
act is represented on Moschus’ second vignette (ἐν δ’ ἦν Ζεὺς Κρονίδης ἐπαφώμενος ἠρέμα
χερσί / πόρτιος ᾿Ιναχίης τήν θ’ ἑπταπόρῳ παρὰ Νείλῳ: “and on it was Zeus, son of Cronus,
touching the Inachian heifer lightly with his hands and by the shore of seven-mouthed
Nile,” 50–51), which verbally evokes Prometheus’ prophecy in Aesch. PV 848–849: ἐνταῦθα
δή σε Ζεὺς τίθησιν ἔμφρονα / ἐπαφῶν ἀταρβεῖ χειρὶ καὶ θιγὼν μόνον. “And there Zeus brings
you back to your senses, stroking you with his hand that causes no fear and touching
you only.”
in chronological order or whether he went for a more complex narra-

tive structure. It is equally impossible to tell what the overall tone of the
epyllion was. Ross supposes that Calvus’ Io “must have been a poem of a
more serious character than our sensibilities can allow, clouded over with
animal passion, with divinity, vengeance, madness, and final release and
revelation”53—this may very well be true, but there is no way to confirm
his surmise. The reference to Io’s pregnancy, at any rate, points to her
importance as the legendary foremother of powerful rulers and heroes—
among her descendants will be the scepter-bearing sons that Zeus prom-
ises Europa at the end of Moschus’ poem (160–161). Significantly, one of
them, Minos, is to marry a woman who will lust after a bull (like Europa)
and wish nothing more than to be turned into a cow (like Io).
This leads us to our next text, which is not an epyllion proper, but very
much looks like a miniature version of a miniature epic in the Alexandrian-
neoteric style. I am referring to Silenus’ account of Pasiphae’s unnatural
desires, which forms part of the song he is compelled to perform by two
young shepherds in Eclogue 6 (45–60). With its sixteen lines the Pasiphae-
story takes up considerably more space than any other tale in the narra-
tor’s summary of Silenus’ song. It also stands out in that this is the only
section where Tityrus’ voice seems to at least partially give way to Silenus’
own words.54 Not only does he quote Pasiphae directly (55–60),55 but the
emphatic exclamation a virgo infelix (47, 52) may well be taken as a direct
imitation of how Silenus, in good neoteric fashion, addressed his own sub-
ject56 (note, too, how the verses framed by this twofold apostrophe do not
appear in reported speech).57
53 Ross (1987) 196.

54 As Breed (2000) 327 notes, “Virgil renders Silenus’ song not as what Silenus sang,
but what Tityrus tells us he sang.” The mediated nature of this rendering is marked by
the following words: canebat uti (31), refert (42), his adiungit (43), solatur (46), tum canit
(61), tum circumdat (62), tum canit (64), quid loquar (74, narrator speaking), narraverit
(78), canit (84). Breed (2000) compares the narrative technique employed here to that of
ancient ekphrasis.
55 There is one other quotation, the direct rendering of Linus’ words to Gallus at 69–73;
it is, however, embedded in indirect speech (ut LinusÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€dixerit, 67–69).
56 Putnam (1970) 207 notes: “With the use of the verb solatur the poet has already
allowed Silenus a deeper involvement in this theme than in those previously mentioned.
Before, he had only sung (canebat), mentioned (refert) his topics, or added (adiungit) to
them. Now, while he sings, he consoles as well.”
57 Thomas (1998) 675 argues that Tityrus quotes Silenus directly at 47–55; cf. also Put-
nam (1970) 207. Aliter Courtney (1990) 102, who sees in this passage an appropriation of
Silenus’ narrative by Vergil.
Et fortunatam, si numquam armenta fuissent,

Pasiphaen nivei solatur amore iuvenci.
A, virgo infelix, quae te dementia cepit!
Proetides implerunt falsis mugitibus agros,
at non tam turpis pecudum tamen ulla secuta
concubitus, quamvis collo timuisset aratrum
et saepe in levi quaesisset cornua fronte.
A, virgo infelix, tu nunc in montibus erras:
ille latus niveum molli fultus hyacintho
ilice sub nigra pallentis ruminat herbas
aut aliquam in magno sequitur grege. “Claudite, Nymphae,
Dictaeae Nymphae, nemorum iam claudite saltus,
si qua forte ferant oculis sese obvia nostris
errabunda bovis vestigia; forsitan illum
aut herba captum viridi aut armenta secutum
perducant aliquae stabula ad Gortynia vaccae.”58
At the center of this bucolic mini-epyllion59—let us call it thus—stands
Pasiphae’s unfulfilled longing for a bull that was sent to Crete by Posei-
don.60 As is well known, she will eventually mate with the beast through
the help of an artificial cow manufactured by Daedalus and give birth to
a semi-bovine monster, the Minotaur. Silenus’ song, however, shows us a
Pasiphae still wasting away with desire like a love-sick maiden (45–46),
wandering about the mountains in search of her “darling” (52) and filled
with jealousy of potential rivals (59–60).61 Her behavior is contrasted with
that of Proetus’ daughters, who, though suffering from the delusion
that they are cows, would not seek such disgraceful intercourse (turpis
58 “And Pasiphae, blessed if only there had never been cattle, he consoles with love for
a snow-white bull. Ah, wretched girl, what madness has taken hold of you! The daughters
of Proetus filled the fields with their false moos, and yet none of them went after such
disgraceful intercourse with animals, even though they feared the plough for their necks
and often looked for horns on their smooth foreheads. Ah, wretched girl, now you are
wandering about in the mountains. But he, resting his snow-white side on soft hyacinths,
is ruminating pale grasses under a dark holm-oak or is following a cow from the large
herd. ‘Close, nymphs, Dictaean nymphs, close the glens of the woods, if maybe the bull’s
wandering traces meet our eyes on the way; maybe he is spellbound by green grass or fol-
lowing the herd and some cows are leading him to the Gortynian stables.’”
59 For the epyllion-like characteristics of this section cf. Stewart (1959) 189–190, who
reads Silenus’ song as “a survey of types of poetry, especially—perhaps solely—types for
which Rome had inherited a taste from Alexandria” (183).
60 Minos had vowed to sacrifice the bull to Poseidon, but did not keep his promise.
Pasiphae’s passion was a punishment for his betrayal (cf. Apollod. 3.1).
61 Ovid’s Ars amatoria gives a brilliant portrayal of lovesick Pasiphae (1.299–326); in
his version her jealousy goes so far that she has her bovine rivals sacrificed, triumphantly
holding up their entrails (319–322).
concubitus, 49–50).62 Offering a specular inversion of its framing narra-

tive—as Leach notes, “the desire of the one is the other’s aversion”63—,
the tale of the Proetides has a function very similar to that of Io’s story
in Moschus’ Europa. Significantly, they, too, are descendants of Inachus’
daughter, as their lineage can be traced back to Belus, one of Libya’s sons.64
Once again, it all stays in the family!
It will probably not come as a surprise, then, that Io also makes her
appearance in this tale of human-bovine passion. As mentioned above,
we owe our knowledge of Calvus’ verse a virgo infelix, herbis pasceris
amaris to Servius Auctus’ commentary on Eclogue 6.47: a virgo infelix,
quae te dementia cepit! Interestingly, Vergil has coupled his allusion to
the neoteric text with a self-quotation, by combining the first half of Cal-
vus’ hexameter with the second half of his own line a Corydon, Corydon,
quae te dementia cepit (Ecl. 2.69). The apostrophe of the “wretched girl” is
repeated at line 52, where, however, it is followed by a different half-verse:
a virgo infelix, tu nunc in montibus erras. Based on the observation that the
verb errare can be used synonymously with pasci in bucolic texts, Thomas
(1979) convincingly reads this second version as a “restatement, in Virgil-
ian terms, of the complete line of Calvus.”65 Erring Pasiphae thus follows
in the footsteps of grazing Io. Incidentally, her mountainous wanderings
also connect Pasiphae with the Proetides, whom Callimachus describes as
οὔρεα πλαζομένας ᾿Αζήνια (“wandering about the Azenian mountains”) in
his hymn to Artemis (Hymn 3.235).66
We should, moreover, note that Vergil again alludes to the second half
of Calvus’ hexameter in verse 54, which closes with the words pallentis
ruminat herbas (~ herbis pasceris amaris).67 It is tempting to see in this
ruminating bull a metapoetic image for how Vergil “digests” the half-line
of Calvus—after all, the grasses Pasiphae’s bull is chewing seem to come
62 There are various explanations for their madness; Hesiod (131 MW), for instance,
attributes it to their rejection of Dionysus’ rites, others see it as a punishment for offending
Hera (e.g. Bacchyl. 11.45–58).
63 Leach (1974) 236.
64 Io → Epaphus → Libya → Belus → Danaus, Aegyptus → Hypermestra (daughter
of Danaus) + Lynceus (son of Aegyptus) → Abas → Proetus. As wife of Minos, Pasiphae
is connected with the branch of the family that goes back to Libya’s other son, Agenor (or
Phoenix).
65 Thomas (1979) 338; see also Armstrong (2006) 81–82. Cf. Ecl. 1.9 (meas errare boves),
2.21 (errant in montibus agnae), Georg. 4.11 (errans bucula campo).
66 Cf. Armstrong (2006) 83.
67 Cf. Thomas (1979) 338.
directly out of Io’s mouth (to him they are simply pale green, not bitter).68
There is, I think, one more subtle twist to this complex web of allu-
sions: the striking iteration of the apostrophe a virgo infelix structurally
evokes the repetition of the personal name in Corydon’s self-apostrophe
a Corydon, Corydon (itself a replication of Polyphemus’ twofold apostro-
phe ὦ Κύκλωψ Κύκλωψ), which undoubtedly rings in the reader’s ear as
he encounters the phrase quae te dementia cepit in line 47.69 In fact, one
might wonder whether Vergil responds here to an analogy between Io
and the Theocritean Cyclops implicit in Calvus’s text: could the neoteric
poet have invited a comparison between the girl-turned-cow against her
will and Polyphemus’ wish to morph into a fish (paralleled once more
by Pasiphae’s longing for a bovine metamorphosis)?70 In passing I note
that the name Corydon is likely to evoke Greek κόρη, the equivalent of
Latin virgo, which would create a further link between Calvus’ a virgo infe-
lix (modeled, as it might be, on Aeschylus’ εὔδαιμον κόρη) and Vergil’s a
Corydon, Corydon—incidentally, Polyphemus’ most memorable physical
feature is precisely his one pupil, his μία κώρα (Id. 6.36)!71
By addressing Pasiphae (a married woman and mother!) as virgo infelix,72
Vergil recalls the fate of (Calvus’) Io, which in many ways mirrors that of
the Cretan queen (they are both afflicted by madness, they both wander
about). Ironically, Pasiphae would love being in Io’s skin; she’d probably
call herself fortunate if only she could be a cow—in Ovid’s words: et modo
se Europen fieri, modo postulat Io, / altera quod bos est, altera vecta bove
(“and now she wishes to become Europa, now Io, the one because she is a
cow, the other because she rode on a bull,” Ars am. 1.323–324). The queen
will, however, have to make do with an artificial cow disguise, which in
turn creates a link with the Proetides. For what are they if not cows man-
68 Interestingly, Servius explains the paleness of the grass as a result of the first diges-
tion process: Revomit ac denuo consumitÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€pallentis autemÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€quae ventris calore pro-
pria viriditate caruerunt. “He vomits <the grasses> up again and consumes them once
moreÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€but they are ‘pale’Â€.Â€.Â€.Â€since they have lost their proper greenness due to the heat
in the stomach.”
69 For Pasiphae’s association with Corydon (and Polyphemus) cf. Armstrong (2006)
174–175.
70 Cf. Id. 11.54–55: ὤμοι, ὅτ’ οὐκ ἔτεκέν μ’ ἁ μάτηρ βράγχι’ ἔχοντα, / ὡς κατέδυν ποτὶ τὶν καὶ
τὰν χέρα τεῦς ἐφίλησα. “Alas, that my mother did not bear me with gills that I might dive
down to you and kiss your hand.” I owe this observation to Marco Fantuzzi.
71 This last link was suggested to me by Martin Korenjak.
72 For the inappropriateness of this term with reference to Pasiphae cf. Armstrong
(2006) 172.
qués? Pasiphae’s bovine charade might, in fact, be anticipated by their

“false moos” ( falsis mugitibus, 48).
Believing themselves to be cattle, the daughters of Proetus rather
absurdly try to feel the horns on their head: et saepe in levi quaesisset cor-
nua fronte (51).73 Their frons, of course, does not bear any cornua, it is
entirely smooth (humana scilicet, as Servius put it). This passage, amusing
in itself, appears even wittier, I submit, if we consider its possible pun on
the name of Calvus. As observed, the verse probably alludes to the mythi-
cal tradition according to which the girls lost all their hair as a result of
their disease.74 This tradition is reflected in Hesiod’s Catalogue of Women,
where we read: αἱ δέ νυ χαῖται / ἔρρεον ἐκ κεφαλέων, ψίλωτο δὲ καλὰ κάρηνα
(“the hair fell from their heads, the beautiful heads turned bald,” 133.4–5
MW). While primarily referring to the “hornlessness” of the girls’ heads,
the adjective levis also evokes their legendary hairlessness and appears
thus synonymous with calvus (for levis in the meaning of “bald” cf. Ov.
Fast. 3.745: levisque senex). Could this be a hidden homage to the neoteric
poet, whose famous half-line frames the Proetides narrative?
Bull-loving Pasiphae, at any rate, is the perfect heroine of an epyllion
that is inserted into a bucolic poem.75 Through the explicit mention of Pro-
etus’ daughters and the allusion to Calvus’ Io, Vergil ingeniously connects
her fate with theirs. Eclogue 6 might, as Coleman (1977) 192–193 has noted,
even contain two obscure references to the story of Europa and her bull,
as the Dictaean nymphs addressed by Pasiphae in v. 56 were said to have
nursed baby Zeus,76 and the god supposedly made love to Europa under a
plane tree at Gortyn, a place mentioned in v. 60 (cf. Plin. Hist. Nat. 12.11).
This gives us, then, a whole plethora of possible girl-cow-bull constella-
tions: a female in love with a bull and wishing to be a cow (Pasiphae), girls
terrified at the thought of being cows and mating with a bull (Proetides), a
girl who hates being a cow (Io), and one who is loved by a bull (Europa).
Is it not striking how the heroines of various epyllia are all related,
their blood bond, in a way, strengthening the poetic affiliation between
the texts? Significantly, the female standing at the center of antiquity’s best-
Â�known epyllion, Catullus c. 64, is none other than Pasiphae’s daughter
73 Ovid implicitly contrasts this behavior with that of Pasiphae, who would love to have
horns: quam cuperes fronti cornua nata tuae (“how you wished that horns would spring
from your forehead,” Ars am. 1.308).
74 Cf. Clausen (1994) 196. He even considers (195) that Calvus might have included the
myth of the Proetides in his Io.
75 Leach (1974) 237 calls Pasiphae’s desperate quest “a parody of the bucolic dream.”
76 In Moschus’ epyllion (158–159) Zeus explicitly refers to Crete as his cradle.
Ariadne—and her story is also evoked in Vergil’s poem. For the bull’s
errabunda vestigia (v. 58) pursued by Pasiphae proleptically recall the wan-
dering footsteps of Theseus in the labyrinth (errabunda regens tenui ves-
tigia filo: “guiding the wandering footsteps with a thin thread,” c. 64.113),77
which, as Armstrong observed, “has yet to be built to house the offspring
of Pasiphae’s bestial passion.”78 It is worthy of note that the same chiastic
opposition between mythic and textual chronology is operative also in the
literary relation of Calvus’ Io to Moschus’ Europa: in either case, events
described in the later poem precede those narrated in the earlier one. The
meager remnants of the neoteric epyllion only give us the vaguest idea
of its role and position within this family of interrelated texts, but Io’s
prominence in Vergil’s Pasiphae-tale attests to the poem’s importance as a
model (as we have seen, Vergil may even have inscribed his predecessor’s
name into his text).
Ovid, too, looks back to Calvus’ Io when recounting the fate of Inachus’
daughter in the first Book of his Metamorphoses (1.583–751)—and he does
so, I submit, with Vergil’s bucolic imitation in mind. The scope of this
essay does not permit me to give a detailed analysis of the Ovidian narra-
tive, but in concluding my paper I would like to point to two instances of
allusive recollection that mark the poet’s literary debt to Calvus. As Hollis
(2007) 61 noted, “it is probably no coincidence that Ovid’s Io episode, with
its inset subsidiary myth, provides one of the most perfect examples in
the Metamorphoses of the structure which may have characterized many
Hellenistic and Latin epyllia.” The embedded tale here is that of Pan and
Syrinx, told to Argus by Hermes in his attempt to lull Io’s guardian to
sleep.79 He indeed dozes off in the middle of the story—as soon as the
god sees that all his eyes are closed (one is reminded of fr. 22 H), he inter-
rupts his narrative, touches Argus with his magic wand and finishes him
off with a sword (713–719).
However, before the reader learns of this outcome, the primary nar-
rator of the Metamorphoses concludes the story by giving a summary of
what the god had been about to say before Argus’ fatal nap (talia dicturus,
713). This remarkable transition from direct to reported speech, with the
voice of the internal narrator giving way to that of the external one, almost
77 For this echo cf. Coleman (1977) 192 and Clausen (1994) 197–198.
78 Armstrong (2006) 173. She suggests that, on a metapoetic level, the vestigia may indi-
cate how Vergil is following in the footsteps of Catullus.
79 For this tale and its effect on Argus cf. Konstan (1991) and Murgatroyd (2001).
seems like a reversal of what happens in Vergil’s Pasiphae-epyllion, where

Tityrus suddenly switches from his summary to a direct rendering of
Silenus’ words. Be that as it may, the soporific effect of the inset tale on its
primary audience (Argus is quite literally bored to death!) might be Ovid’s
way of reflecting—tongue firmly in cheek—upon the potential boredom
caused by such narrative digressions, the very tedium Lucian has in mind
when poking fun at Callimachus, Euphorion, and Parthenius (importantly,
the story of Pan and Syrinx not only closely resembles the preceding tale
of Apollo and Daphne, but also that of its framing narrative, which tells
of Io’s rape by Zeus).
Before Hermes sets Io free, she spends her days wandering about the
meadows under the watchful eyes of Argus. There she feeds on leaves and
bitter grass, sleeps on the ground, the wretched one, and drinks muddy
water (Met. 1.632–634):
Frondibus arboreis et amara pascitur herba
proque toro terrae non semper gramen habenti
incubat infelix limosaque flumina potat.80
These lines evidently recall Calvus’ a virgo infelix, herbis pasceris amaris.
The prophecy uttered in the neoteric epyllion (whether by Io herself, a
dream vision, or the narrator) has now come true: as foreseen, Io is eating
bitter grass. Remarkably, Ovid starts his allusion by rewriting the second
half of Calvus’ hexameter, which Vergil had left out in his first evocation
of the verse. Like his predecessor, Ovid supplies the missing half a couple
of lines later—and he likewise does so not word by word (all that has
remained in his version is the adjective infelix).
Ovid obviously reads Calvus through the intermediary of Vergil and
reacts to the Vergilian imitation. In what follows, I would like to point
to another instance of Ovid’s reader response, which to my knowledge
has remained unnoticed so far. When encountering her father, bovine
Io in vain tries to reveal her true identity and tell of her predicament
(642–648). Unable to speak, she writes her name into the sand with a hoof
(649–650)—Inachus at last understands and cries out in grief (651–654):
80 “She feeds on leaves from trees and bitter grass, instead of sleeping on a couch, she
lies down on the earth, which is not always covered by grass, the wretched one, and she
drinks from muddy rivers.”
“Me miserum!” exclamat pater Inachus inque gementis

cornibus et niveae pendens cervice iuvencae
“me miserum!” ingeminat, “tune es quaesita per omnes
nata mihi terras?”81
As Hardie (2002b) 253 shrewdly observes, “the reduplicated me miserum!
corresponds to the Greek exclamation ἰὼ ἰώ”—which, incidentally, is also
the name of Inachus’ daughter.82 The letters IO written on the ground
cause him to utter the Latin version of ἰώ—words that Io herself is not
able to articulate anymore (she can say neither her name nor me miseram).
What is more, Inachus not only translates IO, IO into its Latin equivalent,
but also into the masculine, which shows how much he identifies with
his daughter’s plight. The passage turns out to be even more complex,
if we read it against the backdrop of Vergil’s text. For the reduplication
of me miserum (to which the verb ingeminat, itself a punning repetition
of inque gementis, explicitly draws our attention) not only mimics the
double cry ἰὼ ἰώ, but also, I suggest, mirrors Vergil’s double use of Calvus’
a virgo infelix. In both cases, the exclamation stands at the beginning of
the line, and miser is perfectly synonymous with infelix. If the words a
virgo infelix indeed were a self-apostrophe in Calvus (and there is some
reason to believe they were), then Ovid would, so to speak, have restored
the exclamation’s original function through a witty act of transferal (from
Vergil’s Eclogue to his own text, from Io’s to Inachus’ mouth). At any rate,
the fate of his Io is closely tied to that of her earlier manifestations, and
Calvus’ “wretched girl” was not so wretched, after all, at least with regard
to her literary fortune.
In closing, we may note that the motif of migration, which plays such a
crucial role within the myth itself, finds its equivalent in Io’s textual wan-
derings, in her journey from Greece to Rome and from one poem to the
next.83 Although Io herself ends up in Egypt, not Italy, her tale together
with the other cow-and-bull stories probably had a special appeal for
Roman writers and readers, because their country’s very name, Italia, was
thought to derive from vitulus or “calf.” Thus Varro (Rust. 2.5.3) observes:
81 “‘Wretched me!’ exclaims father Inachus and embraces the horns and neck of the
snow-white cow who is sighing, ‘wretched me!’ he says again, ‘are you my daughter whom
I have sought throughout all lands?’”
82 For the exclamation ἰώ used in connection with Io cf. Aesch. PV 742 ἰώ μοί μοι, ἒ ἔ.
83 For a metapoetic reading of Catullus’ Coma Berenices, which takes the displacement
of the Lock as an image of the text’s transferal from Callimachus’ Aitia to Catullus’ collec-
tion, cf. Höschele (2009).
Nam bos in pecuaria maxima debet esse auctoritate, praesertim in Italia, quae
a bubus nomen habere sit existimata. Graecia enim antiqua, ut scribit Timaeus,
tauros vocabat italos, a quorum multitudine et pulchritudine et fetu vitulorum
Italiam dixerunt. alii scripserunt, quod ex Sicilia Hercules persecutus sit eo
nobilem taurum, <q>ui diceretur italus.84
The story of Hercules was told in more detail by Hellanicus of Lesbos,
whose account Dionysius of Halicarnassus summarizes in his Roman
Antiquities (1.35).85 When Hercules was driving Geryon’s cattle to Argos,
one bull escaped from Italy to Sicily. In his attempt to recapture the ani-
mal, the hero asked the locals he encountered whether they had seen him,
and their reply eventually led to the naming of Italy:
τῶν τῇδε ἀνθρώπων ῾Ελλάδος μὲν γλώττης ὀλίγα συνιέντων, τῇ δὲ πατρίῳ φωνῇ
κατὰ τὰς μηνύσεις τοῦ ζῴου καλούντων τὸν δάμαλιν οὐίτουλον, ὥσπερ καὶ
νῦν λέγεται, ἐπὶ τοῦ ζῴου τὴν χώραν ὀνομάσαι πᾶσαν ὅσην ὁ δάμαλις διῆλθεν
Οὐιτουλίαν.86
In dealing with ancient epyllia, it is indeed tempting to say: Cherchez la
vache! From Moschus (“Mr. Calf ”),87 in whose footsteps the Roman poets
long to be “cowboys” (which etymologically speaking they already are) via
the Bosporus to Italy—there’s no escaping the cow.88
84 “For the bovine race (bos) has to be of primary importance among cattle, above all in
Italy, which is thought to have taken its very name from it (bubus). For in ancient Greece,
as Timaeus notes, they used to call bulls italoi, and it is from the multitude, beauty and
breed of these vituli that Italy got its name. Others write that Hercules pursued a noble
bull from Sicily to our land, which was called italus.”
85 According to another theory, also reported by Dionysius, Italia is named after the
ruler Italos (1.35).
86 “Since the people there only understood a bit of the Greek language and in giving
him information labeled the bull in their native tongue vitulus, as it is still called today,
Hercules is said to have named the entire land that the bull traversed Vitulia.”
87 For Moschus = “bull-calf” cf. Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004) 215 n. 103.
88 I would like to thank the participants of the Zurich conference for their inspiring
comments and suggestions. In addition my heartfelt thanks go to Peter Bing and Niklas
Holzberg, who have read this paper at various stages and considerably helped in improv-
ing its argument.
The Tenth Book of Ovid’s Metamorphoses
as Orpheus’ Epyllion*
Ulrich Eigler
By picking up the topic of the Orpheus story in his tenth Book, Ovid seeks
the competition with Virgil, who treated the Orpheus myth (Verg. Georg.
4.453–527) within the Aristaeus narrative in the fourth Book of the Geor
gics (315–588). In both cases the story constitutes an insertion of its own
quality within the greater narrative frame, which in the former case rep-
resents Virgil’s didactic poem on agriculture and in the latter case the
collective poems on transformations.1 In Virgil’s version, the Orpheus
story is part of the frame of the Aristaeus narrative as a second narrative
string, whereas in Ovid’s version the Orpheus story constitutes a complex
on its own, which again has a number of insertions. Therefore, one was
speaking of an Aristaeus and congruously of an Orpheus epyllion.2 This
term was chosen because, contrary to the greater poem, the connexion
was not given and for the Aristaeus and for the Orpheus episode applies
what Koster termed as stimulus for the postulation of the epyllion as a
Kleingattung: “Das auffallendsteÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€ist die sogenannte Einlage und dass
sie in einem so deutlichen Missverhältnis zur Haupterzählung steht, dass
sie gewissermassen zur Hauptsache wird.”3
Analogical observations can be made regarding the Orpheus narrative.
Into the frame narrative, which is dedicated to Orpheus (Met. 10.1–85;
11.37–66), the staging of an overlong song by Orpheus is inserted; it
appears like a foreign body. It seems that Ovid, inspired by Virgil, tried to
* I am very thankful to Dominique Stehli for his help with the translation of this
article.
1 Quinn (1970) 297 mentions the Aristaeus story and a number of episodes in the Geor
gics as examples of “epyllia incorporated in larger works.”
2 On the designation of the Aristaeus narrative as an epyllion see Bartels (2004) 167 n.
5. The Cephalus narrative (Met. 7.490–8.5) is compiled in Bartels (2004) 220–222, in which
she emphasizes that epyllia are the points of origin for these insertions; they themselves,
however, are no real epyllia.
3 Koster (2002) 36. A cue for the later insertion of this passage has been seen in Servius’
comment (ad Georg. 4.1) that Virgil has placed the Aristaeus narrative to the position which
was once dedicated to Gallus: cf. Lefèvre (1986). This discussion has ceased. Nonetheless,
the Proteus speech is still considered to be a later insertion, see Bartels (2004) 166–168.
356 ulrich eigler
create a similarly self-contained narrative with a special Orpheus inser-

tion—on the one hand the song of Orpheus itself, on the other hand Pro-
teus’ speech. He even tried to give it its own title, which makes it more
of an insertion exclusively dedicated to Orpheus than the Aristaeus nar-
rative, which again can be extracted from the overall context and can be
regarded as a composition in itself.4 The “Schnittstellen”5 concerning the
frame narrative as well as the song itself are clearly discernable in the
narrative context.
In what follows, the structure and the extraordinary position of the
Orpheus narrative within the Metamorphoses shall be considered (1), and
in comparison with Virgil, the exceptional position of the Orpheus narra-
tive within the context of the Orpheus narrative in Ovid shall be exempli-
fied (2). In the next step, we will treat the greater context of the Orpheus
narrative and we will try to discuss the importance of this episode in the
context of the entire Metamorphoses (3). Concluding thoughts will lead us
back to the question inherent in all contributions of this volume that the
epyllion is a genre without genre history.
The tenth book of Ovid’s Metamorphoses is entirely dedicated to the

Orpheus’ narrative, and the first 66 lines of the following book tell us
about the end of the poet and, at the same time, link the tenth book with
the eleventh. In what follows, we will be concerned with this narrative
that exceeds the book limits.
It takes quite a while until the most famous poet of the mythic antiq-
uity—the founder of oral poetry par excellence6 and Apollo’s son—gets
to raise his voice. That is to say, the narrator dominates the account
and grants Orpheus only a brief speech, when Orpheus with his singing
attempts to move the gods in the Underworld to release Eurydice (Met.
10.17–39). When this fails through Orpheus’ own fault, the poet does not
get the opportunity to articulate his complaints. Ovid only implies them in
a reported speech: esse deos Erebi crudeles questus (Met. 10.76). The report
4 On the thought of the extraction of the Aristaeus narrative see Trimble in this vol-
ume, pp. 71sqq.
5 On the extraordinary importance of the “Schnittstellen” see Koster (2002) 37. Koster
particularly emphasizes that “der Haupttext von Schnittstelle zu Schnittstelle anstossfrei
lesbar sein [muss].”
6 Segal (1989) 14–15.
the 10th book of ovid’s metamorphoses as orpheus’ epyllion 357
of the poet’s withdrawal into the inhospitable Thrace and his rejection of
love to women ends the introduction of the tenth Book (1–85), in which
the narrator seems to control the greatest poet with narrative.
This narrative control is continued in the following section (Met.
10.86–147). The story proceeds with Orpheus retreating into loneliness
and singing exclusively for trees and animals. The song that follows
(148–739) extends over almost 600 lines and thus constitutes the longest
direct speech in the Metamorphoses. This circumstance grants the poet
the opportunity to express himself properly. Pythagoras (Met. 15.478) is
the only other character in Ovid’s collective poem that obtains space for
a similar speech, which, however, is neither marked by form nor by length
in such a way. Orpheus’ direct speech becomes narratively independent
and makes the narrator fade in the background. The speech ends the
book without the narrator calling attention to himself. Thereby the clos-
ing “embedding” of a “narrative of a narrative,”7 as it is used manifoldly
by Ovid, is suspended. Only in the next book does the narration return
to the narrator’s account of Orpheus’ fate. He seems to have been freed
from the power of narration and turned from an intradiegetic character
into an extradiegetic narrator, who is not narrated, but who may end his
speech independently.
This temporary illusion is cruelly disrupted when the narrator reclaims
the lead at the beginning of the new book after being displaced by
Orpheus. Suddenly Orpheus becomes once again an intradiegetic charac-
ter, while the narrator manifests his omniscience and narrates the events
that occurred during the song (Met. 11.1–3):
Carmine dum tali silvas animosque ferarum
Treicius vates et saxa sequentia ducit;
ecce nurus CiconumÂ€.Â€.Â€.
While, with such a song, the Thracian bard was leading
the woods and the hearts of wild beasts and the rocks that followed him,
look, the Ciconian young womenÂ€.Â€.Â€.8
By the phrase carmine dum tali, the narrator regains, at the beginning of
the new book, the narrative authority which he seemed to have lost at the
end of the preceding book. At the same time Orpheus’ song can no longer
be isolated but is instead connected with the context, a frame consisting
of the lines 10.86–147 and 11.1–36. This reduces the poem’s independent
7 On the terminology cf. Todorov (1977) 22.

8 Translations from Ovid’s Metamorphoses: Hill (1985–2000).
358 ulrich eigler
status considerably. The technique used by Ovid is known from the Par-
cae song in Catullus’ Carmen 64.9 At the beginning of the book, the poet
plays with forms of independence and integration. At least superficially,
the supposed foreign body is thus reintegrated into the narrative.
This integration, however, is very loose, because already the second
word of the book (dum) indicates which of the narrative levels is favoured
by the narrator. This is further intensified by the characterisation of
the sudden disruption of the actual events. With the word ecce (11.3)
the actual reality of the narrator supersedes the reality described in
Orpheus’ poem. Orpheus’ song is thus integrated and subordinated into the
narrator’s plan.
In the following passage the narrator relates Orpheus’ killing by the
Maenads and finally the happy ending in Hades (Met. 11.1–66), where
Orpheus is once again united with Eurydice. Therewith the narrator ends
the Orpheus narrative.
It has clearly and repeatedly been highlighted10 that Orpheus’ song as
well as the entire Orpheus narrative occupy an exceptional position in
the Metamorphoses.11 Also, in other papers on the epyllion, scholars have
repeatedly referred to this circumstance. Already Crump (1931) empha-
sized that Orpheus’ song “consists of four separate epyllia: Hyacinthus;
Pygmalion; Myrrha; Adonis,”12 and attests the Orpheus narrative, which
at first was labelled as “digression,” that “it has all the characteristics of an
epyllion, and cannot be regarded merely as a setting for several epyllia.”13
It was also Crump who formulated the thesis, which has recently been
revived by Koster,14 that Ovid’s Metamorphoses are a skilled composition
of epyllia. Ovid’s “Verschachtelungstechnik”15 can be better explained by
this concept.16
9 Cat. c. 64.382, in which the Parcae song is reconnected with the narrative with the
words talia praefantes quondam felicia Pelei. Cf. Koster (2002) 37–38.
10 Crump (1931) 206; cf. also the detailed treatment of the Orpheus episode in Segal
(1989) 54–94.
11 Nagle (1988) 101 points at the parallelism with the song of the Muse Calliope in the
fifth Book.
12 Crump (1931) 207.
13 Crump (1931) 218.
14 Koster (2002) 43 poses the question “ob nicht die Metamorphosen Ovids, die alle
bisher genannten Themen enthalten, unter diesem Gesichtspunkt untersucht werden
müssten und ob nicht das, was bisher pauschal unter ovidscher Verschachtelungstechnik
verstanden wird, methodischer strukturiert werden könnte.”
15 Rieks (1980) 89; Crump (1931) 203.
16 On the current state of research cf. Bartels (2004) 191–192 and 216–219.
In our analysis of the Orpheus narrative in the Metamorphoses we will

revive such thoughts. We do not intend, however, to identify epyllia in
Ovid. Instead, drawing on the example of the Orpheus narrative, we would
rather like to point out in which manner Ovid applies certain generic
forms that have been labelled as epyllia, in order to integrate and stage
the greatest possible number of already existing narratives. Thereby he
plays with elements of independence and integration. We will thus apply
the criteria which have been mentioned in the critical discussion on epyl-
lia as a means of analysis rather than assuming a Kleingattung epyllion.
Ovid challenges the Orpheus narrative, which has been treated within
the framework of Virgil’s Aristaeus epyllion at the end of the fourth Book
of the Georgics (4.453–529),17 and transforms it in an extraordinary way.
Virgil incorporates the Orpheus story into the Aristaeus narrative. The lat-
ter asks his mother why his beehives perished. She refers him to Proteus,
who tells him after the Homeric preliminaries that Orpheus is angry with
Aristaeus and that he has to be reconciled by a sacrifice. Proteus combines
this information with the narration of the Orpheus story, on which Ovid
modelled his story, though with different foci.
First of all, one notices a quasi-chiastic repetition. The elements of the
Orpheus story told in direct speech by Proeteus are adopted by Ovid’s nar-
rator as if usurping the Proteic role of the clarifying vates.18 Virgil, on the
other hand, does not let Proteus produce Orpheus’ song, which Ovid ren-
ders as a character’s direct speech. Ovid, therefore, renounces his Proteic
position. The song’s content fills a gap in the report of Virgil’s Proteus. He
only narrates (Georg. 4.516–520a) that Orpheus has renounced Venus and
has moved to the cold north in order to sing his miserabile carmen about
his love’s sorrow to animals and trees (510–511). The spurned women meet
him there and tear him apart. Finally, his head flows downstream the
Evros and still calls for “Eurydice” (520b–527).
The miserabile carmen, Orpheus’ song in Ovid, is set exactly between
Orpheus’ flight to Thrace and his disruption. One has to consider that, as
17 On an extensive analysis of this passage as an epyllion see most recently Bartels
(2004) 166–190.
18 Cf. the overview of the structure of Ovid’s Orpheus story compared with Virgil’s ver-
sion at the end of this chapter.
360 ulrich eigler
demonstrated before, the end of the song coincides with the end of the
book, and thus the break with which Orpheus’ song in Ovid ends is marked;
the song is simply referred to as miserabile carmen by Virgil’s Proteus. The
striking staging of the poet is further accentuated by the detailed descrip-
tion of the listening trees and animals in the form of the topothesia. Ovid
also deviates from Virgil in that he provides an extraordinary frame in the
form of a natural stage, which delimits the character’s speech from the
rest of the depiction and even creates a text-internal space. Orpheus par-
ticipates in this insofar as he makes the emergence of this natural theatre
possible. The narrator lets Orpheus start his song on an open field and lets
him fill the field with animals and plants, creating an audience of second
rate in front of which the staging of the new song begins (10.86–90):
Collis erat, collemque super planissima campi
area, quam viridem faciebant graminis herbae.
Umbra loco deerat. Qua postquam parte resedit
dis genitus vates et fila sonantia movit,
umbra loco venitÂ€.Â€.Â€.
There was a hill, and at the top of the hill a most level
plain which was made green by blades of grass.
Shade was missing from the place; but, after the god-born bard
sat down there and moved his sounding string,
shade came to the placeÂ€.Â€.Â€.
A catalogue of trees follows, enlarged by the story of Cyparissus’ trans-
formation (106–142). On this natural stage Orpheus can start his song.
The theatrical associations are affirmed at the end of the song, when the
narrator lets us take a look at the surroundings that first fall prey to the
Maenads (11.20–22). The term theatrum is explicitly used:
Ac primum attonitas etiamnum voce canentis
innumeras volucres anguesque agmenque ferarum
Maenades Orphei titulum rapuere theatri.
And first, countless birds, even now spell-bound
by the singer’s voice, and snakes and a column of wild beasts,
Orpheus’ glory and his audience, were seized by the Maenads.
The Orpheus’ staging happens in a shelter of its own, which portrays
itself at the same time as natural and particularly poetical-artificial. It sur-
rounds the speech, separates the poet, and further stresses the extrava-
gance of the character’s speech textually as a rivalling narrative vis-à-vis
the narrated environment. It thus unfolds as a closed small insertion of its
own, which does not require a conceptual connection with the context.
It could be eliminated without the loss of action. The natural theatre and
Orpheus’ speech constitute an inserted complex, which only suspends the
narration of the actual events although, as pointed out by dum in Met. 11.1,
the action has continued during the song.19 We can agree with Crump,
who names this as a criterion for an epyllion, that “the story is an end in
itself and not an illustration.”20
The exceptional position, even privilege, of Orpheus’ song becomes
more apparent in the invocation of the Muse, the first one in the Meta
morphoses.21 Pointedly, it can be said that the Metamorphoses start at this
point. The singer presents with his own legitimacy an independent hexa-
metric poem. This autonomy gains another affirmation by the cosmologi-
cal opening of the song (148–150):
Ab Iove, Musa parens, (cedunt Iovis omnis regno)
carmina nostra move. Iovis est mihi saepe potestas
dicta priusÂ€.Â€.Â€.
From Jove, mother Muse, (all things yield to Jove’s rule)
start up our song. Often before have I told
of Jove’s powerÂ€.Â€.Â€.
Not only does this passage establish the reference to Aratus’ Phaenom
ena verbatim—and what follows is generically determined as a didactic
Kleindichtung22—but the singer, who confronts the narrator, claims the
entitlement of all-embracing knowledge. The narrator connects with the
appearance of his “opponent” a reference to some kind of a cosmological
composition that lived on in the Orphic tradition of the Kleindichtung.23
Ovid thus lets Orpheus sing the miserabile carmen about his love
laments in person, which Virgil only mentioned briefly, in a cosmologi-
cal wrapping, and turns the Virgilian praeteritio into a centrepiece. Simi-
larly he operates with another model, which can be found in Apollonios
Rhodios’ Argonautica. Therein Orpheus sings as a member of the crew
of the Argo the famous song in which the genesis and principles of the
19 The Orpheus story, which was suspended in 10.85, could be resumed in 11.37. The
interruption is Orpheus’ song, which is framed by the topothesia of the natural theatre.
20 Crump (1931) 32.
21 Schmitzer (2001) 121 rightly points out that in the proem of the Metamorphoses only
the gods in general are invoked (Met. 1.2). The only invocation of the Muse by the poet
himself is located in Met. 15.622. It introduces the depiction of the arrival of Aesculapius
in Rome and the Rome motive in general.
22 Koster (2002) 34.
23 On the Orphic cosmological Kleindichtung cf. Segal (1989) 1; 8 n. 13.
362 ulrich eigler
world are explained (Ap. Rhod. Argon. 1.496–511). This is only related by
the narrator, whereas Ovid’s Orpheus obtains a verbatim speech and at
the same time the opportunity for an outstandingly placed cosmological
song, which astonishingly presents an erotic content. This fact enhances
the impression that we are dealing with a narrative unit, a Kleinepos in a
collective poem, whereas Orpheus’ song in Apollonios is part of the epic
narration. It becomes apparent that the epic-cosmological application in
a high style serves as a distinction of the carmen from the narrated con-
text and so serves the isolation as a poem of its own, as a preparation for
what follows.24 The song itself consists of a series of erotic tales as they are
known from epyllia. They are erotica pathemata, problematic-pathological
relationships, which follow each other unconnectedly. Thus they entirely
fit Virgil’s title of the song, the miserabile carmen.25
Orpheus thematises the transition from the pathetic use to this lighter
theme as a transition by distinguishing the songs such as the gigan-
tomachy, which are accompanied by a plectrum grave, from the following
representation of erotic themes accompanied by the levior lyra. The argu-
mentation and the imagery call to mind some forms of the recusatio and
the defence of Kleindichtung vis-à-vis greater genres (10.150–154):
Cecini plectro graviore Gigantas
sparsaque Phlegraeis victricia fulmina campis.
Nunc opus est leviore lyra, puerosque canamus
dilectos superis inconcessisque puellas
ignibus attonitas meruisse libidine poenam.
With a heavier plectrum I sang of the Giants
and the victorious thunderbolts scattered on the Phlegraean plains.
Now there is need for a lighter lyre; and let us sing of boys
loved by the gods, and how girls, crazed
by illicit fires, deserved punishment for their lust.
Orpheus’ song, in contrast to the immediate context, introduces some-
thing new and is distinguished as regards content, so that Orpheus can
be ranked in the group of poets that is described by Koster (2002) 35 as
24 The discrepancy between the beginning in a high style ab Iove and the continuation
of Jupiter’s love stories has been commented on several times. Some scholars thought to
detect irony or an anti-Augustan break of conventions (cf. at last Schmitzer [2001] 121).
I, on the other hand, assume that the formal labelling of the break and the specialty of
the following is emphasized and Ovid chooses thus this use, which is strongly oriented
towards Apollonios.
25 Nagle (1988) 111sqq. On the separate episodes cf. the overview at the end of the
chapter.
follows: “Dies, seien es Lehrdichter, seien es mythologische Kleinepiker,

eint die Auffassung, dass sie im Vergleich zu Homer kleinere und zuÂ�gleich
nicht gerade so gewichtige, bedeutende und wertbehaftete Dichtung
bieten.” Orpheus’ song unites many criteria that have been repeatedly
claimed for epyllia. We are dealing with self-contained hexametrical
poetry of comparative briefness (600 lines) that can be taken out of its
context and which contains direct speeches by the characters and pic-
tures in serial depiction plus different generic elements. The themes com-
prise mythological erotica pathemata and psychologise erotic adventures
of gods and humans. In the love story of Venus and Adonis, Venus acts
like a human being, whereas the Myrrha episode stages a female charac-
ter in an extraordinary way, to whom Helvius Cinna’s neoteric epyllion
Zmyrna is already dedicated.26 It appears as if Ovid stages Orpheus as a
neoteric who composes his obligatory epyllion.27
Ovid created with his Orpheus song a carmen that fills a manifest gap
in Virgil and which meets the requirements that have been postulated
repeatedly. Even though it is part of the context of a greater story like the
Proteus speech in Virgil’s Aristaeus story, it is, nonetheless, clearly marked
within this context in both content and textual isolation. What Norden
(1934) 657 remarked on the Proteus speech is even more valid for the
Orpheus song: “Es ist klar: die fabula ist um ihrer selbst willen da, sie ist
in den homerischen Rahmen nur hineingestellt. Dass Proteus sie erzählt,
ist nebensächlich: der Dichter selbst führt das Wort.”
Ovid, however, went even further. The Orpheus song develops through
its length as a character’s independent direct speech presented “um ihrer
selbst willen,” which produces at the same time complex relations. On
the one hand, it formally correlates the Proteus speech while conceptu-
ally creating a relation to Virgil’s Antaeus story. On the other hand, it
provides the classical themes of the Hellenistic-neoteric Kleinepen. At the
same time, they refer to the Metamorphoses as a Grossform within which
the Orpheus song represents in the frame of a character’s speech the
narration of transformations. It does not rank as one of many narratives in
26 Bömer (1980) vol. 5, 111.

27 On this favoured ideal in recent research and its critique cf. Trimble in this volume,
p. 71.
364 ulrich eigler
the context of the Metamorphoses, but claims formally and conceptually

an exceptional position. Orpheus’ song depicts the Metamorphoses on a
small scale.28 After a cosmological introduction, narratives about transfor-
mations, erotic adventures, and complaints of gods and humans follow.
Even the skeletal structure of the Metamorphoses as a development from
chaos to cosmos can be found—albeit in reverse order—in the dynamic
from cosmos to the chaos of the rupture of the poet, which finally turns
back to the cosmos with its happy ending of the re-meeting of the dead
Orpheus with Eurydice in the underworld. Beforehand, the poem con-
tains elegiac traits. Orpheus even announces his theme as an alternative
to the description of the clash of the giants, which conjures the chaos
(10.150–154). Blame and punishment (poenas) as well as the incestuous
exceeding (libidines) are the themes, wherein even the story of Pygmalion
and his beloved belong (10.152–154):
Puerosque canamus
dilectos superis inconcessisque puellas
ignibus attonitas meruisse libidine poenam.
And let us sing of boys
loved by the gods, and how girls, crazed
by illicit fires, deserved punishment for their lust.
Like in the case of the chaos-cosmos-structure, we can detect in the inter-
lacing a clear opposition. The central transformation story in the Orpheus
song is the Myrrha story (10.298–514). Myrrha betrays her father without
his knowledge into incest. The story corresponds with the story of Byblis
(9.454–665). Orpheus and the narrator are placed in a direct competing
relation, the Kleinform is isolated and exposed, and so it is contrasted
with an episode which is much better integrated into the Grossform.29 It
is obvious that the format of the Kleinform, which is here drafted for the
Orpheus episode, also goes back to the song of the Silenus in Virgil’s sixth
eclogue. There a cosmological beginning is also continued by a depiction
of transformation sagas, and thus a structure is predetermined that cor-
responds to Orpheus’ song in miniature as well as the Metamorphoses
on a grand scale. In addition, the Silenus is somewhat related to Proteus
and Orpheus, who are prototypical vates of the poets. Like Orpheus, he
is staged in a bucolic natural frame, in the shelter of his cave, and, at the
28 Nagle (1988) 99 speaks of a “miniature carmen perpetuum.”

29 On the integration of the narratives of the Orpheus song with other episodes of the
Metamorphoses cf. Nagle (1988) 111sqq.
same time, he is exploited by the poet as an example for the justification

of the Kleindichtung vis-à-vis political-epic poetry.
If Orpheus indicates in his song the Metamorphoses in miniature, then
it is justified to conclude, as did Spahlinger (1996) 141, that “der Dichter
legt seiner Figur Orpheus sein eigenes poetologisches Programm in den
Mund.” I, on the other hand, would rather argue that, by admitting a
competing narrator, Ovid has inserted a poem in the form of a Kleinform,
which fills almost an entire book and reflects on the Grossform. At the
same time he is presenting himself as a poet that surpasses the best poet
of the antiquity.30 The generic identification of Orpheus’ song as a Klein
epos follows from the immediate contrast with the Grossform.
The fillip for this might come from the Aristaeus story. The self-con-
tained fabula, as it was called by Norden, has been transformed into a
clearly defined and distinctly marked complex that competed with its
own Grossdichtung. Virgil created an Aristaeus story with an Orphic inser-
tion; Ovid, however, created an Orpheus complex.31 Its centre is Orpheus’
song in front of the trees and animals that is only mentioned by Proteus as
the miserabile carmen. Here we encounter a gap that is filled by Orpheus’
song. It is integrated as Ovid’s innovation—because who would not want
to know what Orpheus sang to the trees and animals?—into the context of
the Orpheus narration, and is as an insertion extraordinarily highlighted,
and is put in the limelight as a thematically self-contained complex.
Its seclusiveness is revealed by the last verse that emblematically men-
tions the title “Orpheus” at the end. Orpheus is dead and can now peren-
nially look back on Eurydice without danger: Eurydicenque suam iam tuto
respicit Orpheus (Met. 11.66). With this line, which can almost be inter-
preted as a mise-en-abyme, the narrator terminates the Orpheus episode
and, following the gaze of Orpheus, who is directed towards Eurydice like
at the beginning, turns at the same time back to the beginning of the tenth
Book by opposing the death of Eurydice the beloved’s happy reunion in
the hereafter. It took Ovid about a book for this depiction, which is posi-
tioned at an outstanding position within the Metamorphoses and which
connects the second and the third pentad. It also constitutes a unit of its
own. The ending, which calls to mind a mise-en-abyme, refers the reader
back to the beginning of the story rather than to the continuation of the
carmen perpetuum.
30 Cf. Schmitzer (2001) 124.

31 Cf. the representation of the structure and the inner relations of the Orpheus com-
plex in the Metamorphoses in comparison with the Aristaeus story in Virgil’s Georgics at
the end of this chapter.
366 ulrich eigler
With his Orpheus story, Ovid created a narrative complex that comprises
the entire tenth and the beginning of the eleventh Book of the Metamor
phoses. At the centre of this lies Orpheus’ song in the form of a direct
speech, which narrates a frame of its own (10.86–147; 11.1–36) and thereby
suspends the narration of Eurydice’s death, her failed retrieval, and
Orpheus’ end with the couple’s reunion in the underworld, for almost an
entire book. Orpheus’ song is clearly structured and contains several inser-
tions of erotica pathemata with the respective transformations.32 Ovid
created with this passage (10.86–11.36) an image of his Metamorphoses and
entrusted them to the originator of all poetry. The impression arises that
he consciously competes with Orpheus and reflects on his own poetry.33
These general poetological considerations are complemented by the clear
inclusion of several literary models such as Orpheus’ song in Apollonios
Rhodios, Catullus’ Carmen 64, Silenus’ song in Virgil’s Sixth Eclogue and
the Aristaeus story from the fourth Book of the Georgics.
Especially the Latin models have been labelled as epyllia. Ovid has
incorporated all forms of expression and has thereby given great inde-
pendence to one of his books within his Grossgedicht, which is located in
the interface between the second and third pentade. The choice of narra-
tive techniques uncovers this circumstance so that almost the entire tenth
Book can be taken out of the context of the Metamorphoses. It remains to
be seen if the label “Orpheus epyllion”—the last word (11.66) indicates the
title—should be used. There are many similarities between this indepen-
dent part of the Metamorphoses and the known epyllia.
The narrator grants Orpheus as a character the space of an entire book
for the presentation of an independent poetry in the form of the epyllion.
He competes with the singer of oral poetry par excellence.34 He seems to
become independent, although his end in his disruption shows the fragil-
ity of his poetry that is entirely based on his singing.35
The narrator, who only staged the independence, is back in control. By
integrating the Orpheus song into his Orpheus episode, he retrieved his
runaway and made his poetry to an epyllion of second order.
At the same time, this process refers very exemplarily to the categori-
cal behaviour vis-à-vis other co-narrators, who are each embedded in
32 Cf. the schematic overview of the structure at the end of this chapter.
33 Cf. especially Eigler (2005) 14–15.
34 Segal (1989) 14–15.
35 On the disruption of the poetry in material identity with the singer cf. Eigler (2005).
his or her own way, whereas none of the other narrators of the Meta
morphoses is permitted to compose an epyllion en miniature unless he
is called Orpheus or Calliope, who is, significantly, Orpheus’ mother and
one of the Muses and who belongs in any case to the gods, the privileged
co-narrators.
For Ovid, it is not only about exhausting all narrative possibilities,
including the techniques that are usually subsumed with the label “epyl-
lion,” but also about a poetological statement. The fragility of oral nar-
ration, which is represented by Orpheus, allows the narrator to stage
his own written form. Ovid uses the semantics of the materiality of the
antique book technique.
Orpheus’ song ends exactly with the end of the book and thereby ends
the tenth Book and at the same time the second pentade. The seemingly
gained independence is immediately reversed by the first line of the elev-
enth Book. Ovid as the master of the scroll and the author’s role takes over
the commenting and the narrating leadership. At the same time he saves
the poem into the compound of the work and reclaims his importance
for saving the poetry, which is transferred into the written repeatability.
Orpheus can only continue to sing because the poet lets him do so. By tex-
tualizing the oral poetry, he guarantees Orpheus’ survival. Again and again
the story can be reeled from the death of Eurydice to Orpheus’ end.
The beginning of the eleventh Book refers back to the preceding book
and therewith to the song. In face of fifteen books, it thus fulfils the impor-
tant function of the reference tag (Reklamant) that often consists of the
repetition of the last line of the preceding book. Here, however, it com-
bines the technical function and the poetic semantics when it says retro-
spectively (Met. 11.1–3):
Carmine dum tali silvas animosque ferarum
Treicius vates et saxa sequentia ducit;
ecce nurus CiconumÂ€.Â€.Â€.
While, with such a song, the Thracian bard was leading
the woods and the hearts of wild beasts and the rocks that followed him,
look, the Ciconian young womenÂ€.Â€.Â€.
Here also Ovid plays effectively with integration and release of a charac-
ter’s speech. He has put this, like the disruption of the work of another co-
narrator, Arachne (Met. 6.1sqq.), to the beginning of the third pentade and
therewith thematises the concerns of his poetry. The narrations in rhyme
mentioned in the epyllia served as important models for his Kleindichtung
in a greater narrative context. Ovid, however, did not necessarily create
an epyllion.
368 ulrich eigler
Appendix:
The Orpheus story in Virgil’s Georgics and in Ovid’s Metamorphoses
Appendix: The Orpheus story in Virgil’s Georgics and in Ovid’s Metamorphoses
1. Grand epyllion: Orpheus story (ends 11.66 with “Orpheus”)

2. Small epyllion: Orpheus’ speech (inserted into the natural scenery)
10 1‒77 Orpheus and Eurydice

Content of the
(Verg. Georg. 4.457‒515) Proteus speech:
narrated by the
narrator in Ovid
78‒85 Orpheus rejects love and goes to Thrace
(Verg. Georg. 4.516‒520a)
86‒105 Natural theatre
106‒142 Cyparissus
143‒739 Orpheus’ song(s) (Verg. Georg. 4.508‒509)
143‒161 Ganymedes (Ovid’s Orpheus takes over what Virgil’s Proteus is

not narrating)
162‒216 Hyacinthus (This speech gains much weight as fill-in as a

character’s direct speech)
217‒242 Cerastae and Propoetides
243‒297 Pygmalion (extradiegetic and intradiegetic narrators share the

Virgilian Proteus speech)
298‒502 Myrrha
503‒739 Venus and Adonis
506‒707 Hippomenes and Atalanta
11
1‒19 Maenads are coming (Narrated by Ovid’s narrator)
20‒38 The disruption of the natural theatre
39‒53 Orpheus’ Killing Content of the

(Verg. Georg. 4.520b‒527) Proteus speech
54‒66 Eurydicenque suam iam tuto respicit Orpheus
Fig. 1: The Orpheus story in Virgil’s Georgics and in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.

Part 5
The Imperial Period

The Fast and the Furious:
Triphiodorus’ Reception of Homer in the Capture of Troy
Vincent Tomasso
Introduction
The adjectives “fast” and “furious” perfectly sum up the personality of the
best of the Achaean heroes at Troy, Achilles. His epithet is “swift-footed”
(πόδας ὠκύς), and in Homer’s Iliad he is particularly known for his anger,
μῆνιν being the first word of the poem.1 These adjectives also define the
content and poetic program of the third-century AD Triphiodorus’ Cap-
ture of Troy, despite the fact that the son of Peleus is mostly absent from
its narrative.2 Paradoxically, these adjectives point to the Capture of Troy’s
essential difference from its primary model, the Homeric Iliad. On the one
hand fury is an integral aspect of both poems: the first line of Homer’s
poem begins with Achilles’ blinding, insatiable anger, and Triphiodorus’
poem culminates with the Achaeans’ furious vengeance on the inhabitants
of Troy when they “rage like lions” (μεμηνότες οἷα λέοντες, 545)3 through
the city’s streets.4 Where these two poems differ significantly, however, is
length: Homer’s text occupies 15,693 hexameter lines in 24 books, while
Triphiodorus’ narrative consists of 691 hexameter lines with no book divi-
sions. The Iliad’s narrative is itself one massive delay of narrative gratifi-
cation, as Zeus agrees to honor Thetis (and Achilles) by allowing the war
to temporarily tip in the Trojans’ favor. By contrast, Triphiodorus signals
within the first five lines that he wishes to tell his narrative as a “swift
song” (ταχείῃÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€ἀοιδῇ, 5); just as the heroes of his poem are irritated at
1 The Greek text of the Iliad is taken from the edition by Allen (31920). All English trans-
lations of Greek texts are my own unless otherwise noted.
2 There is no consensus of a uniform English title for Triphiodorus’ poem. I have elected
to use the title given by M.L. West in OCD3.
3 The Greek text of the Capture of Troy is taken from the edition by Mair (1928).
4 I use the spelling “Triphiodorus” instead of the manuscripts’ “Tryphiodorus” because
of Letronne’s argument that copyists misunderstood the origin of the name, confusing
the Greco-Egyptian goddess Τρίφις with the common Greek word τρυφή ([1841] 282 n. 1).
This point, seemingly trivial at first glance, is vital for understanding the poet’s cultural
position; see below.
372 vincent tomasso
the delay in the destruction of Troy, so the narrator promises to bring the
war to a swift conclusion.
In this paper I interrogate Triphiodorus’ programmatic brevity and his
relationship to Homer in conjunction with the generic label that has often
been applied to his poem: “epyllion.” My principle aim is to shed light
on the processes of the reception of epic in imperial Greek literature.5 In
examining Triphiodorus and his imperial contemporaries, I will demon-
strate that the Capture of Troy creates much finer distinctions of literary
tradition than the broad and constructed genre of the epyllion allows. My
study also adds to the critical appreciation of the Capture of Troy’s sophis-
ticated nature that has been growing in recent years6 in opposition to the
previous scholarly view, which held that Triphiodorus was useful only in
Quellenforschung analyses of Aeneid Book 2.
A major point of comparison for the Capture of Troy is the third-century
AD Quintus of Smyrna’s epic Posthomerica. This is not just because the
two poems depict the fall of Troy in hexameters; after all, there were other
hexameter receptions of Homer in the imperial period. However, we know
about authors like Nestor and Pisander of Laranda only through second-
ary commentators and a few ragged fragments, and so it is very difficult to
assess the relationship of their poetics to Triphiodorus’ in a detailed way.
By contrast, the fourteen books of Quintus’ Posthomerica survive in full,
allowing for a detailed stylistic comparison to be made.
Scholars have compared the Capture of Troy and the Posthomerica
extensively, but there has been considerable controversy over whether
Quintus or Triphiodorus wrote first. Before the 1970s scholars had tended
to date Triphiodorus to the late fourth or fifth century AD, usually because
they assumed that he imitated Nonnus, but after analyzing a papyrus of
the Capture of Troy Rea (1972) proposed that the poet be placed in the
third century and certainly no later than the fourth century. A few schol-
ars have suggested that other mid-third-century Egyptian manuscripts
have similar hands,7 which implies that Rea’s upper dating is more appro-
priate. As Baumbach/Bär (2007b) 2 n. 11 note, communis opinio generally
favors Quintus’ priority as evidenced by parallels in diction and thematics,
though there are some dissidents to this majority view. Gärtner (2005)
5 Greek literature written under the Roman Empire has been variously called “Greek
literature under the Roman Empire,” “Second Sophistic literature” and “imperial Greek
literature.” For the purposes of readability and accuracy this paper will use the latter.
6 E.g., Paschalis (2005b) and Ypsilanti (2007).
7 Cf. Miguélez Cavero (2008) 14 n. 70.
triphiodorus’ reception of homer in the capture of troy 373
rejected such criteria, arguing that the alleged parallels were scanty and
far from convincing (“kaum stichhaltige Argumente,” 25). Ypsilanti (2007)
more tentatively suggests that “it seems very possible that Triphiodorus
preceded Quintus” (93), based on dating the Posthomerica to the fourth
century.8 Instead of approaching the issue in these strictly chronological
terms—one poet directly responding to another—I view the relation-
ship between the Posthomerica and the Capture of Troy in the broader
terms of general literary and cultural currents. Both are receptions of and
responses to the Homeric poems, among other texts. Ultimately, it does
not matter whether Triphiodorus was responding specifically to the Post-
homerica (or any other imperial Greek text, for that matter) or the other
way around; both poets wrote their compositions to position themselves
within or against the continuum of epic tradition that surrounded them.
The non-Homeric poems that constituted the Trojan War part of the Epic
Cycle—the Cypria, Aethiopis, Little Iliad, Sack of Troy, and Telegony—have
all but disappeared entirely. Bernabé’s edition collects all of the known
fragments, which amount to less than two hundred lines: hardly enough
for us to comprehend the relationship they have with later receptions.
The second- or fifth-century AD scholar Proclus provides us with prose
summaries of all the poems, which give their overall narrative scopes and
help to fill in some of their details. At the same time, though, these sum-
maries do little to advance our understanding of the Cycle’s reception.
One may wonder, then, how we can profitably engage with poems that
treat cyclic material, like Triphiodorus’ Capture of Troy. In this study I will
not say anything about Triphiodorus’ relationships with the Epic Cycle
itself; rather, I will concentrate on a reception relationship that we can
judge very well, the Capture of Troy’s reception of the Iliad and Odyssey.
This is the primary focus not merely because it is the best-documented,
but also because the Homeric poems are essential to comprehending how
Greek authors constructed themselves and broader Hellenic identities in
the imperial period. Although any given word, phrase, theme, or episode
may refer to aspects of Greek literature outside of the Homeric poems,
because the Capture of Troy’s style and narrative are exceedingly Homeric,
Triphiodorus’ audience would always have been equally inclined to read
8 She does not note, however, that this is a minority view now. Her evidence for
Triphiodorus’ priority is partially a comparison of Cassandra in the Posthomerica and in
the Capture of Troy ([2007] 114), inadequate grounds for determining chronology.
374 vincent tomasso
any particular locus of meaning through a Homeric lens.9 Moreover, major

episodes in the Capture of Troy that were also treated in cyclic poems by
Lesches and Arctinus also appear in various forms in the Homeric poems.
Therefore, it is hardly an exaggeration to state that Triphiodorus’ primary
model in all respects was Homer.10
Receiving Homer under Rome
Reception in every time and place is inherently a cultural process. Texts

like the Iliad and Odyssey, which have gained monumental status in a
culture or cultures, are remade constantly in new contexts to serve dif-
ferent cultural agendas. I use the narratological terms “hypotext” (the
“original” or “model text”) and “hypertext” (the text receiving and reinter-
preting the hypotext) to describe this relationship.11 Receptions of Homer
in the imperial period are a particularly poignant case-in-point, since the
Homeric poems had perhaps never been as integral to Hellenic identities
as they were under the Roman Empire. The political hegemony of Rome
over the Mediterranean encouraged Greeks to find ways of chiseling out
a place for themselves within the vast imperial system of privilege and
power. One of the ways they did this was through their culture and their
education (paideia), a process that has been studied from various angles
in the era of the so-called Second Sophistic.12 Homer had been a central
ingredient in Greek self-definition since at least the Classical period, and
so his poems were remade and reconfigured constantly in the imperial
period as Greek authors, from sophists to poets, sought to define and per-
form their culture’s value in the Roman-dominated Mediterranean world.
These authors did not simply reproduce the Iliad and Odyssey in their
original forms; rather, the exigencies of the imperial system demanded
that even such monumental texts as the Homeric poems be changed to
reactivate their cultural power in the present, as Zeitlin has said in her
9 In this paper I use the term “audience” to indicate the interpreters of the poems under
discussion. I use this term instead of “reader” because I take an agnostic stance on the issue
of the performance of Greek poetry. Even in the imperial period Homer was still being
performed (see Mitchell [2006]), and the same may be true of Quintus (see Appel [1994])
and Triphiodorus as well.
10 Indeed, Miguélez Cavero (2008) 327–328 has argued that the Capture of Troy is an
ethopoeia of material about the sack of Troy embedded in the Odyssey. See below.
11 For a more comprehensive definition and exploration of these terms, see Genette
(1997) 5 et passim.
12 See esp. Anderson (1993), Gleason (1995), Swain (1996), and Whitmarsh (2001).
2001 article. Triphiodorus’ the Capture of Troy is such a reactivation.13 My

aim is to scrutinize how and why one particular poet existed within this
system and shaped his own commodity to recirculate the symbolic capi-
tal of Homer around the Empire. Throughout my discussion I will point
to other receptions of Homer in this period as important context for the
Capture of Troy, particularly Quintus of Smyrna’s Posthomerica.
Because reception of Homer in the imperial period was such an impor-
tant part of establishing and maintaining Greek identities, the Capture
of Troy is a particularly interesting case, given that its author is strongly
associated with Egypt. Other poets who produced hexameter receptions
of Homer in the imperial period claim or are said by other authors to have
lived in the traditionally Greek homeland of western Asia Minor: Quintus
says he spent his youth in Smyrna (Posthomerica 12.310), and Nestor and
Pisander were said to hail from Laranda (Suda entries nu 126 and pi 1466
Adler).14 Although there are no overt indications of ethnicity within the
Capture of Troy itself, the Suda identifies Triphiodorus as an Egyptian, or
at any rate a poet working in Egypt.
A long line of scholarly enquiry, beginning with a single footnote in an
1841 review by Letronne, has revealed that Triphiodorus’ name is formed
from the Greco-Egyptian goddess Triphis. This relatively obscure divinity
has been used to pinpoint Triphiodorus’ geographical origins even further:
Miguélez Cavero (2008) argues that Triphis being the local god of Panopo-
lis “suggests that the poet (or his parents) was EgyptianÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€and came from
that nome, from either its capital city or surroundings” (12–13).15 I am not
arguing for such a literal reading of ethnicity, however.16 We should not
assume that geographical or ethnic markers in texts reflect any realities
outside the text or literary tradition. This line of argumentation has been
common for years in Homeric and Hesiodic scholarship—few now believe
that “Hesiod” was actually from Boeotia or “Homer” from Asia Minor—but
Quintus’ association with Smyrna and Triphiodorus’ affiliation with Egypt
13 On Homer in the Second Sophistic see Kim (2010) as well as Bär’s (2010a) general
discussion of the phenomenon (289–296) and his argument that a scene in Posthomerica
Book 5 is modeled on sophist practices (296–308).
14 On Quintus’ ethnic claim, see the detailed analysis by Bär (2007) 52–55.
15 Cf. Frankfurter (1998) 107: “But in the deeply Hellenized area of Panopolis reverence
for the local goddess Triphis was such even by the end of the third century that many
children of the higher citizenry bore her name in either GreekÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€or Egyptian.”
16 Miguélez Cavero is the latest propounder of this strand of interpretation, but the
practice has old roots in European scholarship: see, for instance, Letronne’s comment on
Quintus: “avant passé sa jeunesse à Smyrne” ([1841] 283). Later proponents include Cam-
eron (1965) 16 and Gerlaud (1982) 6.
376 vincent tomasso
are usually taken at face value.17 While such geographical markers are
useless for reconstructing an author’s personal life, they are valuable for
understanding how the poet and his text were constructed as objects
within a cultural system.
From the early third century BC onwards, Egypt was a complex amal-
gam of Greek and Egyptian cultural and civic traditions. Some residents
of Egypt were bilingual—writing and speaking in Greek and Egyptian—
while others confined themselves to their native language.18 Greek civic
institutions such as the gymnasium and magistracies such as the prytanis
flourished.19 Greco-Egyptians under the Roman Empire were particularly
eager to express Greek culture, since imperial Rome valued and rewarded
Greek cultural achievements. At the start of the third century AD the
Hellenic element of Egyptian cultural life became even more pronounced
when Septimius Severus allowed Egyptian cities to have city councils
(bouleis) characteristic of Greek cities.20 Triphiodorus played an important
role in this culture since he was a γραμματικός (Suda entry tau 1111 Adler),
a teacher of Greek grammar, whose primary object was to disseminate
Greek knowledge and tradition to his pupils.21 He was, in other words,
on the front lines of the struggle to attain and display a Hellenic identity
through paideia.22 In Egypt the endeavor was a particularly contentious
one, as Rome did not consider Egypt to be connected with Greece at all in
legal terms.23 This means that members of the elite class in Egypt would
have been particularly keen to express their Greekness to an appreciative
Roman audience.
17 A notable exception to this trend is Bär (2007) 52–55, who connects Quintus’ epithet
“of Smyrna” to that city’s frequent status as Homer’s birthplace and its cultural and politi-
cal importance in the Second Sophistic. See also Dümmler’s contribution in this volume,
where she argues that Musaeus’ name, whether real or not, had a profound effect on the
reception of Hero and Leander.
18 Bagnall (1993) 230–260 assesses the evidence for literacy and bilingualism.
19 Bagnall (1993) 99.
20 Bagnall (1993) 55; 99: “The cities of third-century Egypt [were] endowed at last with
the institutions that allowed them to act as the equals of Greek cities anywhereÂ€.Â€.Â€.” Cf.
Geens (2009) 291.
21 That this position was constructed by the Hellenized Egyptian elite class is confirmed
by Triphiodorus’ very name, which combines Greek and Egyptian elements. See the quote
from Frankfurter in my n. 15 above.
22 Whether or not Triphiodorus was actually a grammar teacher is immaterial; the very
fact that the Suda uses this title with him creates an association with paideia.
23 Bagnall (1993) 232 notes that Roman law did not distinguish between Greek and
Egyptian ethnicities.
It is also important to keep in mind that the complexities of ethnicity

in the Roman Empire necessitated that Triphiodorus construct his ethnic
and cultural identity in a multi-faceted way.24 The epic Events at Mara-
thon attributed to him by the Suda (entry tau 1111 Adler) was probably
similar to other historical epics that were being produced by Egyptians in
this period. Cameron (1965) discusses poets writing epics on contempo-
rary subjects “if the emperor or one of his generals won a suitably glori-
ous victory” (480), and even though the Events at Marathon sounds like
a historical poem about the Persian Wars, that conflict might have been
a frame for an encomium of a contemporary Roman emperor’s victory
against an eastern nation. There are a number of candidates for such an
encomium in the third century, especially given Rome’s skirmishes with
the Parthian Empire. Events at Marathon, then, could have represented
Triphiodorus’ dynamic negotiation of Greek, Egyptian and Roman identi-
ties, since the composition would have simultaneously recalled the glories
of the Greek past (a typical practice of paideia) while acknowledging—
and presumably expressing gratitude for—Roman military supremacy. In
the Capture of Troy itself we can glimpse these same intricate identity
politics when the narrator remarks that the escaping Aeneas will found
Rome (651–653):
Αἰνείαν δ’ ἔκλεψε καὶ ᾿Αγχίσην ᾿Αφροδίτη
οἰκτείρουσα γέροντα καὶ υἱέα, τῆλε δὲ πάτρης
Αὐσονίην ἀπένασσε· θεῶν δ’ ἐτελείετο βουλὴ.
And Aphrodite hid Aeneas and Anchises, since she pitied the old man and
his son, and established them in Ausonia, far from their native land: and the
will of the gods was being fulfilled.
The underlined phrase is strikingly similar in terms of diction and metrics
to line 5 of the Iliad’s proem (Διὸς δ’ ἐτελείετο βουλή). This is not a mere
gesture for the sake of appearances at the interconnectedness of Hellenic
and Roman identities: the inceptive imperfect demonstrates that both the
actual foundation of Rome by Aeneas’ descendants and the future empire
are as much a part of Olympus’ plan as the narrative so central to Hellenic
identity over the centuries, the Trojan War itself. In other words, Rome is
24 Recent scholarship has increasingly questioned earlier analyses of Greek culture in

the imperial period that held that Greeks were obsessed with their past and asserting their
Hellenism over all else (see, for instance, Bowie [1974]). As many of the articles in Borg
(2004) show, authors writing in Greek in the imperial period constructed themselves in
multifaceted ways that reflect multiple identifications with a variety of cultural contexts.
378 vincent tomasso
signified with a central Greek cultural signifier. Triphiodorus, then, main-

tained a complex identity, negotiating the Hellenic, Egyptian, and Roman
cultural worlds.
How do you Solve a Problem like “Epyllia”?
The Capture of Troy is routinely placed into the epyllion genre, often with
little question or qualification. It is difficult to determine exactly when
this practice began, primarily because the origins of the term “epyllion” in
the generic sense have been difficult to ascertain precisely. The two major
articles critiquing the term, by Allen (1940) and Reilly (1953), pinpoint the
term’s origin in German scholarship sometime in the mid- to late nine-
teenth century.25 The Capture of Troy seems to have received the epyl-
lion label in 1890 from Wilhelm von Christ’s sparse entry on Triphiodorus
in the Handbuch der Klassischen Altertums-Wissenschaft: Geschichte der
Griechischen Litteratur bis auf die Zeit Justinians, and a few years later
Noack (1892) 452, in his evaluation of Virgil’s sources, used the same label.
“Epyllion” caught on rapidly in French and English scholarly circles as a
way to describe Catullus’ poem 64, Ovid, and the Hellenistic poets, but it
was slow to catch on in scholarship about Triphiodorus outside of Ger-
many. As late as 1926 Castiglioni calls the Capture of Troy a “poemetta”
(501), echoing Letronne’s appellation of “petit poëme” a little more than
a century earlier ([1841] 281). The term does not appear in the first Eng-
lish language translation of Triphiodorus by Merrick in 1739, nor, perhaps
more surprisingly, in the first and only Loeb edition of the Capture of Troy
(1928) by Mair. In the 1960s the Capture of Troy began to be called an epyl-
lion in Italian scholarship, and it is common to find that term in almost
every discussion of Triphiodorus in English, French, and Spanish scholar-
ship from the 1980s onward.26
In 1940 Allen demonstrated that the epyllion genre is a modern con-
struct, since the ancients’ principle way of classifying poetry was meter,
whatever the relative lengths of the various compositions. Hexameter
poetry, whether it consisted of 1022 lines (Hesiod’s Theogony) or of 15,692
lines (Homer’s Iliad), was uniformly considered ἔπος.27 The term “epyl-
lion” was coined by German scholars to conceptualize as a group short
25 Tilg (this volume) argues that the term was first used in Classical scholarship in 1796.
26 In this volume, Trimble follows this trend (cf. p. 56), while Hunter hesitates (cf. p. 88).
epics in both Greek and Latin, whose size and content suggested to some
that they formed their own stylistic category. Aside from the fact that
the epyllion genre is completely fabricated by modern scholars, it also
has hazy generic distinctions. While most scholars agree that epyllia are
short poems in hexameters or elegiacs that are approximately 600 to 1000
lines long, there is considerable debate over the content of such poems.
As Bing argues in this volume, Pseudo-Hesiod’s Shield of Heracles shares
many stylistic and thematic trends with so-called classical epyllia of the
Hellenistic period such as Callimachus’ Hecale. Hesiod’s Theogony falls
within the range for epyllia, but most scholars would not include that
poem in the genre for reasons of content. Instead of concentrating on
what makes short epics similar, work like Bing’s (this volumes) implies
that we should concentrate on what makes short epics unique in their
own time and place. Short epics need to be examined as products of their
own context and contemporary reception, not as proto-forms or fossils of
Alexandrianism.
It only makes sense to call the Capture of Troy an epyllion if we scruti-
nize the poem in terms of length alone. At 691 lines the Capture of Troy falls
within the middle of Fantuzzi’s range for extant epyllia (75–1500 lines),28
and for most commentators this is enough to include it in the genre. How-
ever, scholars have usually called poems epyllia on the basis of certain
aesthetic features in addition to short length, which is why, for instance,
Hesiod’s Theogony has never been included in the genre. The content of
these features is much debated, but most agree that all of them can be
found in Alexandrian poetry. Fantuzzi objects to calling the Capture of
Troy an epyllion on the grounds that Triphiodorus does not “fit the pat-
tern [of Alexandrian epyllia], at least as regards cyclic theme and deficient
unity of action.”29 This criticism is derived from Aristotle’s infamous cyclic
poetry-bashing tirade in the Poetics, in which the ancient critic singles
out the Cypria and Little Iliad for particular rebuke (1459b 1–2). Fantuzzi
feels uncomfortable about calling the Capture of Troy an epyllion because
Triphiodorus’ poem does not evince the Alexandrian aesthetics of most
other short epics that his entry cites.30 Rather it is, as Dubielzig (1996) 27
28 Cf. Fantuzzi (1998a) 32.

29 “nicht konformÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€zumindest vom kyklischen Thema und der mangelnden Einheit
der Handlung her,” Fantuzzi (1998a) 32.
30 Some of the poems, such as Pseudo-Hesiod’s Shield of Heracles, are obviously not
products of Hellenistic Alexandria, but Fantuzzi (1998a) 32 claims that such poetry con-
tains proto-forms of aesthetic tendencies that would become full-blown in Alexandria from
the third to first centuries BC. He also includes post-Hellenistic short epics, like Musaeus’
380 vincent tomasso
has astutely pointed out, a combination of the content of Homericizing

epic about the Trojan War and the form of short epic. The Capture of Troy
forces us to rethink what we really mean by “epyllion.” While on the face
of it short and long Homeric epics are strange bedfellows, Triphiodorus
has merged the two styles to suit a very specific cultural agenda that posi-
tions him within the Greek epic tradition on the one hand and Hellenic
cultural production and identity on the other.
Triphiodorus’ brevity is a critical aspect of his work not only because of
its programmatic centrality in the proem, but also because the Capture of
Troy was probably one of the shortest hexameter poems devoted to the fall
of Troy in antiquity.31 In his Chrestomathy Proclus summarizes the con-
tents of the most-cited hexameter treatment of the fall of Troy, Arctinus’
Sack of Troy (lines 239–273), which begins with the Trojans deliberating
about the fate of the wooden horse and ends with the Achaeans setting
Troy ablaze and sacrificing Polyxena over Achilles’ grave.32 Triphiodorus
positions his narrative frame a bit earlier than Arctinus’ to include the
Achaean counsel of war, at which Odysseus proposes the construction
of the horse.33 This material corresponds to Proclus’ summary of the end
Hero and Leander, but such poems do not bother him, since they demonstrate aesthetics
that align them closely with the Alexandrian examples.
31 There were, of course, poetic treatments of the fall of Troy in other meters that might
have been shorter, e.g., Stesichorus’ Sack of Troy (᾿Ιλιουπέρσις), fragments of which do not
allow us to judge overall length (see Page [1974] 88–132). However, if we consider Stesi-
chorus’ Oresteia, the Sack of Troy might have been as many as two books, thus making it
longer than Triphiodorus. In any case, from a reception standpoint what matters is that
the Capture of Troy was the shortest hexameter treatment.
32 The obvious caveats about Proclus’ reliability, considering the abbreviated nature
of the summaries themselves, apply. See Burgess (2001) 142–143. Arctinus was not the
only author of a cyclic Sack of Troy, though his treatment receives the most citations in
ancient sources (Dionysius of Halicarnassus 1.69.3, the bT scholia on Iliad 11.515c, and Pro-
clus 239–240). The poem is attributed to different authors, including Lesches (hexameter;
Pausanias 10.25.5.6), Stesichorus (dactylo-epitrite; the Borgia Table and Pausanias 10.26.1.4),
and Agias (hexameter; Athenaeus 13.610c). This implies that there was no entirely fixed
version of the Epic Cycle, but rather that there were a number of poems that could be
slotted into the Sack of Troy position depending on the writer’s cultural agenda. Cf. Murray
(41934) 342: “[T]he Aethiopis or the Sack isÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€a fixed mass of legend, a traditional sub-
ject of poetry, which he [Theodorus] can give according to any one of its successive
composers.”
33 There are considerable discrepancies in Proclus’ account of the cyclic poems, par-
ticularly in the overlap of certain episodes. Burgess (2001) points out that “[s]everal Epic
Cycle poems seemingly extended beyond the boundaries indicated by Proclus”; he thinks
that both the Cypria and the Little Iliad “might have narrated the complete story of the
Trojan War” (143). He argues that the poems in these unedited forms were used by Aris-
totle as his comments in the Poetics show. However, it is unclear when the poems were
of Lesches’ Little Iliad.34 According to the summary, Arctinus’ epic con-

sisted of two books, Lesches’ of four. Although it is difficult to estimate
how many lines these books contained, it is clear that Triphiodorus’ ren-
dition of events is more compressed than Arctinus’; two books of poetry
must have been longer than 691 lines.35 Triphiodorus drew his audience’s
attention to this essential difference by using a more expansive narrative
frame than Arctinus. By doing this Triphiodorus demonstrated that he
was emphatically creating his own version, not faithfully/slavishly remak-
ing Arctinus or any poem in the rest of the Cycle for that matter.
While we can only hypothesize about the Capture of Troy’s compres-
sion of cyclic material, we can make much more nuanced observations
about narrative compression in comparison with the roughly contempo-
rary Posthomerica.36 Posthomerica Book 12 narrates events that roughly
correspond to the Capture of Troy lines 57–443, and Book 13 corresponds
to the Capture of Troy, lines 444–663. In its remaining 27 lines the Cap-
ture of Troy narrates selectively the events told by Quintus in Book 14,
lines 1–382, the point at which the Achaeans sail from Troy. The Post-
homerica uses 1,530 lines to tell the same basic narrative that the Capture
of Troy tells in 634 lines.37 On a micro-level we can see the mechanics
of Triphiodorus’ compression even more clearly. The Posthomerica allots
twelve lines to describing the horse (12.138–150), while the Capture of
Troy employs forty (62–102). When the Trojans bring the horse into Troy,
cropped out of concerns about narrative continuity, and this may have occurred long
before Proclus’ summaries were written.
34 For this argument I am assuming that Proclus’ summaries correspond to actual edi-
tions of the Cycle available in the imperial period. See my n. 33.
35 According to one of the Tabulae Iliacae, the Borgia Table, Arctinus’ epic may have
been 9,500 lines, though it is disputed whether the text refers to the Aethiopis, the Sack
of Troy, or another, unknown poem by Arctinus (McLeod [1985] 162–163, who is in favor
of the third possibility). Whether or not we think that this information is strictly reliable
(see McLeod [1985] 158), if the line count is even roughly close to the actual number, the
Capture of Troy is quite short by comparison. For another estimate as to the line count,
see Else (1957) 604–605, who hypothesizes that Arctinus’ epic was 1300 lines on the basis
of the average line count of Homeric books (650 lines).
36 In this volume Hunter suggests that a comparison of Homer’s Demodocus and
Triphiodorus could be fruitful. However, a comparison between Quintus and Triphiodorus
is likely to yield better results since their versions of the sack are narratives related by the
omniscient narrator, whereas Demodocus’ version of the sack in the Odyssey is reported
only indirectly by the narrator.
37 I do not include the first 57 lines of the Capture of Troy in this count because they
summarize the events of the war up to the “beginning of the end,” the Trojan horse. Cf.
James (2004) xix, who says that Triphiodorus devotes 691 lines to the same material that
Quintus tells in about 1500 lines. It would be even more striking to Triphiodorus’ audience
that nearly 8% of his already very short poem was a summary.
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Cassandra warns them that death awaits them inside, and this prophecy
is reported directly both in the Posthomerica (12.540–551) and the Capture
of Troy (376–416).38 Clearly, Triphiodorus emphatically created a shorter
version of the sack of Troy than any of his poetic predecessors or contem-
poraries had.
Though the Capture of Troy’s brevity in comparison with other extant
epics on the same subject is now clear, does that length have any fur-
ther, more specific resonance? The Capture of Troy’s concision is typically
attributed to Callimachean aesthetics and a pointed response to Quintus:
“T. abbia inteso dare al suo proemio un tono velatamente polemico: egli
vuole opporre alla ponderosa opera di QSÂ€.Â€.Â€.”39 This stance is reductive,
however, in the sense that it makes the Capture of Troy a squib in a literary
debate rather than as a product in a larger cultural economy, in the mul-
tiple networks of signification surrounding the text, especially its relation-
ship with the Homeric epics and other works ascribed to Triphiodorus. In
fact, there is nothing overtly polemic about the Capture of Troy’s proem as
compared, say, to the prologue to Callimachus’ Aetia. Even if Triphiodo-
rus were responding directly to Quintus, this hypothesis does not address
the deeper implications of long versus short epic: why did Triphiodorus
respond to long epic in the first place? For Triphiodorus and his audience,
the length of a poem—particularly a hexameter poem about the Trojan
War—would evoke comparisons to the Homeric epics’ book lengths. By
the imperial period the lengths of archaic epics like the Homeric and
cyclic poems had long been standardized by Hellenistic scholars at the
Library at Alexandria.40 The Capture of Troy is close to the middle range
for Iliadic book lengths (approximately 654 lines), with ten books exceed-
ing 691 lines. Creating a poem of 691 lines, then, was not mere happen-
stance: Triphiodorus was replicating for his audience the experience of a
typical book of the Iliad.
The Capture of Troy is a short composition, both literally and program-
matically, but the epyllion label carries with it implications not only
of length, but of other aesthetic tendencies as well. Whether rightly or
38 Vian (1959) 71 also notes that “Tryphiodore traite longuement l’intervention de Cas-
sandre” and provides detailed correspondences between the Capture of Troy and the Post-
homerica in this regard.
39 Leone (1968) 64. Other scholars who feel similarly include Koster (1970) 157 and Ger-
laud (1982) 103.
40 Van Sickle (1980) 9 argues that “[m]anuscripts of the first century begin to show a
text pruned down to vulgate length, with the Iliad and Odyssey each divided into 24 seg-
ments marked by letters of the Ionic alphabetÂ€.Â€.Â€.”
wrongly, epyllia are associated with the Alexandrian aesthetic developed

in the third through first centuries BC, principally by poets like Callima-
chus. Frequently cited characteristics include para-heroic episodes, in
which the major actors of epic have a marginal presence or are not pres-
ent at all;41 learned references to local mythological variants;42 roman-
tic/sentimental stories,43 and aetiologies. Most would argue that these
characteristics are merely tendencies, not fixed elements that appear
in every such composition. Another way of characterizing these aspects
is that short epics approach conventional narratives in unconventional
ways.44 Such aesthetic tendencies are typical of Hellenistic poetry in gen-
eral, not just short epics written in this period, and some Greek poetry
of the imperial period evinces some of the same aesthetics.45 My point
here is not to argue for or against these aesthetic features as providing
a cohesive generic definition, but rather to note that the Capture of Troy
is markedly different from such compositions. It has much more in com-
mon stylistically and thematically with the Iliad, Odyssey, Posthomerica,
and (probably) the cyclic epics in that it tells a conventional narrative in
a conventional way, aside from its brevity.46 Labeling a composition as
an epyllion limits its literary roles to those of the Hellenistic period and,
when held up to expectations of that “genre,” creates thorny problems
that then must be explained away.
While Fantuzzi is anxious about calling the Capture of Troy an epyl-
lion because it does not fit the Alexandrian aesthetic profile, other schol-
ars insist on attempting to discover Hellenstic echoes in Triphiodorus’
work. Some invoke Callimachus directly when they discuss Triphiodorus’
41 Merriam (2001) 6.
42 Hollis (2006) 154.
43 Fantuzzi (1998a) 32: “romantisch-sentimentale Gesch[ichten].”
44 Cf. Cameron (1995) 443: “In fact throughout the poem [the Hecale] Callimachus is
subtly undermining the basic classical axiom that epic, like tragedy, deals with great deeds
of great menÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€Most obviously, instead of calling his poem after the brave young hero
Theseus, he calls it after an obscure old pauper. The scene we might have expected to
be the high point of the poem, the battle with the Marathonian bull, was apparent des-
patched in a few linesÂ€.Â€.Â€.”
45 Short epics like Musaeus’ Hero and Leander and Colluthus’ Kidnapping of Helen
(c. fifth century AD) and longer epics like Nestor of Laranda’s Metamorphoses and Pisander’s
Marriages of Gods and Heroes (c. third century AD) are prominent examples of this “neo-
Hellenistic” aesthetic (see Ma [2007] 108–111).
46 Cf. Koster (1970) 158, Dubielzig (1996) 27, and Miguélez Cavero (2008) 297.
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poetics,47 but this is true, once again, only in terms of length.48 Others
have tried to prove the poem’s affiliation with Alexandrian poetry by
accumulating intertexts, most prominently with Apollonius of Rhodes,
despite the fact that a mere 16% of Triphiodorus’ lexicon derives from
Hellenistic sources.49 Hollis (2006), for instance, finds intertexts with the
Argonautica and Hecale, even though Triphiodorus’ “debt to Hellenistic
poetry is relatively small” (150). Yet such intertexts do not prove that
Triphiodorus was writing in the Alexandrian mode, as most of them do
not extend beyond a single word.50 What they do show is that Hellenis-
tic poetry was part of the reception horizons of imperial poets and their
audiences.51 Though Homer was the major influence on poets who wrote
on Trojan War subjects in this period, the popularity of Greek culture in
the Roman Empire meant that all of Greece’s glorious literary history was
an important source of identity. Therefore, Greek poets working under
the shadow of Rome absorbed the influences of writings from all periods
of their history and activated them within their own texts as an expres-
sion of the breadth and depth of their Hellenic culture. In other words,
Greek poets of the imperial period were not simply rehashing Homer and
Homericizing epic, but rather creating dynamic forms that testified to the
Homeric monuments at the same time as they telescoped Greek literary
history into a single hypertext.
From the vantage point of our exceedingly lacunose knowledge of
Greek poetry of the imperial period, the Capture of Troy seems to be an
exceptional text for its time and even for ancient Greek literature as a
47 E.g., Leone (1968) 84, Gerlaud (1982) 103, Potter (2004) 193, Paschalis (2005b) 108.
48 The terms of Callimachus’ attack on long poems is still debated: see Cameron (1995)
266 et passim. While Callimachus’ Hecale and epigrams may have been short, the Aetia
most certainly was not: Toohey (1996) 74 puts it at 4,000–6,000 lines—much shorter than
the Homeric poems, but certainly much longer than the lengths often cited for epyllia.
49 Cf. Gerlaud (1982) 52 n. 4.
50 Capture of Troy lines 503–505 and Ap. Rhod. Argon. 3.749–750 share ὑλακή and
σιγή (Hollis [2006] 150 n. 54); Hecale fr. 80.1–2 and Capture of Troy lines 657–658 share
πρηεῖα (ibid. 150)—The Greek text of the Argonautica is taken from the edition by Fränkel
(1961).
51 Cf. Noack (1892) 492 on Triphiodorus: “Zu demselben Zweck hat er auch Hesiod,
Apollonios Rhodios, Dionysios den Perigeten und vielleicht Kallimachos und Pindar ver-
werthet.” Paschal (1904) 27 on Quintus: “[H]is vocabulary is culled from the whole field of
Greek poetical literature from Homer until his own day. The technical terms of Aratus are
found side by side with the compounds of Hesiod.” The concept of a “reception horizon”
(Rezeptionshorizont) is taken from Jauß (1982) 19.
whole.52 Yet we must keep in mind that in all likelihood this is a mirage.
Although the Capture of Troy’s combination of Homeric content and style
with short length is singular in extant Greek literature of any period, this
does not mean that the Capture of Troy was a unique literary experiment.
There are fragmentary traces of hexameter poems that seem to be written
in the style of the Iliad and Odyssey on Trojan War subjects, but we have
absolutely no indications of overall length.53 Two Egyptian poets writing a
century or so after Triphiodorus, Colluthus and Musaeus, produced short
epics (393 and 343 lines, respectively) on mythological subjects; however,
although both have clear debts to Homeric poetry,54 they both are even
more clearly linked with Alexandrian aesthetics.55
The Need for Speed:

Triphiodorus’ Metapoetics and Homeric Rhetoric
In the opening lines of the Capture of Troy the narrator sets forth his
theme per the usual practice of epic poets, though the particular way in
which he describes his composition is unusual for such poems (1–5):
τέρμα πολυκμήτοιο μεταχρόνιον πολέμοιο
καὶ λόχον ᾿Αργείης ἱππήλατον ἔργον ᾿Αθήνης,
αὐτίκα μοι σπεύδοντι πολὺν διὰ μῦθον ἀνεῖσα
ἔννεπε, Καλλιόπεια, καὶ ἀρχαίην ἔριν ἀνδρῶν
κεκριμένου πολέμοιο ταχείῃ λῦσον ἀοιδῇ.
52 As Dubielzig (1996) 26 says, “[o]riginellÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€ist Tr. in der Gattungsgeschichte.”

53 The most accessible collection of hexameter fragments from the imperial period is
still Heitsch’s (21963; 1964) two-volume Die griechischen Dichterfragmente der römischen
Kaiserzeit. Miguélez Cavero (2008) helpfully discusses Heitsch’s fragments and the numer-
ous other fragmentary poems from third-sixth century AD Egypt that have come to light
since his edition. Given our ignorance as to the length of these compositions, it is difficult
to conclude that in between Triphiodorus and Colluthus/Musaeus there are (inexplica-
bly) times when short epic “goes underground for large periods” (Hollis [2006] 141). “[A]
certain community of spirit between Alexandria and Constantinople” (ibid.) explains why
Alexandrian-influenced short epic comes on the scene again with the Kidnapping of Helen
and Hero and Leander; however, it does not explain the “sudden” appearance of Triphiodo-
rus’ short epic.
54 Cf. Hopkinson (1994a) 138, speaking only of Musaeus, but his comments are also
applicable to Colluthus.
55 In spite of Fantuzzi’s Aristotelian reservations about Colluthus’ short epic ([1998a]
32; cf. my n. 29), the Kidnapping of Helen is traceable to Alexandrians’ interest in the epi-
sodes of the Trojan War as portrayed by the Cypria, as Sistakou (2008) 63 suggests. The
“Hero and Leander” narrative was popular in the Hellenistic and imperial periods (see
Hopkinson [1994a] 137 and Dümmler’s contribution in this volume).
386 vincent tomasso
The delayed end of the very laborious war

And the ambush, the equine product of Argive Athena,
Tell me right away, Calliope, and forego wordiness,
Since I’m in a rush, and undo in a swift song
The old strife of men after the war has been decided.
The adverb αὐτίκα, the participle σπεύδοντι, and the instrumental dative
ταχείῃ ἀοιδῇ are programmatic in that they describe the speed and abbre-
viated length of the poem and are also used in the narrative itself to
describe the feverish activity of the Achaeans and their allies and the
actions of the Trojans that lead to the destruction of their city. αὐτίκα is
used by the narrator to report the quick end of Troy when Helenus comes
over to the Achaean side (line 50); Sinon αὐτίκα (510) waves a torch to sig-
nal the Achaean fleet once the Trojans are asleep; in her prophetic trance
Cassandra laments that her native land will αὐτίκα (396) be nothing but
dust. In his speech to the assembled Achaean leaders just before the horse
is revealed, Odysseus urges his colleagues to action: “let us boldy hurry
into the horse’s belly” (ἱππείην ἐπὶ νηδὺνÂ€/Â€θαρσαλέοι σπεύδωμεν, 135–136,
with the same verb used to describe their actual behavior in 185). The
Achaean ships rowing back to Troy from Tenedos are described as mov-
ing ὠκύτεραι κραιπνῶν ἀνέμων ταχυπειθέι ῥιπῇ (“nimbler than the speedy
winds, with swift-obeying rush,” 528).56 The narrator thus assimilates the
behavior and goals of the protagonists to his own poetic aims.
As Gerlaud (1982) 104 notes, Calliope in later Greek literature comes to
represent poetry in general (cf. the scholia vetera to Hesiod’s Works and
Days, line 70), but this does not explain why Triphiodorus would choose
this Muse for a poem that uses Homeric style so extensively. Although
Calliope does not appear by name in either the Iliad or the Odyssey, a
scholiast glosses the Odyssean narrator’s Μοῦσα as “Calliope” (scholia vet-
era, hypothesis of Odyssey 1).57 The Geneva scholiast felt similarly about
θεά at Iliad 1.1 (Nicole [1966]), but I center my attention on the Odyssey
because Triphiodorus uses precisely the same verb with the same form
as Odyssey 1.1.58 As I discuss below, the Capture of Troy subsumes Odys-
56 Translation: Mair (1928), with modifications.

57 The text is that of Ludwich (1880–1890).
58 It is equally true that ἔννεπ- also appears twice in the Iliad (2.761 and 8.412), but
its close association with the Odyssey by virtue of being the main verb of the first line
means from a reception standpoint that audiences would interpret Triphiodorus’ ἔννεπε
as a direct reference to the Homeric Odyssey’s ἔννεπε.—The Greek text of the Odyssey is
taken from Allen (21917; 21919).
sean thematics, and the proem enacts this on a programmatic level. At

the same time, the specific reference to Calliope rather than a nameless
Muse confronts the audience with the Capture of Troy’s essential differ-
ence from the Homeric poems. In so doing, Triphiodorus aligns himself
with the para-Homeric scholarly tradition about Homer rather than with
the Odyssey-qua-text specifically. Furthermore, Calliope is connected with
a poet who wrote some of the same narratives as Homer, but in dactylo-
epitrite rather than hexameter. In his Boar Hunters Stesichorus invokes
Calliope (δεῦρ’ ἄγε Καλλιόπεια λίγεια, “come on, clear-voiced Calliope,” fr.
63 PMG), and so that Muse is the perfect instantiation of Triphiodorus’
postion vis-a-vis the Homeric epics.
The narrator orders Calliope to pass over “lengthy narrative” (πολὺς
μῦθος). In the late thirdÂ€/Â€early second century BC Alcaeus Messanius
linked this Muse with precisely the opposite quality when he called her
πολύμυθε (“full of stories,” AP 9.523.1). Messanius’ epigram implies that
Calliope attains this quality specifically with respect to Iliad-style poetry:
“create for me another Homer, since another Achilles has come” (τίκτε μοι
ἄλλον ῞Ομηρον, ἐπεὶ μόλεν ἄλλος ᾿Αχιλλεύς, AP 9.523.2). It is striking, then,
that Triphiodorus asks Calliope to do something that is against her nature;
she is usually invoked by poets because she can inspire them with lengthy
tales of heroism. Triphiodorus does this precisely to draw attention to his
text’s aesthetic difference with the Homeric epic model. Triphiodorus’
Calliope is the epic muse par excellence, whom the narrator calls on to
help him tell a story typical of the epic genre, but who now is in the ser-
vice of a different poetic aesthetic. Homer (and his Muse) is not in control
of the Capture of Troy; Triphiodorus is.
The phrase πολὺς μῦθος is not only linked to the Homeric epic extratex-
tually, but also appears as a characteristic within the poems. After Telema-
chus has spoken out against the suitors publicly in the Ithacan agora,
Eurymachus replies that they will not stop wooing his mother “since we
aren’t scared of anyone, not even Telemachus, although he is a real bab-
bler” (ἐπεὶ οὔ τινα δείδιμεν ἔμπης, / οὔτ’ οὖν Τηλέμαχον, μάλα περ πολύμυθον
ἐόντα, Od. 2.199–200). In this passage the adjective’s meaning is inflected
by the lead suitor’s contempuous tone: Odysseus’ presumptuous son has
become an overly bold windbag, which may be impressive to some but not
to the suitors. This sense is supported by Eustathius’ explanation of the
adjective ἀκριτόφυλος at Iliad 2.868: “And a mountain with many leaves
has a countless amount of leaves. So too Thersites does not know when to
stop talking, just like a babbler” (᾿Ακριτόφυλλον δὲ ὄρος τὸ πολύφυλλον. οὕτω
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καὶ Θερσίτης ἀκριτόμυθος, ὡς πολύμυθος, 1.581.17; cf. 4.761.13).59 The adjec-

tive ἀκριτόμυθος is used to describe Thersites at 2.246, where he questions
Agamemnon’s authority over the Achaeans; thus being πολύμυθος has
negative connotations in the Iliadic context of heroic warfare. Similarly,
in the Posthomerica the Trojans and their Ceteian allies talk a lot as they
eat, camped outside the city walls shortly after their (temporary) victory
over the Achaeans (πολὺς δ’ ἐνὶ μῦθος ὀρώρει / δαινυμένων, 6.168–169). “Long
stories” are a luxury not afforded often during war, and the animated dis-
cussions spurred by Achaean losses will soon be tragically reversed.
Perhaps the most famous example of πολύμυθος in the Homeric poems
is in Helen’s speech during the teichoscopeia of Iliad 3. This passage dem-
onstrates that the activity that the adjective connotes is not necessarily
always pejorative, though it does imply that the individual is not partak-
ing of κλεός-granting battle, that defining activity of the Homeric hero.
On the Trojan battlements Helen describes to Priam Menelaus’ rhetorical
character when he came with Odysseus to ask for her return at the begin-
ning of the war. In the meeting her once and future husband spoke “little,
but very clearly, since he is not verbose” (παῦρα μὲν ἀλλὰ μάλα λιγέως, ἐπεὶ
οὐ πολύμυθος, 3.214).60 This laconic quality is contrasted with the rhetori-
cal character of his fellow ambassador Odysseus, who speaks with “words
like winter storms” (ἔπεα νιφάδεσσιν ἐοικότα χειμερίῃσιν, 3.222).61 Helen
thus constructs Menelaus’ and Odysseus’ speaking styles as polar oppo-
sites—either because of their local origins or their ages—but presumably
she does not intend either characterization as negative, since both men
are respected Achaean leaders.62 In fact, Odysseus characterizes himself
with the phrase πολὺς μῦθος when he breaks off the tale of his descent
into the underworld, telling Alcinous and his court that “[t]here is a time
59 The text is from van der Valk (1971–1987).

60 I translate the adjective as “verbose” based on a comment of the scholia minora (edi-
tion: Heyne [1834]) on this line: “since he did not use many words” (ἐπεὶ οὐκ ἦν πολλοῖς
λόγοις χρώμενος).
61 Mair (1928) 588 n. b points out that Capture of Troy lines 119–120 echoes the Iliad 3
passage, and Orsini (1974) 5–6 further comments that Triphiodorus varies the Homeric
passage’s diction. Although the two passages are describing the rhetorical character of
Odysseus in the same way, they share only three words (φωτὶ ἐοικώς, Capture of Troy line
115 and Iliad 3.219; and ὄμματ-, Capture of Troy line 116 and Iliad 3.217). This again demon-
strates how Triphiodorus differentiates himself from Homer.
62 Eustathius comments that Helen describes Menelaus in this way “either because
of his Spartan origins, as it has been said, or because of his youth” (ἢ διὰ Λακωνισμόν,
ὡς εἴρηται, ἢ διά νεότητα, 1.640.26). Eustathius’ attribution of sparse rhetoric to youth also
explains why Penelope’s suitors are surprised at Telemachus’ behavior; usually men of his
age are not good speakers.
for telling many stories and a time for sleeping” (ὥρη μὲν πολέων μύθων,
ὥρη δὲ καὶ ὕπνου, Od. 11.379). In short, being πολύμυθος is akin to dicanic
or epideictic rhetoric, in which speakers attempt to impress their audi-
ence with flashy words.63 Its proper effect is charming the audience: “thus
he spoke, and everyone went quiet, and they were spell-bound through-
out the shadowy halls” (ὣς ἔφαθ,’ οἱ δ’ ἄρα πάντες ἀκὴν ἐγένοντο σιωπῇ, /
κηληθμῷ δ’ ἔσχοντο κατὰ μέγαρα σκιόεντα, Od. 11.333–334). Triphiodorus, by
contrast, seeks to move through his narrative in a straightforward, speedy
fashion. This is a mode opposed to the rhetorical style of Odysseus, the
roundabout narrative structure of the Odyssey, and the delayed narrative
of the Iliad, but similar if not precisely parallel to Menelaus’ rhetorical
style. It is therefore misleading to associate the Capture of Troy with the
Callimachean tradition—whatever that may mean; rather, it is fundamen-
tally Homeric in that it generates its brevity from the perspective of the
one of central figures of the conflict.64
This reading is rearticulated in the second and final metapoetic pas-
sage that appears near the end of the Capture of Troy. The narrator begs
off relating all of the atrocities that took place the night the Achaeans
took Troy and compares his enterprise to racing a chariot around a goal
post (τέρματος, 667). Scholars have commented on the Pindaric and Cal-
limachean echoes in this passage, but there has been no more than a pass-
ing interest in the most obvious and clear intertext: the chariot race at
Patroclus’ funeral games.65 In Iliad 23 Nestor advises his over-eager son
Antilochus to “drive [his] chariot and horses close after he has brought
them very near to it [the goal-post, τέρματ’]” (τῷ σὺ μάλ’ ἐγχρίμψας ἐλάαν
σχεδὸν ἅρμα καὶ ἵππους, 334). This is similar to Triphiodorus’ own behavior
(ἐγὼ δ’ ἅπερ ἵππον ἐλάσσωÂ€/Â€τέρματος ἀμφιέλισσαν ἐπιψαύουσαν ἀοιδήν, lines
666–667). Thus the Capture of Troy’s narrative, by following the advice of
63 The same may be said for prophetic utterances, or at least Cassandra’s speeches,
which inspire revulsion and censure from her fellow Trojans: “mortals continually dis-
honor [you], since you are a babbler” (αἰὲν ἀτιμάζουσι βροτοὶ πολύμυθον ἐοῦσαν, Posthomer-
ica 12.557).
64 My interpretation of Triphiodorus’ engagement with πολύμυθος has included all uses
of the term in Homeric poetry. Because the Capture of Troy’s stylistic and thematic (if
not textual) antecedents are the Homeric poems, his audience would have looked to the
relatively few instances of this term in the Homeric poems to guide their interpretations.
This does not mean, of course, that the post-Homeric uses of πολύμυθος would not be in
the audiences’ minds as well, particularly its usage by Hellenistic poets.
65 Callimachean echoes: Paschalis (2005b) 108; Pindaric echoes: Fera (2003). Gerlaud
(1982) 169 points out two linguistic echoes between this passage of the Capture of Troy
and Iliad 23.
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the most respected hero among the Achaeans, pursues the appropriate
way for a Homeric hero to win such a competition. After the race, the
narrator comments that Antilochus won “overtaking Menelaus by guile,
not at all by speed” (κέρδεσιν, οὔ τι τάχει γε, παραφθάμενος Μενέλαον, 515).
This passage maps onto the Iliad 3 passage in that speed is associated
with Menelaus’ approach to the Trojan War whereas carefully crafted
(with connotations of trickery), lengthy rhetoric is associated with Odys-
seus’.66 Both passages replay the central conflict of βίη versus δόλος that,
in the Iliad at least, is settled overwhelmingly in favor of the former. That
Triphiodorus uses a word that rarely appears in the Homeric epics to
describe the goal-post of his metapoetic chariot race nicely encapsulates
his composition’s subject, the end of the war (τέρμα, 1).67
Traffic in Homer: Triphiodorus’ Reception of the Iliad and Odyssey
Scholars have long noted that Triphiodorus follows Homer fairly closely in
lexicon, metrics, and thematics. Although he is not as Homeric as his con-
temporary Quintus, he has far more in common with the Iliad and Odys-
sey than Nonnus’ fifth-century AD Dionysiaca, a poem that, before Rea’s
(1972) publication of a papyrus of the Capture of Troy, scholars thought
he was imitating. 81.04% of the Capture of Troy’s lexicon is Homeric,68
strikingly similar to the Posthomerica’s 78.9%.69 Neither Quintus nor
Triphiodorus follow the same metrical rules as Nonnus,70 who in turn had
adopted the Callimachean reforms of the Greek hexameter. Triphiodorus’
meter and lexicon have been major preoccupations of scholarship about
the Capture of Troy over the years, as has identification of thematic and
diction intertexts with Homer: see most recently Ypsilanti (2007), who
argues for specific cases of imitatio cum variatione of the Iliad and Odyssey
by Triphiodorus.
66 See Odysseus’ characterization in Book 23 itself (κέρδεα εἰδώς, 709).

67 Cf. Gerlaud (1982) 169.
68 Gerlaud (1982) 51 n. 6.
69 Paschal (1904) 22. The actual figure Paschal gives is 3,000 Homeric words in the Cap-
ture of Troy versus 3,800 words in the Posthomerica. Despite the fact that Quintus has a
fractionally smaller total number of Homeric words that Triphiodorus, the rest of Quintus’
lexicon is derived from Homer as well (ibid.): “Many of the remaining eight hundred are
compounds formed on Homeric analogy; others are found in very early poets and have
an epic flavor.”
70 Cf. Köchly (1850) xxxii (on Quintus) and Wifstrand (1933) 75 (on Triphiodorus).
From the very beginning of his text, Triphiodorus sets out to mark his
difference from Homer and the epic tradition, as the title differs from
the titles of earlier poetry about the same material. The canonical epic
version of the event, the poem attributed to Arctinus, was, according to
Proclus’ summary, titled ᾿Ιλίου Πέρσις.71 Triphiodorus’ title, ῞Αλωσις ᾿Ιλίου,
is not attested elsewhere as the title of a Greek poem, though it is com-
monly used in literature about the Trojan legend from the Archaic period
onwards. Gerlaud (1982) 10 cites Aeschylus Agamemnon 589, Pindar Paean
6.81–82, and two Latin sources for the Capture of Troy’s word order, though
there are other sources that use the same words with a reverse ordering
(e.g., Thuc. 1.12.3; Plut. Mor. 315A.8).72
Triphiodorus’ title also differentiates his composition from Homeric
tradition, since the term ἅλωσις does not appear in either of the Homeric
poems or the Posthomerica, whereas πέρσις and its derivatives appear
approximately thirty-five and fourteen times, respectively, in those poems.
Homer describes the ultimate event of the war with some variation of
the formula ᾿Ιλίου ἐκπέρσαι εὖ ναιόμενον πτολίεθρον (Il. 2.133), and Quintus
uses a similar expression (e.g., εὖτε γὰρ ῎Ιλιον αἰπὺ θοοὶ διέπερσαν ᾿Αχαιοί,
10.153). This suggests that Arctinus drew on the same traditional body of
material as the Homeric poems and that Quintus followed Homer in this.73
Thus for an audience of the third century AD the title of Triphiodorus’
poem would strike them as slightly innovative vis-à-vis other hexameter
depictions of the fall of Troy, drawing their attention to Triphiodorus’
simultaneous emulation of and distancing from these accounts, especially
Homeric poetry.74
This distancing from Homer is merely one aspect of Triphiodorus’ aes-
thetics since his poem also consumes critical aspects of the Odyssey and
Iliad, redeploying and fulfilling some of their central themes and events.
Of course, the Capture of Troy’s narrative material has more in common
71 Proclus’ text is taken from the edition by Severyns (1963).

72 The manuscripts containing the Capture of Troy give the title as ῞Αλωσις ᾿Ιλίου (F),
᾿Ιλίου ῞Αλωσις (M,V, Y, A, L, N, and Suda entry tau 1111 Adler), περὶ τῆς ᾿Ιλίου ἁλώσεως (P),
and περὶ τῆς Τροίας ἁλώσεως (Gerlaud [1982] 74 ad loc.).
73 One of Burgess’ (2001) primary arguments is that the material behind the Homeric
poems and the cyclic poems both derive from oral tradition (174 et passim). Clay (1997)
makes a similar argument in passing (187).
74 Gerlaud (1982) 10 also notes the striking choice of a title for the Capture of Troy, but
he thinks that Triphiodorus did this to mark his adherence to Lesches’ rendition of events
in the Little Iliad rather than Arctinus’ in the Sack of Troy: “Il veut peut-être suggérer que,
contrairement à Arctinos, il ne va pas centrer son poème sur le sac de Troie, mais sur les
circonstances qui ont conduit à la prise de la ville, suivant en cela la Petite Iliade.”
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with the Iliad than with the Odyssey, since the war is still going on and
the setting is still Troy. Through some careful framing devices and repro-
duction of Odyssean themes, however, Triphiodorus manages to collapse
the Homeric poems into a single text. By so doing he achieves the con-
sumption and reintegration of Homer in a poem whose length is roughly
the average for an Iliadic book. Although the Capture of Troy’s theme is
the end of the war, the narrative itself takes place in the same setting
and situation as the Iliad and adopts the style of Menelaus, for whom the
Achaeans came to Troy. Thus Triphiodorus’ poem is an engagement of
the Odyssey in a narrative framework that recalls the Iliad, and through
this device the poet successfully consumes and digests both Homeric
monuments in a remarkably brief 691 lines. This is not to say that he is
simply summarizing the Homeric poems—what he is doing is far more
complex. He redeploys central themes and narrative sequences of the
Homeric Iliad and Odyssey to reanimate them in the body of his own text,
and by doing so he is harnessing the power of the Homeric monuments
in a powerful way.75
The structure and basic plot developments of the Capture of Troy are
contained not only in Lesches and Arctinus, but also in the various mini-
narratives about the sack told in Odyssey 4, 8, and 11 by Menelaus, Helen,
Demodocus, and Odysseus himself. Although these passages do not pro-
vide a detailed, linear rendition of events as the Capture of Troy does, they
nonetheless narrate some of the most central incidents: the conception
and construction of the wooden horse, Helen’s temptation of the Achae-
ans hiding in the horse, Menelaus’ and Odysseus’ assault on Deiphobus,
Neoptolemus’ behavior in the war, and so forth. On one level, these events
do not actually occur in Homeric narrative (they are prolepses in narrato-
logical terms), and so Triphiodorus situates the Capture of Troy outside of
Homeric narrative, treating episodes that occur after the Iliad and before
the Odyssey. However, the characters’ reperformance of these events reac-
tivates them in the audiences’ minds and weaves them into the fabric of
the Homeric poem.76 In effect the Odyssey makes the cyclic poems part of
75 Schmitz (2007) 83 argues that Quintus’ references to Homer “provide a metapoetical

commentary on his own role as a belated epic poet who has to shape a well-known tradi-
tion for a learned audience.”
76 For instance, in Odyssey Book 1 Phemius sings of the returns of the Achaeans to
Penelope’s suitors (325–328). The events he sings about “belong” to the narrative of Agias’
cyclic epic the Returns, but Penelope’s grieved reaction makes the recontextualized nostoi
narrative have affective power in Homer’s epic. This effectively makes the proleptic nar-
rative the Odyssey’s.
itself. At the same time Triphiodorus’ selection of diegetic events is strik-

ing in that he sets his narrative frame to encompass the one set of para-
Homeric narratives that simultaneously has the most narrative overlap
with the Homeric poems. Had his poem dealt with, for example, the flight
of Paris and Helen from Sparta (Stasinus’ Cypria; cf. Colluthus’ Kidnap-
ping of Helen in the fifth century AD), he would not have been engaging
with Homer in a direct way. Moreover, as Hunter points out in his con-
tribution to this volume, Triphiodorus includes at least one element that
the Homeric Demodocus does not—Sinon.77 The Capture of Troy thereby
is able to make a sound claim to reactivating the power of the Homeric
poems while also going beyond those epics.78
An aspect of the Odyssey that the Capture of Troy emulates is the cen-
trality of Odysseus to the narrative. He is the mortal impetus for the nar-
rative action in the Capture of Troy, while Athena is the immortal impetus,
a situation identical to the Odyssey where Odysseus motivates the nar-
rative (ἄνδρα μοι ἔννεπε), and Athena is his patron goddess—most obvi-
ously, her intervention on his behalf starting at 1.44–62.79 Triphiodorus
emphasizes Athena’s role in the war as paramount: she inspires Epeius
to build the horse (57–58), and Odysseus suggests how to use it (120–151).
This also underscores the interaction between hero and goddess in the
Odyssey, where Athena’s action spurs Odysseus to action on Calypso’s
island.80 By contrast, in the Posthomerica Odysseus is the first to suggest
the construction of the horse; Athena is not involved at this stage (μοῦνος
δὲ σαοφροσύνῃσι νόησενÂ€/Â€υἱὸς Λαέρταο, 12.23–24; cf. Paschalis [2005b] 97).
Although both texts present Odysseus as central to the fulfillment of the
Achaeans’ goal, the Capture of Troy’s smaller narrative scope focuses atten-
tion on Odysseus as a pivotal figure. This is why the narrative begins with
events from the Little Iliad rather than the Sack of Troy: according to Pro-
clus the former narrated the construction of the horse and the Achaeans
77 Hunter (p. 90) also points out that Demodocus’ narrative jumps around in time,
which is stylistically analogous to the Homeric poems’ style.
78 Hunter’s interest in the relationship between the Odyssey and Capture of Troy is the
formal principle of extension/compression. This is an important point that bears further
scrutiny—as Hunter says, “an illuminating exercise” (p. 88)—but is not relevant for my
point here.
79 In his fascinating comparison between the wooden horse and Pandora, Paschalis
(2005b) 92 also points out “[t]he marked preference for females and the feminine in the
shaping of the narrative [of the Capture of Troy].”
80 According to Clay (1997) 186–188, Athena’s anger at Odysseus after the fall of Troy
was the ultimate cause of his wandering in the first place. She cites several possibilities for
the specific cause, including his killing of Astyanax (Capture of Troy 645).
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entering it (Chr. 222–223; 230–231), while the latter began with the horse
already in Troy (Chr. 241–242). By starting his narrative before the con-
struction of the horse, Triphiodorus is able to make Odysseus the central
character and emphasize Odyssean themes, and consequently to better
absorb and redeploy the Homeric Odyssey.81
That Triphiodorus puts Odysseus front and center in his composition is
further articulated by a crucial difference between the Posthomerica and
the Capture of Troy in the initial reaction of the Achaeans to the wooden
horse stratagem. The Capture of Troy is a poem that poses a problem, how
to destroy a city, and presents Odysseus’ solution as the only viable one.
In the Posthomerica other strategies are vociferously suggested by NeoÂ�
ptolemus and Philoctetes, who wish to pursue Achilles’ βίη method. At
first they reject Odysseus’ plan, but Zeus’ lightning forces them to submit
(12.66–100). This resistance underscores that βίη has played a vital role up
until this point in the war; indeed, before Book 12 the fall of Troy is predi-
cated on βίη—most obviously, the deaths of Penthesilea, Memnon, and
Eurypylus at Achilles’ hands. Without Achilles and his son Neoptolemus,
the Achaeans would never have been able to besiege Troy as long as they
had and ultimately win the war. In the Capture of Troy the narrator uses
βίη only to describe how Athena pushes the δόλος into Troy (331) and how
Locrian Ajax rapes Cassandra at Athena’s altar (649), neither of which
are heroic actions. These passages thus effectively erase βίη from the Cap-
ture of Troy’s narrative and thematic equation, whereas Quintus carefully
delineates how the two heroic qualities are necessary for the completion
of the war.
Odysseus’ pivotal role in the Capture of Troy is defined in part by
his identification with the narrator’s metapoetics. Just as the narrator’s
rush (μοι σπεύδοντι, 3) necessitates the 691–line scope of the Capture of
Troy, Odysseus also suggests that the Achaeans hurry to enter the horse
(σπεύδωμεν, 136) so that Troy can finally be taken. Though σπευδ- is used
on six further occasions in the Capture of Troy, Odysseus is the first intradi-
egetic character to use it. In the second metapoetic passage the narrator
describes his composition as “rolling song” (ἀμφιέλισσανÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€ἀοιδήν, 667); he
also describes Odysseus as having a “mind swirling with divine counsel”
(δαιμονίῃσι νόον βουλῇσιν ἑλίσσων, 114). The same adjectival form also
appears in line 63 to describe a ship, which is its most common usage in
81 Gerlaud thought that Triphiodorus’ choice of title alluded to his adherence to

Lesches’ version over Arctinus’. See my n. 74 above.
the Homeric poems. Thus the Capture of Troy’s Odysseus and the text as a
whole are described in a way similar to the principal mode of transporta-
tion in the Odyssey.82
Although Odyssean structures and themes are a central aspect of the
Capture of Troy, the poem also consumes the Iliad. In lines 17–56 the nar-
rator tells a select number of events from the Iliad through the Little Iliad
out of a strictly chronological ordering. Although the narrator mentions
Achilles’ death first (16), the first event chronologically speaking is the
death of Rhesus (29–30 = Il. 10.474–483), and the last is the capture of
the Palladium (55–56). This passage, with its images rearranged from the
chronological ordering of the hypotext into a new sequence, is what nar-
ratologists and media theorists call a montage.83 The effect in this particu-
lar case is akin to the recapitulation sequences of many television series,
rather than an abstract montage sequence in the middle of an autono-
mous film. A recapitulation sequence, which is a series of scenes culled
from previous installments, often begins any episode subsequent to the
first one. Such sequences are not just “quotations” that link a hypertext
securely to the narrative authority of the hypotext(s) but also serve to
remind the audience of past events that will be relevant in some way
to the present text. In a similar way Triphiodorus is doing much more
than quoting scenes from the Iliad’s hypotext; he is reintegrating the
scenes from the hypotext into his own text, which in effect assimilates
the hypotext to the hypertext. The narrator has already set forth a poetic
program in the first five lines that has established that this composition
is going to be different from the Homeric poems, and so the audience
interprets the Trojan War montage in these lines as reconstituted within
a new, autonomous text. Instead of slotting himself into Homeric tradi-
tion as Quintus does, Triphiodorus encapsulates the crucial events from
that poem in his own text, and, by reordering those events, he makes the
82 Ships are so described at Il. 2.165 and 2.181, 9.683, 13.174, 15.549 17.612, 18.260; and
Od. 3.162, 6.264, 7.9 and 7.252, 9.64, 10.91 and 10.156, 12.368, 14.258, 15.283, 17.427, and
21.390.—Miguélez Cavero (2008) 146 compares the building of the horse in the Capture
of Troy to the construction of the raft in Odyssey 5, but the passages only parallel one
another in a loose way.
83 Metz (1974) 125 defines “montage” as “two or more alternating ‘motifs,’ but no precise
relationship (whether temporal or spatial) is assigned to them—at least on the level of
denotation.”
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Iliad his own. The Iliad becomes an extension of the Capture of Troy rather
than the other way around.84
Quintus envisions his audience moving from the Homeric Iliad directly
to his own work and from his work directly to the Odyssey, whereas
Triphiodorus envisions his audience consuming his poem as a self-stand-
ing text. This fundamental difference between text aesthetics is instan-
tiated by the first seventeen lines of the Posthomerica, which describe
Achilles’ killing of Hector and the Trojan hero’s funeral and intertwine
that defining Iliadic moment with a description of the Trojans’ fear after
that event. The Trojans have retreated to Troy after the death, funeral,
and burial of Hector, which is the subject of the last line of Iliad 24 (ὣς
οἵ γ’ ἀμφίεπον τάφον ῞Εκτορος ἱπποδάμοιο); thus in the first seventeen lines
of the Posthomerica Quintus has merged his own text seamlessly with the
Iliad, in a manner similar to connections between some books within the
Homeric poems.85
Triphiodorus’ poem also begins with recollections of significant deaths
in the war. Both Achaeans and Trojans remember the deaths of charac-
ters whose demises appear in the Iliad: Rhesus (Book 10), Sarpedon (Book
16), Patroclus (Book 16), and Hector (Book 22). Their memories are not
solely Iliadic, however; they also lament for Penthesila (Aethiopis), Mem-
non (Aethiopis), Achilles (Aethiopis), and Ajax (Little Iliad). This is a strik-
ing contrast with the Posthomerica. Quintus recalls the final death of the
Iliad so that his text will seamlessly transition with Homer’s, whereas
Triphiodorus recalls many such events, obscuring his poem’s connection
84 The Posthomerica also has a montage in its final book, when an Achaean sings about
their accomplishments in the conflict after Troy has been sacked (14.125–141). He mentions
Aulis, Achilles’ battles with Telephus, Eetion, Cycnus, Hector, Penthesilea, and Memnon;
Ajax’ battle with Glaucus; Neoptolemus’ battle with Eurypylus; Philoctetes’ battle with
Paris; and the wooden horse’s role in the sack of Troy. This is different, however, from
Triphiodorus’ montage in that it is placed near the end of the narrative and thus functions
to reaffirm, rather than replace, critical themes of the Homeric texts. Since my focus in this
paper is on Triphiodorus’ reception of the Homeric poems, I have chosen not to pursue
his reception of the cyclic poems in detail. Here it suffices to say that Triphiodorus’ aim is
not just to fold the Iliad and Odyssey into the Capture of Troy, but the entirety of the war,
as Paschalis (2005b) 102–103 argues.
85 For an example, in Iliad 9 the primary narrator recalls his description of the Trojans
camped before the walls of Troy in the last thirteen lines of the previous book (8.552–565)
and moves towards a new subject, the state of the Achaeans during the Trojans’ activities
(ὣς οἳ μὲν Τρῶες φυλακὰς ἔχον· αὐτὰρ ᾿Αχαιούς). The Achaeans’ panicked flight (φύζα, 2)
and grief (πένθεϊ, 3; note the diction parallel with Posthomerica 1.16) is then compared in
an extended simile to two winds whipping the sea into a frenzy (4–7) before the primary
narrator briefly returns to the Achaeans’ general emotional state (8) and moves the action
forward with Agamemnon’s order for the leading warriors to gather in the ἀγορά (9–11).
to Homer’s. By reordering the Iliadic events and mixing them in with

events outside of the Iliad’s narrative scope proper, Triphiodorus also
exerts power over the Homeric text and effectively makes it his own, sub-
suming the hypotext into the hypertext. This observation is supported by
the fact that Triphiodorus does not summarize all the events of the war
up until the building of the horse: he begins specifically with the tenth
year of the war, precisely where the Iliad begins. Triphiodorus, in other
words, hijacks Homer.
Triphiodorus’ epic not only incorporates the Iliad into itself; it also
rewrites it covertly by redeploying and then reenacting the fulfillment
of some central concerns of the Homeric poem. The Capture of Troy’s
narrator recalls the first word of the Iliad when he describes Achilles as
βαρύμηνις (“heavy with wrath,” 639).86 This word sets up the audience’s
expectation that that anger will cease in the concluding lines, in which
the Achaeans sacrifice Polyxena to Achilles’ ghost to “undo the wrath of
Aeacus’ descendant” (μῆνιν ἱλασσάμενοι τεθνειότος Αἰακίδαο, 687). Quintus
also describes how Achilles was appeased by Polyxena’s sacrifice in Post-
homerica 14, but crucially he does not use μῆνις to describe the ghost’s
emotional state. Achilles’ ghost proclaims that he will be upset (χώομαι,
14.215) at the Achaeans if they do not sacrifice Polyxena at his tomb, and
when Neoptolemus draws his sword, he asks his father not to be angry
(μηδ᾿ ἡμῖν ἔτ᾿ ἀργαλέως, 309). Quintus uses μῆνις in conjunction with Achil-
les only once, at 14.132, in an exact description of the Homeric Iliad. In
that scene an anonymous Achaean bard sings about the past events of the
Trojan War. Quintus here is not redeploying the theme of Achilles’ wrath,
only reminding his audience of that theme in the hypotext; Achilles is not
actually angry within Quintus’ own narrative (and therefore text). Both
poets use other verbal and nominal forms closely related to μῆνις such
as μαίνομαι (Capture of Troy 20 and 545; Posthomerica 1.103, 1.582; 5.369,
5.377; 7.360; 9.248, 9.272; and 14.471). However, from a reception stand-
point none of these forms have the valence that μῆνις does, its accusative
singular form in particular, to represent the Homeric Iliad in its entirety.87
To Quintus, the μῆνις of Achilles is a subject that defines Homer’s epic and
86 I have chosen to translate μῆνις and its derivatives as “wrath,” even though this
EnÂ�glish word does not do justice to the Greek word. For a full semantic analysis see
Muellner (1996).
87 My observation does not contradict the finding of Muellner (1996) that semantically
μῆνις is identical with the related verbals form of μηνίω (2–3 et passim). Muellner is work-
ing within the Archaic/Classical system of oral poetry, not from the text-based reception
system of imperial Greeks. By the imperial period the Homeric texts were more or less
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cannot define his own, and it serves only as a prolepsis that connects the
Posthomerica to the Iliad.
This is further demonstrated by the fact that the predicted effects of
the Iliadic μῆνις of Achilles—bodies eaten “by the dogs and all the birds”
(κύνεσσιν / οἰωνοῖσί τε πᾶσι, 1.4–5)—is fulfilled when “birds and dogs
throughout the city” (οἰωνοί τε κύνες τε κατὰ πτόλιν, 607) consume Trojan
bodies in the Capture of Troy. The narrator’s prediction of the exposure of
corpses never happens in the Iliad, since both sides are always careful to
dispose of bodies in the appropriate manner. Even when Achilles tries to
fulfill his threats by dragging Hector’s corpse for days, the gods preserve
it, and Priam eventually gives his son proper funeral rites.
Characters in the Posthomerica frequently express the Iliadic Achilles’
desire to expose corpses. Achilles exposes Penthesilea’s body to “birds
and dogs” (1.644) but quickly changes his mind and allows her body to be
retrieved and buried by the Trojans (784–788)—an analogue to his behav-
ior in Iliad 22–24. In his madness, Ajax wants Odysseus’ body to be eaten
by “birds and dogs” (5.441), but the delusion sent by Athena causes him to
kill and expose to scavengers the bodies of sheep, not warriors. In Book 8
Eurypylus brags to the newly arrived Neoptolemus that dogs have gotten
to the bones of the Achaeans he has killed beside Xanthus (8.144), behav-
ior similar to that of Achilles beside the same river in Iliad 20. However,
the narrator contradicts this boast since he says that the bodies are in fact
buried after the battle (481–482). At 10.404–405 Helen imagines that if she
stays in the city, the Trojans will allow her body to be eaten by “birds and
dogs,” but this never comes to pass, even though she stays in Troy until the
sack. During the capture of Troy itself, dogs howl ominously (13.100–101),
and when the Achaeans begin their slaughter, these dogs trample human
bodies in the street; they do not consume them (456). In fact, in the last
book the primary narrator states that the Trojans who had been spared
during the massacre bury their dead the next day (14.400–403). Therefore
Quintus, while recapitulating a central theme from the hypotext, explic-
itly denies its fulfillment within his hypertext.88 By contrast, Triphiodorus
not only alludes to and redeploys a defining aspect of his Homeric model
but also simultaneously fulfills an unfulfilled event from that narrative.
fixed, which meant that audiences had a more uniform experience of the Iliad and Odyssey
than their ancestors.
88 Mansur (1940) 59, by contrast, argues that the “improvement of the pagan code”
caused Quintus to have his heroes respect the corpses.
When the Capture of Troy’s Sinon supplicates the Trojans for mercy as
part of the Achaean stratagem to get the horse into the city, he relates three
incidents in the war that demonstrate the Achaeans’ cruelty: the taking of
Briseis from Achilles (270), the abandoning of Philoctetes (271), and the
murder of Palamedes (272). The last two are prolepses to the Cypria, but
the first is the defining moment of the Iliad’s narrative. This is not a casual
reference to a monumental predecessor, but rather an intertext that cre-
ates a dynamic relationship between hypo- and hypertext. Whereas the
Iliadic Briseis is synecdoche for Achilles’ βίη/μῆνις as an essential compo-
nent of the Trojan War—Agamemnon’s seizure of her is the final straw
that causes Achilles to be angry and withdraw from battle—in Sinon’s
formulation she becomes an essential aspect of the Achaean plan to
end the war through a deceitful manuever, the “horsey place of ambush”
(λόχον ἱππήλατον, 2 [i.e. the Trojan horse]).89 Briseis is also redeployed in
that she—or rather Sinon’s reference to her—helps end the war rather
than delay it, which is her function in the Iliad. She plays a crucial part
in persuading Priam and the other Trojans to accept Odysseus’ δόλος; she
is no longer a part of Achilles’ narrative, but has been reinscribed into
Odysseus’. Sinon’s speech in the Capture of Troy is quite different from
his speech in Posthomerica Book 12, in which he mentions the Achaeans’
cruelty toward him, but never goes into specifics (375–386).
According to the Cypria (Chr. 144–146), the Achaeans leave Philoctetes
on the island of Lemnos because he was bitten by a snake, and the Ili-
adic narrator alludes to this event in the Catalogue of Ships (2.724–726):
“but the Argives beside their ships would quickly remember lord Philoc-
tetes” (τάχα δὲ μνήσεσθαι ἔμελλον / ᾿Αργεῖοι παρὰ νηυσὶ Φιλοκτήταο ἄνακτος,
2.724–725). However, Philoctetes’ return from Lemnos to Troy and the
critical role of his bow in the fall of the city is not mentioned explicitly in
the Capture of Troy—only Sinon refers to him, and the reference concerns
the details of his abandonment only. The Iliadic narrator predicts that
Philoctetes will be needed by the Achaeans again, and indeed he is—to
convince the Trojans to bring the wooden horse into their city.
89 See Burgess (2001) 145, where he lays out fourteen thematic correspondences between
the cyclic and Homeric poems. Among them is the pair “capture of Chryseis, Briseis” and
“anger of Achilles.” In the case of imperial poetics I would widen the association to simply
“Briseis” and “anger of Achilles” (which, as I mentioned above, is equivalent to delaying
the end of the war).
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Another Iliadic analepsis occurs when Priam is killed by Neoptolemus:

Αἰακίδης δὲ γέροντα Νεοπτόλεμος βασιλῆα
πήμασι κεκμηῶτα παρ’ ῾Ερκείῳ κτάνε βωμῷ
οἶκτον ἀπωσάμενος πατρώιον· οὐδὲ λιτάων
ἔκλυεν, οὐ Πηλῆος ὁρώμενος ἥλικα χαίτην
ᾐδέσαθ’, ἧς ὕπο θυμὸν ἀπέκλασεν ἠδὲ γέροντος
καίπερ ἐὼν βαρύμηνις ἐφείσατο τὸ πρὶν ᾿Αχιλλεύς. (Capture of Troy 634–639)
But Neoptolemus, descendant of Aeacus, killed the old king,
Worn out with calamities, beside the altar of Zeus Hearth-Keeper,
Since he had disregarded his father’s pity, and he did not heed his prayers,
Seeing as he did not, though seeing Peleus’ age-mate, respect his hair,
Because of which Achilles, although being heavy with wrath,
Lamented and spared the old man before.
While this is clearly an allusion to the climactic events of Iliad 24, one may
object that this passage is simply a standard element of the Trojan War
tradition. Even though in his summary of Arctinus’ epic (Chr. 257–258)
Proclus is silent on the matter, it seems likely that Achilles’ earlier spar-
ing of Priam would have been recalled in this scene.90 Nevertheless, sim-
ply because a particular event or episode exists in a hypotext that is very
influential in the broader culture does not mean that later poets are con-
strained to depicting that event or episode in the same way. Triphiodorus
has made a conscious choice to interact with Homer in this instance, and
the nuance of this engagement is illuminated by a parallel passage in the
Posthomerica.
Quintus’ Priam specifically tells Neoptolemus to kill him, wishing that
Achilles had done so before, in effect in Iliad 24: “would that your father
had killed me before I saw Troy in flames, when I was bringing ransom
for dead Hector, whom your father killed” (ὡς ὄφελόν με / σεῖο πατὴρ
κατέπεφνε πρὶν αἰθομένην ἐσιδέσθαι / ῎Ιλιον, ὁππότ’ ἄποινα περὶ κταμένοιο
φέρεσκον / ῞Εκτορος, ὅν <περ> ἔπεφνε πατὴρ τεός, 13.231–234). Neoptolemus’
murder of Priam is thus figured as a mercy killing, the effect of which is to
emphasize how much the son is like his father.91 This is in stark contrast
to Triphiodorus’ rendition, where Neoptolemus is depicted negatively
90 Much as, for instance, it is likely that the narrator alluded to Polyxena’s sacrifice
when Achilles kills Troilus in the earlier part of the war: see Burgess (2001) 139 n. 20.
91 Some scholars have felt that Quintus “idealized” his characters, taking away all of
their negative traits. See Mansur (1940) 37–38 et passim. I am not making the same claim;
rather, I argue that Quintus altered the circumstances of the behavior attributed to Neop-
tolemus by Arctinus and others to better reflect the Homeric Achilles in Iliad 24.
because he is not following precedent.92 Both Quintus and Triphiodorus’

Neoptolemus depart from the Homeric Achilles in killing Priam instead
of sparing his life, but Quintus glosses over these differences by having
Priam refute Iliadic precedent, thus anticipating the charge of impi-
ety against Neoptolemus. He acknowledges traditions depicted in other
poems, but at the same time he orients his own aesthetic stance toward
the Homeric Iliad. Triphiodorus, on the other hand, underscores the dif-
ference between Achilles and Neoptolemus—simultaneously emphasiz-
ing the discontinuity between Homer and himself—and also points out
that Achilles’ son will get his just desserts when he goes to Delphi (640–
643), an event which does not appear in the Posthomerica. This episode
has a metapoetic component, for Neoptolemus, being the son of Achilles,
naturally represents poets composing after Homer, as Kneebone (2007)
305 observes. Under this view, Triphiodorus’ Neoptolemus distinguishes
the poet and his composition from the Iliad, while Quintus’ Neoptolemus
aligns him with Homer.
The Capture of Troy has a firm sense of closure, of a self-contained nar-
rative that does not depend on other narratives to arrive at its meaning.93
Triphiodorus’ subject is the end of the Trojan War (τέρμα πολυκμήτοιο
μεταχρόνιον πολέμοιο, 1), and the poem concludes that subject definitively
with a penultimate word that echoes the initial thematic term: “the Achae-
ans led [their spoils] from Troy after they finished their toil” (ἐκ Τροίης
ἀνάγοντο μόθον τελέσαντες ᾿Αχαιοί, 689–691).94 Yet, as the Capture of Troy’s
audience knew well, this was not the end of the Trojan War narrator, and,
despite the tidy ending, the Capture of Troy does allude to the fact that the
Achaeans’ returns to Greece will not in every case turn out well. Cassan-
dra and the narrator briefly reference the ill-fated returns of Agamemnon
92 Cf. Paschalis (2005b) 104. Scholars have viewed Quintus’ constant comparison of
Neoptolemus with Achilles as yet another sign of the poet’s aesthetic degeneracy. See,
e.g., Castiglioni (1921) 35–40 and Mansur (1940) 59: “Lack of invention induces him to harp
again and again upon one idea in describingÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€the resemblance of Neoptolemus to Achil-
les.” But cf. now Boyten (2007).
93 This is, of course, different from saying that the Capture of Troy does not depend on
other texts, for it certainly does.
94 The Posthomerica also ends on a teleological note: after Poseidon and Apollo destroy
the Achaeans’ wall, as the Iliadic narrator predicted in Book 12, the narrator remarks that
“on the one hand these things the immortals’ evil intentions fulfilled; on the other, the
Argives in their ships were sailing, as many as the storm scattered” (ἀλλὰ τὰ μέν που /
ἀθανάτων ἐτέλεσσε κακὸς νόος· οἳ δ’ ἐνὶ νηυσὶν / ᾿Αργεῖοι πλώεσκον ὅσους διὰ χεῖμα κέδασσεν,
14.654–656). In this instance ἐτέλεσσε could refer to the destruction of the wall, or more
generally to the war as a whole. In any case, the following line explicitly informs the audi-
ence that, even though the text is over, the narrative is not.
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(408–409) and Neoptolemus (640–643), respectively. The Capture of Troy

also points thematically to the Achaeans’ further misadventures at sea
when Athena becomes angry at all the Achaeans for Locrian Ajax’s rape
of Cassandra (Capture of Troy 647–650). As Clay (1997) 49 and 187 argues,
Locrian Ajax’s behavior and Odysseus’ killing of Astyanax (Capture of Troy
644–646) are two possible reasons within the tradition for Athena’s anger
at her favorite hero before the Odyssey begins. Triphiodorus’ audience
would naturally recognize these cues as indications of the wider thematic
network of Trojan War poetry, but recognition is different from explicit
preparation for a sequel. Although Odysseus is a central character in the
Capture of Troy, his future wanderings are never acknowledged or even so
much as hinted at.
By contrast, Quintus prepares his audience both literally and themati-
cally for the Homeric Odyssey. In literal terms, Quintus links his own text to
the Odyssey through the narrator’s prolepsis that Antiphus’ homecoming
will be cut short by the cyclops Polyphemus (8.125–127).95 Near the end of
the poem the narrator also briefly points to Odysseus’ further adventures:
“he was going to suffer much grief because of Poseidon’s attack” (ἔμελλε
/ πάσχειν ἄλγεα πολλὰ Ποσειδάωνος ὁμοκλῇ, 14.630–631). The audience of
the Posthomerica needs the Odyssey’s narrative to make sense of Quin-
tus’ narrative.96 Quintus’ structuring of the Achaeans’ returns in the final
book is also connected to his desire to join his narrative with its Homeric
sequel. According to Proclus’ summary of Agias’ Returns (Chr. 277–303),
Diomedes and Nestor are the first to return home safely; Menelaus is ship-
wrecked in Egypt; Calchas, Leonteus, Polypoetes, and their followers go to
Colophon by land; Locrian Ajax dies at sea; Neoptolemus gets to Thrace
and meets up with Odysseus; and Agamemnon is killed by Clytemnestra.
Quintus has rearranged and selectively edited Agias’ depiction so that he
can prepare his audience for Odysseus’ partnership with Athena and suc-
cessful homecoming in the Odyssey. The only episodes from the Returns
that he depicts are Calchas’ land journey, which emphasizes the impor-
tance of respecting the gods, and the deaths of Locrian Ajax and various
Achaeans at sea, which emphasizes that individuals who do not respect
95 Although Odysseus never names the man whom Polyphemus eats in Book 9, in
Book 2 the primary narrator reports that Antiphus was the Cyclops’ last meal (πύματον δ’
ὁπλίσσατο δόρπον, 20). Quintus makes his text’s connection with the Odyssey all the more
intricate, since the Posthomerica narrator names the only victim of Polyphemus specified
by Homer.
96 Cf. Bär (2010) 309: “ the completion of an uncompleted work of art, that is the supple-
menting both of the Homeric shield description and of the Iliad itselfÂ€.Â€.Â€.”
the gods, especially Athena, forfeit their homecomings. These events are
the two sides of the Odyssey’s thematics, since Odysseus is, before the
beginning of the poem proper, hated by the gods, and only makes it back
to Ithaca because Athena relents in her anger against him.
The τέλος of the war is an important aspect of the Iliad as well. Accord-
ing to the Iliadic narrator, Zeus’ will is in the process of being fulfilled, Διὸς
δ’ ἐτελείετο βουλή (1.5) (“and the plan of Zeus began [inceptive imperfect]
to be fulfilled”). The scholia minora on this line argue that the narrator
is referring to Zeus’ will that Gaia be relieved of the weight of too much
humanity as related in the Cypria.97 Achilles’ anger is a part of the plan,
since it results in the deaths of countless Achaeans and Trojans. But the
plan of Zeus is not fulfilled by the end of the Iliad, since the war has not
ended; this does, however, happen at the end of the Capture of Troy. In
this way, Triphiodorus’ poem is the ultimate fulfillment of Iliadic events.98
Of course, the Posthomerica also narrates this fulfillment, but the differ-
ence is that the Capture of Troy ends precisely at the moment of the τέλος,
whereas the Posthomerica emphasizes the non-closure of its narrative, or
rather that its closure depends on the Homeric Odyssey. Quintus fulfills
the promise of the Iliad, but also sets up another narrative promise, the
returns home, that can only be fulfilled by Homer.
Before the Achaeans arrived at Troy, Calchas warned them that the
τέλος of the war would be very drawn-out. During Agamemnon’s disas-
trous testing of his troops Odysseus recalls the prophet’s words: “Why
were you long-haired Achaeans silent? Counselor Zeus made this great
portent appear to you, late-fulfilled, late in coming, whose glory will never
die” (τίπτ’ ἄνεῳ ἐγένεσθε κάρη κομόωντες ᾿Αχαιοί; / ἡμῖν μὲν τόδ’ ἔφηνε τέρας
μέγα μητίετα Ζεὺς / ὄψιμον ὀψιτέλεστον, ὅου κλέος οὔ ποτ’ ὀλεῖται, 2.323–325).
97 Kirk (1985) 63 argues along with Aristarchus that the will of Zeus in these lines refers
to Zeus’ honoring of Achilles in the Iliad (also see the scholia vetera on 1.5), not to the
Cypria. For my purposes, the Iliadic narrator’s “actual” referent is irrelevant; what matters
is that there was at least one strand of ancient thought that Διὸς βουλή referred to the root
cause of the war (see also Scaife [1995] 166).
98 One could object that this is not the result of Triphiodorus’ reception of the Homeric
poems, but is rather in the nature of the narrative itself. Since Triphiodorus has chosen
to conclude his poem with the end of the war, the Capture of Troy fulfills the Iliad’s nar-
rative as a matter of course. However, the fact that the Iliad’s opening describes Achilles’
anger as merely a part of Zeus’ teleology and the resounding last line of the Capture of
Troy suggest that Triphiodorus’ framing was intentional rather than incidental. Schmitz
(2007) 79–83 argues that Quintus’ use of Calchas’ prophecy from Iliad 2 is a “fulfillment”
of Homer’s poem, which Quintus does to draw attention to his command of the tradition
as a poetic latecomer.
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Calchas interprets this τέρας as representative of the nine years it will take
them to sack Troy. The Capture of Troy also uses the adjective ὀψιτέλεστον,
a Homeric hapax legomenon, in conjunction with Helenus at the begin-
ning of the poem. Coming over to the Achaean camp in a jealous rage
after Deiphobus marries Helen, Helenus “prophesied a late-fulfilled
destruction for his native land” (ὀψιτέλεστον ὄλεθρον ἑῇ μαντεύσατο πάτρῃ,
48). Paschalis (2005b) 102 has noted and delineated the import of this
intertextualism, describing Helenus’ role here as “reenactingÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€situations
from the beginning of the Trojan War.” Paschalis’ conclusion is that by
recalling situations from the beginning of the war Triphiodorus “renews”
the conflict, which brings attention to the start of the war at the same
time as the poem emphatically ends the conflict. I agree with this assess-
ment, but I would also like to stress that this intertextual node is a spe-
cific interaction with Homer. Although Odysseus’ quotation is a prolepsis
to the earliest period of the war, the adjective ὀψιτέλεστον would have
been strongly associated with Homeric poetry in the minds of imperial
audiences.99 Helenus is therefore redeploying the role of Calchas, whom
the Iliadic Odysseus quoted to the mutinous Achaean troops in suggest-
ing that the τέλος was near. As the proem implies, however, that τέλος is
only beginning to be fulfilled with the events of the Iliad, and so Calchas’
prophecy is redeployed in the Iliad but never fulfilled. In the Posthomerica
Helenus does not predict the fall of Troy: instead Calchas is the one to
declare that a new μῆτις will win the war (Posthomerica 12.8–20).100 While
Quintus completes the Homeric legacy by having Calchas play the same
role he did in the Iliad, Triphiodorus displaces the Homeric role onto
Helenus and by doing so redeploys the problem of a never-ending war
and resolves it.
Other Works
For the last several centuries Triphiodorus has been most well-known for
the Capture of Troy for the obvious reason that this is the only poem of
his to survive. Yet according to the Suda, he wrote “a great many other”
99 If we still had the Cypria we might have something else to say: according to Proclus,
in that poem Helenus also prophesied about the war before Paris sailed to Sparta (Chr.
line 92). However, from extant evidence, it appears that the one instance of ὀψιτέλεστ- in
the Homeric poetry was associated specifically and solely with Homer by various writers
of lexica and commentaries in the imperial period.
100 Cf. Paschalis (2005b) 102.
literary works (entry tau 1112 Adler).101 Despite the apparently large size
of his body of work, in antiquity Triphiodorus might also have been the
most well-known for the Capture of Troy, since that poem was held in high
esteem by later Greek authors for its style. Scholiasts on Aristophanes and
Lycophron refer to and quote it on multiple occasions, and the Rhetorica
Anonyma counts Triphiodorus as one of the greatest exemplars of Greek
epic poetry behind Homer, Oppian, and Dionysius Periegetes (vol. 3, p. 574,
line 3). As not a single letter of Triphiodorus’ other works survive, it is very
difficult to understand how the Capture of Troy fit into his overall poetic
persona and œuvre; however, the titles and brief discussions about them
in later works strongly suggest that he responded to Trojan War epic in a
variety of ways.
The first Suda entry credits Triphiodorus with another Homer-inspired
work, a leipogrammatic text the Oxford Classical Dictionary calls the Miss-
ing Letter Odyssey, in which each book refrained from using words that
contained the letter corresponding to that book’s number: Book 1 did not
use alpha, Book 2 did not use beta, and so on. The common assumption
that this text consisted of 24 books is not necessarily sound, though Eus-
tathius’ comment that Triphiodorus “excluded sigma from it” (ἀπελάσας
αὐτῆς τὸ σίγμα; ad Homeri Odysseam, vol. 1, p. 2, line 16)102 suggests that
there were at minimum 18 books—or perhaps that the poem omitted the
sigma throughout instead of a different letter in each book. Even if the
Missing Letter Odyssey had 24 books, it does not necessarily follow that
each one of them was as long as its Homeric counterpart. This work was
therefore a rewriting of Homer, though the extent to which the narrative,
thematics, and style were altered is difficult to determine.103 The Missing
Letter Odyssey could have adhered to its Homeric model closely by using
alternative words or periphrases found elsewhere in the Iliad and Odyssey
that would avoid the problem posed by not being able to use a particular
letter. For instance, in Book 18 ᾿Οδυσσεύς (13 occurrences) would not be
allowed. If he wanted to retain Homeric style, in this book Triphiodorus
could have made greater use of the the patronymic Λαερτιάδης, provided
101 The Suda contains two consecutive entries for “Tryphiodorus” (tau 1111 and 1112), but
the entries probably do not refer to two separate individuals (Gerlaud [1982] 6).
102 The text is from Stallbaum (1825; 1826).
103 Ma (2007) suggests that such leipogrammatic texts based on Homer “must have
combined learning, a mastery of epic vocabulary, and a sense of play with the arbitrary
nature of language and form” (107; see also 110). In her contribution to this volume, Dümmler
makes a similar claim about Musaeus’ combination of novel and epic generic elements in
Hero and Leander.
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of course that it was not in the nominative form; on the other hand, he
could have simply reworked the Homeric lexicon entirely, employing
extra-Homeric vocabulary. As Ma (2007) 110 points out in the case of
Nestor of Laranda’s third-century Missing Letter Iliad, Triphiodorus under-
took the production of such a poem to display his nuanced grasp of Greek
culture through paideia, since such compositions “shiftÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€attention to the
poet’s virtuosity and learning.”
According to Suda entry tau 1112 Adler, Triphiodorus also wrote a Para-
phrase of Homer’s Similes (Παράφρασιν τῶν ῾Ομήρου παραβολῶν). Merrick
(1739) xi points out that ancient Greek texts describe paraphrases written
in prose and in verse, but we have no indication as to which type Triphiodo-
rus’ text was. Given Triphiodorus’ position as a γραμματικός, it is tempting to
hypothesize that it was written in prose like other progymnasmata (rhetori-
cal exercises) of the period.104 On the other hand, if it was a poetic text, its
reception of the Iliad and Odyssey would have been similar to the Missing
Letter Odyssey in writing Homer “otherwise.” Whatever the case, Paraphrase
was a direct engagement with the Homeric epics in that it reworded, (pre-
sumably) rearranged, and thereby consumed both the Iliad and Odyssey.
The Suda’s first entry also credits Triphiodorus with a work about Hip-
podameia (τὰ κατὰ ῾Ιπποδάμειαν). Most commentators assume that this
was poetry: both Cameron (1965) 36 and Dubielzig (1996) 12 claim Hip-
podameia was an epic, while Orsini (1974) 4 does not specify the genre
beyond general poetry. Other generic possibilities are suggested by the
title, in particular the novel, since the majority of Greek novels have the
title τὰ κατὰÂ€.Â€.Â€.105 We can hypothesize about content, but we are equally
in the dark there as well. In antiquity, there were a number of female
mythological figures whose name was Hippodameia, most famously the
wife of Pelops. Four of them are connected with the Homeric poems:
Briseis, the wife of the Trojan Alcathous (Il. 13.492), the wife of Phoenix (Eus-
tathius 2.755 on Il. 9.448–452), and one of Penelope’s maids (Od.Â€18.182).106
104 The first-century AD Aelius Theon’s progymnasmata handbook has a chapter (15)

devoted to the paraphrase exercise.
105 Ewen Bowie made this suggestion at the conference. See also Dümmler’s contri-
bution to this volume and Whitmarsh (2005) 606: “τὰ περί / κατά + girl’s (or girl’s and
boy’s) nameÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€is generically definitive of the titles of the Greek novels.” It is tempting
to think that Triphiodorus positioned himself in imperial Greek culture by producing a
novel, one of the most prominent literary forms of the imperial period. Beyond the novel,
τὰ κατὰÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€is used by a variety of genres, though it is confined to prose.
106 Hippodameia is also the name of the wife of the Athenian Pirithous (Il. 2.742), but
this woman is part of the generation before the Trojan War and therefore is not a char-
acter in the Homeric diegesis proper. Gesner thought that this myth was the subject of
Though it would be circular reasoning to claim that Triphiodorus’ Hippo-

dameia must be Homeric, the plausibility of this hypothesis is high given
the poet’s other engagements with Homer and the fact that all the other
titles listed in the same Suda entry are connected to Homer. Although in
the Iliad the primary narrator and characters refer to her solely by the
patronymic Briseis, later sources sometimes use the name Hippodameia
to refer to the woman whose seizure by Agamemnon triggers Achilles’
wrath.107 Giving a female character, who has a minor but important part
in the Homeric poems, a central role in an expansive narrative treatment
would be in keeping with a major trend imperial Homeric revisionism.
Chryseis, another minor female character who dramatically affects the
male-centric heroic world of the Iliad, had been the subject of Homeric
revisionism in the first century AD, as Kim (2008) showed in his article on
Dio Chrysostom’s Oration 61.
In sum, then, although Triphiodorus is known to modern scholarship
only for his short epic treatment of the Trojan War, his poetic persona
was far more complex. This is in contrast—at least, as far our limited
knowledge goes—to the other Greek hexameter poets who treated the
Trojan War in this period. In many cases the Suda, for whatever reason
does not have an entry for a particular author—as in the cases of Quintus
and Nonnus—or it has more than one entry—as in the case of Triphiodo-
rus—which demonstrates that entry-writers made omissions and mis-
takes from time to time. Thus we have a distorted picture of the literary
landscape in the imperial period, which tempts us to oppose the Cap-
ture of Troy to long epics that seem so common in the first through fifth
centuries AD.108 If we knew how long Triphiodorus’ other works were and
whether other short epics were being produced in this period, we might
Triphiodorus’ work (cited by Merrick [1739] ix); Merrick himself thought that the wife
of Pelops was the most probable subject, since she “seems to have been much more cel-
ebrated than any of the rest” (x).
107 One of the scholia minora on Il. 1.392 glosses κούρην Βρισῆος as τὴν Βρισέως θυγατέρα
Βρισηΐδα. ἔοικε δὲ πατρωνυμικῶς τὰ ὀνόματα αὐτῶν σχηματίζειν ὁ Ποιητὴς, καὶ οὐ κυρίως. ὡς
γὰρ οἱ ἄλλοι ἀρχαῖοι ἱστοροῦσιν, ἡ μὲν, ᾿Αστυνόμη ἐκαλεῖτο, ἡ δὲ, ῾Ιπποδάμεια. Dué (2002) 56–57
argues from the scholiast’s attribution of this information to “other ancient authorities”
that the tradition of Briseis’ given name as Hippodameia is a long-standing one. The revi-
sionist tradition of the Homeric poems also used Hippodameia instead of Briseis (e.g., Dic-
tys 2.17). Whatever the case, if Triphiodorus’ Hippodameia was about Briseis, it displayed
erudition: Dubielzig (1996) 12 astutely compares Triphiodorus’ Hippodameia to the title of
the Alexandrian Lycophron’s Alexandra—i.e., Cassandra.
108 The most prominent examples are Pisander’s 50-book Marriages of Gods and Heroes
(third century AD) and Nonnus’ 48-book Dionysiaca (fifth century AD).
408 vincent tomasso
have something different to say. In any case, the variety of Triphiodorus’

work demonstrates that he was engaged in creating a multifaceted and
dynamic Hellenic identity.
Conclusion
Beginning in the late nineteenth century and continuing to the present

day, the Capture of Troy has been commonly called an epyllion, primarily
because it matches one of the most important criteria for the constructed
genre, short length. As I have shown in this paper, “epyllion”—whatever
the other deficiencies or benefits of the term—carries with it Hellenistic
cultural baggage, which consequently prevents us from understanding the
Capture of Troy’s cultural resonances in its own context. As the attesta-
tions of his other works show, Triphiodorus did not define himself solely
through short epic; rather, he used a variety of modes and, perhaps, genres
to construct and justify his place among elite Greek intellectuals in the
Roman Empire. In this imperial system authors writing in Greek were able
to chisel out positions of power for themselves by displaying the knowl-
edge of Hellenic culture that was so valued by Roman patrons. They did
this in various ways, but one of the most prominent was by reengaging
in clever and surprising ways with the most important pillar of Hellenic
culture, Homer.
Triphiodorus produced a text that is both ultra-Homeric and at the same
time para-Homeric. The Capture of Troy is more Homeric than Homer in
that it adheres closely to the rhetorical style of Menelaus, οὐ πολύμυθος,
as described by Helen in Iliad Book 3. This is simultaneously ironic and
appropriate to the main narrative subject of Triphiodorus’ poem: ironic,
because the character of Odysseus, who is πολύμυθος, dominates and
motivates the main actions of the Capture of Troy; appropriate, because
Menelaus’ ultimate goal of destroying Troy is realized within this text.
By so doing, Triphiodorus takes up a literary challenge suggested in the
Iliad itself. At the same time as it “out-Homers” Homer, the Capture of
Troy is “beside Homer,” in that it creates a new hypertext that can easily
be distinguished from its hypotext. These two seemingly opposite impulses
demonstrate that Triphiodorus embodies the essence of the Homeric
epics and subsumes them into the Capture of Troy, which allows him
to absorb and appropriate the cultural power of Homer for construct-
ing his own identity. In combining the short epic aesthetic along with
the cyclic narratives and Homeric stylistics, Triphiodorus consumes and
reconstitutes Homer within his own aesthetic framework. Through this

method, Triphiodorus fashions a dynamic cultural persona for consump-
tion by the Hellenophilic imperial system.109
109 The gestation of this article has been long, and I am indebted to the comments of
the participants at the conference on the epyllion held at the University of Zurich in July of
2009, as well as Jason Aftosmis, David Jacobson, Grant Parker, and Susan Stephens. I would
especially like to thank Manuel Baumbach and Silvio Bär for their unflagging attention,
support, and careful criticisms as they patiently put together and edited this volume.
Musaeus, Hero and Leander:
Between Epic and Novel*
Nicola Nina Dümmler
1. Introduction
It is perhaps easier to feel than to define the difference between epic or

tragic poetry and a romance, but the two can never really be confused.
Some of the Byzantine imitators of the Greek novels cast their tales into
more or less accentual iambics, but romances they remain in spite of their
versified form.
Gaselee (1916) 405.
Epic or romance? This question lies at the core of the following contri-
bution on Musaeus, Hero and Leander.1 The hexameter poem from the
fifth century AD stands in an evident epic tradition as regards its form,
language, and metre. Homer and Nonnus are important models,2 which
is already clearly marked in the first words of Musaeus’ proem.3 Nonnus
ventured to imitate and even emulate Homer’s heroic epics—opposing his
Dionysiaca, the longest poem known from antiquity with 21,382 lines in 48
books, against the Iliad and Odyssey, each holding 24 books with 15,693
and 12,109 lines respectively.4 In contrast, Musaeus’ Hero and Leander is
only 343 verses long; and instead of heroic prowess it describes the tragic
* I would like to thank the participants of the graduate colloquium (November 2009)
at the University of Zurich for their many helpful suggestions, and most of all Prof. Dr.
Manuel Baumbach, Dr. Silvio Bär and Dr. Calum Maciver for their criticism which helped
improve this contribution considerably. I am grateful to the editors for giving me the
opportunity to publish my ideas on Musaeus and the Greek novel.
1 The text is that of Livrea/Eleuteri (1982); all translations are my own. Research on
Musaeus has hitherto been relatively sparse; see esp. Kost (1971); Gelzer (1975); Morales
(1999); and Hopkinson (1994a) 136–185.
2 Cf. Kost (1971), esp. 43–55 (quote 43–44): “Homer liefert nicht nur sprachliches Mate-
rial, sondern wirkt auch als Muster für die Gestaltung von Situationen und SzenenÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€Der
durchgehende, unverwechselbare Stil ist dagegen durch Nonnos geprägt.”
3 The invocation of the Muse (Musae. 1 εἰπέ, θεά) alludes to Nonnus’ beginning of his
Dionysiaca, but also echoes similar phrases in the proem of the Iliad and the Odyssey; see
section 4 below.
4 Cf. Fornaro (2000b) 996 and Latacz (1998) 688 and 693.
412 nicola nina dümmler
love affair of two mortal youths. Because of its short length, it is generally
characterised in modern scholarship as a short epic or epyllion.5
Beside this epic framework, there are certain elements that lead the
reader in another direction: the focus on the mortal sphere with rare
divine interventions, a beautiful girl and a handsome boy, their meeting
and falling in love at a religious festival, difficulties and obstacles to their
coming and staying together, a secret love, suffering, “wanderings” and
adventures on sea of at least one of the protagonists as well as an eventual
“wedding”—these elements are well known from the five extant Greek
novels. Scholars have recognised these novelistic echoes for a long time;
and it was foremost Chariton’s Callirhoe and Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and
Clitophon which have been identified as crucial intertexts.6 Regarding the
“Gesch[ichte] des Liebespaares,” Fornaro even speaks of “eine typische
Romansituation”—although, as we will see, this is only partially true.7
Epic or romance? While Gaselee believes that in the end “the two can
never really be confused” and identifies the Byzantine love narratives as
romances despite their verse form, in Musaeus’ case I would rather argue
that these generic foreign elements in an epic text do “confuse” the reader.
For if he has recognised motifs which are familiar to him from the novel,
he will find even further elements that can be read against a novelistic
background. These novelistic motifs, then, intertwined with epic language,
metre, style and content, influence the reader’s construction and under-
standing of the text and let him reflect upon form, content, and generic
affiliation of this poem. For what is the difference between Musaeus’ short
epic with novel-like elements and these Byzantine romances in verse
form? Why does one text belong to a poetic genre (epic) but the other
one to the novel? Dealing with this “genre-synthesis” in the framework of
5 See for example Bernhardy (31867) 404 (“Sein Epyllium gleicht einer ῎Εκφρασις, einem
dicht gewundenen Strauss von Epigrammen und Schilderungen”); Färber (1961) 93; Gelzer
(1975) 301; Hopkinson (1994a) 136; Beck (1996) 24 (“Kleinepos”); Kossatz-Deissmann (1997)
619; Fantuzzi (1998a) 31–32; Morales (1999) 42 (“a 343-line hexameter epyllion (narrative
poem)”); Fornaro (2000a) 503.
6 See for example Kost (1971), esp. 29–32; Gelzer (1975) 308–312 (“striking adaptations
from Achilles Tatius”; “Musaeus clothes borrowings from Achilles’ theory of love in Non-
nian words” [308–309]); Hopkinson (1994a) 138; Morales (1999) 42–43; Miguélez Cavero
(2008) 26. Already Bernhardy (31867) 405–406 compared Musae. 92–98 with Ach.Tat. 1.4.
He recognises the beginning of the Byzantine novel in Musaeus, Hero and Leander. See
as well Kost (1971) 575 n. 93: “Musaios als Vermittler zwischen Prosaroman und klassizis-
tischem Versroman der Byzantiner.”
7 Cf. Fornaro (2000a) 503.
musaeus, hero and leander: between epic and novel 413
a short epic/epyllion, I will try to shed some further light on the generic
question focused in this companion.8
2. Musaeus, Hero and Leander—A First Profile
Little is known about the author of this text beside his name Μουσαῖος
and the rather doubtful epithet γραμματικός which is transmitted by some
manuscripts.9 The poem’s language and metre are very close to that of
Nonnus and the grammarians and rhetoricians of the time of Anastasius
I,10 and the text is alluded to by Colluthus. Therefore Musaeus’ Hero and
Leander has been dated to the second half of the fifth century AD.11 Schol-
ars speculate about the author’s origin and intellectual background, con-
necting Musaeus with Alexandria or Egypt in general and identifying him
as Christian because of possible allusions to Christian works.12
Â€8 At the International Conference on the Ancient Novel in Lisbon 2008, Madalena
Simões tried to establish Musaeus’ Hero and Leander as “the Sixth Greek Novel” (publica-
tion forthcoming). I agree with many, but not all of her observations; see esp. my conclu-
sion below.
Â€9 Cf. Livrea/Eleuteri (1982) 1; Färber (1961) 93; Kost (1971) 16 and 90; Gelzer (1975)
297–302; Hopkinson (1994a) 137; Morales (1999) 43; Miguélez Cavero (2008) 25 and 215.
For a discussion see section 4 below.
10 In terms of metre, Kost (1971) 53 calls Musaeus “der strengste Nonnianer” (beside
Pamprepius). Gelzer (1975) 291 identifies him “as a true follower of Nonnus,” i.e. of the so-
called “Nonnian school of epic.” See as well Färber (1961) 93; Hopkinson (1994a) 137. In her
recent study on Greek poetry in the Egyptian Thebaid between 200 and 600 AD, Miguélez
Cavero (2008) cannot “find any evidence to defend the existence of a school of Nonnus”
(382), but rather sees these common elements as stemming from the similar educational
background of these epic poets. Nevertheless, she does not deny the influence of Nonnus
on subsequent epic authors such as Musaeus; see the reviews by Schubert (2009) and Bär
(2010b).
11 Cf. Kost (1971) 15–16 (“zweite Hälfte des 5. Jahrhunderts n.Chr., vielleicht mehr gegen
das Ende und die Regierung des Anastasios hin, also etwa in die Zeit zwischen 470 und
510” [16]); Gelzer (1967) 133–141 and (1975) 297–302; Morales (1999) 43; Fornaro (2000a) 503;
Miguélez Cavero (2008) 25. For Musaeus’ language and metre cf. Kost (1971) 43–55; Gelzer
(1975) 312–316; esp. Gelzer (1967) and (1968). It is possible that the author of our text and
Musaeus, the addressee of two letters by Procopius (Ep. 147 and 165 Garzya/Loenertz), are
identical. Cf. Färber (1961) 93–94; Gelzer (1967) 138–139; Kost (1971) 17; Miguélez Cavero
(2008) 26.
12 For Musaeus’ Egyptian connection see Färber (1961) 93; Kost (1971) 16–17; Gelzer
(1967) 138–141 and (1975) 299–302; Miguélez Cavero (2008) 25–26 and 102. As regards his
possible Christian confession, see Färber (1961) 93; Kost (1971) 17; Hopkinson (1994a) 137;
contrast Morales (1999) 43. Gelzer even goes so far as to explain our poem as a Neoplatonic
allegory written by a Christian author, also associating the terminus γραμματικός with a
Christian, Neoplatonic background; cf. Gelzer (1967) 133–141; (1975) 299–302; 316–322.
As regards the “Hero and Leander” myth, Kost (1971) 18–19 believes
that it had originally an aetiological function, explaining the custom of a
local beacon-fire in Sestos, and that it was developed in Hellenistic times.13
The first attestations in literature and art stem from the first century BC.14
Much effort has been put into the search for the πρῶτος εὑρετής/ποιητής of
this legend.15 What is important for our purposes is that the story of Hero
and Leander was already well-known by the latest in the first century BC
as some of these early attestations make clear:16 thus Strabo, describing
the currents around Sestos, speaks of Hero’s tower (τὸν τῆς ῾Ηροῦς πύργον)
as a commonly known geographical point of reference.17 And Vergil quotes
the myth without mentioning by name the protagonists or the location.18
The legend as narrated by Musaeus runs as follows: Hero, the divinely
beautiful young priestess of Aphrodite, lives in a tower close to Sestos
at the Hellespont. At a pandemic festival in honour of the love goddess
and Adonis, she is admired and desired by all men. But Eros has made
his own plans: Leander, an equally handsome boy from the neighbouring
town Abydos, sees Hero and immediately falls in love with her. She too
is not disinclined to his witty silent signs of desire. With cunning rhetoric
Leander convinces her to meet up secretly during the night and to cel-
13 Cf. Kost (1971) 18–19 and 169–170 (adducing Musae. 23–27 as aetiological core); Färber
(1961) 95–96; Beck (1996) 24. Gelzer (1975) 302–307 argues for a later date of the myth and
its literary treatment, after the beacon-tower in Sestos had been abandoned.
14 See Kost (1971) 17–23; Gelzer (1975) 302–307; Beck (1996) 11–26 and 317–318; Kenney
(1996) 1–27; Kossatz-Deissmann (1997). Very useful is the collection of all literary treat-
ments of the “Hero and Leander” myth by Färber (1961).
15 Foremost is an attempt to explain the similarities between Greek and Roman “Hero
and Leander” texts via this common (Hellenistic) predecessor. Especially, Ov. Her. 18
(Leander Heroni) and 19 (Hero Leandro) and Musaeus’ Hero and Leander provided the
basis for this search; cf. the striking similarity between Musae. 255 and Οv. Her. 18.148; see
Kost (1971) 460–464; Beck (1996) 23–26 and 142–144; Kenney (1996) 9–15. That the Greek
author could have used the Latin text is commonly contested; cf. Färber (1961) 96; Kost
(1971) 21–23; Gelzer (1975) 304; Hopkinson (1994a) 137; Beck (1996) 24; Kenney (1996) 10–11;
Miguélez Cavero (2008) 26.
16 See Hopkinson (1994a) 137; Beck (1996) 24–25; but contrast Kenney (1996) 4–5 and
9–10; Kenney (1998) 58.
17 Strabo 13.1.22 (C 591).
18 Vergil (Georg. 3.258–263) only hints at the main elements. Hence, Gelzer’s (1975) 307
conclusion is too strong: “By comparison with the well-known stories of the best of clas-
sical literature, the diffusion of the story is limited, and, as far as literary treatment is
concerned, clearly restricted to a circle of connoisseurs and otherwise to interested inhab-
itants of the story’s locality.” A rather extravagant reception of the myth is noted by Μartial
Spect. 25a, where he describes an aquatic mime starring Leander. See Färber (1961) 66–67
and 109; Gelzer (1975) 307; Kossatz-Deissmann (1997) 620.
ebrate their forbidden wedding. The plan is as follows: while he will swim
from Abydos to Sestos, she will show him the way with a lamp standing
high up in her tower. Their scheme is successful and nightly they become
husband and wife.19 But with the approaching winter, wind and ice-cold
waves become deadly obstacles. Eventually, a gust of wind extinguishes
the fire in the lamp. Hero waits in vain for her lover. In the morning she
finds his corpse lying dead on the rocky coast below her tower and throws
herself down and dies beside her secret husband.
There have been different attempts to structure Musaeus’ adaptation
of the myth.20 I follow here the outline given by Kost (1971) 115–117, with
minor changes:
vv. 1–15 Proem with Invocation of the Goddess 15 lines

1–5 Invocation of the Muse 1 and Introduction of the
Main Elements
6–13 Praise of the Lamp
14–15 Invocation of the Muse 2
vv. 16–343 Love Story of Hero and Leander 328 lines
16–29 Exposition 121 14 lines
16–23a Eros’ Scheme
23b–27 Address to the Recipient
28–29 Transition
19 Cf. the pointed characterisation of Hero (Musae. 287): παρθένος ἠματίη, νυχίη γυνή (“a
parthenos during the day, <but> during the night a wife”).
20 Schönberger (1978) seeks to find a symmetrical structure with sections of similar
length; for that purpose he sets passages apart that, in my opinion, belong together. See
esp. his conclusion at 257: “Einführung und erstes Zusammentreffen (1–108; 108 Verse);
Werbung und Verlobung (109–231; 122 Verse); Wagnis, Liebe und Tod (232–343; 144 Verse).”
Also compare his subdivisions in six parts of similar length (54 to 64 lines). Cf. the criticism
already by Kost (1971) 24, against Schott’s division into three equal parts. Against Kost, see
Schönberger (1978) 258–259 n. 18.
21 After the main elements of the story have already been introduced in the proem (vv.
1–15), they are mentioned a second time in the exposition 1, with some more detail: the
location Sestos and Abydos (vv. 16–17a); Eros’ arrow (vv. 17b–19a); the two equally beauti-
ful protagonists who are inflamed by love (vv. 19–23a); and their problem of distance and
closeness: for Sestos and Abydos are separated by the Hellespont, but at the same time
neighbours (vv. 16–17a; 21; the problem will be taken up again in lines 28–29 with the ques-
tion of how they fell in love). In lines 23b–27 the primary narrator addresses the recipient:
the story is located in a historical past, for the remains of the love affair are still visible
(the tower, Sestos and the bay of Abydos). These lines also imply how the couple solved
its problem (lamp, crossing of the sea at night), and how their love ended tragically. Lines
28–29 present a transition to the actual love story, which will be further delayed by lines
30–41; see my next note.
30–41 Exposition 2: Hero’s Life22 12 lines

42–231 Part 1: Falling in Love at the Kypris/Adonis-Festival23 190 lines
42–54 Pandemic Festival of Kypris and Adonis in Sestos
55–66 Hero’s “Epiphany” as a Second Kypris
67–85 Hero’s Appeal to all Men
86–98 Leander’s Love at First Sight24
99–108 Mutual Silent Signs of Love
109–231 Secret Conversation and Plan
232–288 Part 2: Nightly Wedding 57 lines
232–255 Night, Lighting of the Lamp, Leander’s Ordeals
256–271 Reception by Hero in Sestos
272–288 Wedding and Early Separation
289–343 Part 3: Winter and End of the Lovers25 55 lines
289–308 Winter
309–330 Leander’s Death
331–343 Hero’s Suicide
Chart 1 Outline of Musaeus, Hero and Leander
It is noteworthy that the couple’s first meeting at the Aphrodite-festival,

their falling in love and planning of their scheme (part 1) take up almost
two-thirds of the main narrative (190 lines), while their joyous secret wed-
ding and their tragic death (part 2 + 3) are both only a fraction (a fifth!) of
the plot (57 and 55 lines). The text rushes through the action-loaded and
thus—we might think—more suspenseful parts, but dwells on these less
dramatic events.26
22 In a second exposition, Hero and her lonely life as Aphrodite-priestess are described
(vv. 30–41). She is a second Aphrodite, does not know marriage, flees the company of other
girls and women, and attempts to appease Aphrodite and Eros. The indication that Eros’
arrows found her nevertheless (v. 41) leads up to the narration of the festival. With line 42,
the actual narrative begins. Kost’s (1971) 115 structure of this section is confusing: he joins
lines 30–41 as “Vorgeschichte Heros” with the exposition, but ends the actual exposition
with line 27.
23 Kost (1971) 115 divides the narrative during the festival in two parts: “I. Tag,” vv.
42–108, and “II. Abend,” vv. 109–231, giving detailed sub-divisions for the secret conversa-
tion between Hero and Leander.
24 Kost (1971) 115 divides this passage into two (vv. 86–95; 96–100; nb: he gives two
different verse numbers for the end of this scene: v. 99 and v. 100; the former must be a
mistake). In my opinion lines 99–100 should be taken to the next part, for they describe
Leander’s first advances.
25 Kost (1971) 117 takes lines 342–343 on their own (“Die Vereinigung der Liebenden
im Tod”).
26 See Gelzer (1975) 311–312 (quote: 311): “He gave the lion’s share to the least dramatic
section,Â€.Â€.Â€.Â€while the most pathetic section, the third, is little more than sketched.” See also
Morales (1999) 42. Maybe, Achilles Tatius’ novel (see section 3 below) is also a model for
the uneven structuring of Musaeus’ poem: Clitophon has to fight for Leucippe’s love during
the first two out of eight books.
Apart from its short length of 343 hexameters, there are further charac-
teristics which are generally proposed as constituents of the genre epyl-
lion that can be found in Musaeus’ Hero and Leander. However, these
elements should not be seen as constituting a single self-aware generic
group which is clearly defined against other genres and whose texts refer
to each other as if belonging to the same genre. Rather, the similarities of
these epyllic texts stem from their common aim to distance themselves
from other works, foremost from heroic epic:27
– a narrative with chronological narration of events,28

– in a short hexameter form,29
– with the plot being often structured in a series of separate, picture-like
scenes,
– as digressions, and especially ecphraseis;30
– a rather unusual choice as regards the parts that are narrated exten-
sively or in condensed form;31
– a narrator who interfers with erudite, judging or sympathising
remarks;32
27 Cf. the discussion by Baumbach/Bär and Baumbach in this volume, pp. 144–145. See
the monographs on the epyllion by Crump (1931), esp. 1–24; Gutzwiller (1981), esp. 2–9;
Fantuzzi (1998a); Merriam (2001), esp. 1–24 and 159–161; and Bartels (2004), who provides
a useful overview on former research on the ancient epyllion (3–16); see her own conclu-
sions on the Roman epyllion at 220–222. I adapt here Bartels (2004) 3–4 who gives a “Liste
von Merkmalen, die als mehr oder weniger verbindlich angesehen und mehr oder weniger
konkret beschrieben werden” (my italics).
28 Hero and Leander meet at the festival, fall in love, find a way to come together at
night, winter arrives, Leander dies, and Hero commits suicide.
29 Some scholars also define elegiac poems as epyllia; see Bartels (2004) 3–4 n. 7, who
in my opinion rightly argues against this widening of the metric constituent.
30 See for example Hero’s description in Musae. 30–41, followed by the account of the
festival (vv. 42–54), Hero’s entrance in the temple with another depiction of her beauty (vv.
55–66), and her effect on men (vv. 67–85)—four tableaus, more or less loosely connected.
31 Cf. the overview above. Also in art the tragic ending of the couple is not focused, as
Kossatz-Deissmann (1997) 622–623 shows: we find mostly Leander swimming, with Hero
waiting for him, holding the lamp. Kossatz-Deissmann (1997) 622: “Daraus ergibt sich, daß
auch das Interesse der Bildkunst—wie es ebenfalls literarisch im Epos des Musaios der Fall
ist—mehr der Tapferkeit des L[eander] giltÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€als dem unglückseligen Ende der beiden
Liebenden.” I do not agree completely: Musaeus rather concentrates on Leander’s bravery
in winning the girl over. Cf. also Kenney (1998) on the topic.
32 Cf. for example Musae. 23b-27 where after the proem (vv. 1–15) and a first narra-
tion of the incidents (exposition 1, vv. 16–23a), the narrator is suddenly addressing the
recipient (σύÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€/ δίζεό μοιÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€/ δίζεοÂ€.Â€.Â€.) and asking how Hero and Leander fell in love
(vv.Â€28–29); see as well his address to Leander in line 86 (αἰνοπαθὲς Λείανδρε, σύÂ€.Â€.Â€.) and in
lines 300–304 (v. 301 καρτερόθυμε Λέανδρε); furthermore, cf. his scholarly remarks on the
physical effect of beauty and love in lines 92–95.
– a concentration on few protagonists and on one specific storyline/

incident;
– a strong, active female character;33
– thematic focus on a rather marginal, often non-heroic myth;34
– if heroes and gods appear, they are portrayed like mortals;35
– often a tragic love-story set in the mortal sphere;
– a special attention on the emotions and on the psychology of the pro-
tagonists,
– mostly described in longer dialogues and monologues (frequently in
the form of lamentation);36
– a possible aetiological origin of the myth;37
– and—this is what will interest us in particular—an inclusion of other
genre-elements.
In the following analysis of the text, special attention will be paid to pos-
sible generic sign posts and how they lead and influence our reading and
33 For Merriam (2001) the focus on women is important for the characterisation of the
genre “epyllion”: “[I]t is tempting to consider the epyllion the ‘women’s forum’ of the epic
genre” (6); and: “The chief importance of the epyllion in literary history lies in its status
as the ancient genre which focuses most exclusively upon women, their worlds and their
works, from what might be considered a female perspective” (160). However, I think that
her distinction between the position of women in the epyllion versus the one in the tra-
ditional epic and in other genres is maybe too simplified. I would rather see the focus
on women in the broader context of the epyllion’s concentration, as Merriam points out
herself, “upon lesser characters, unexpected heroes such as babies, kidnapped boys and,
most noticeably, women, rather than the gods and heroes of traditional epic” (6). Also,
the important part women play in the ancient novel led to the hypothesis that these texts
were meant for a female readership. See the general discussion on the readers of the Greek
novel by Bowie (22003).
34 On the myth and its sources, see the discussion above.
35 In Hero and Leander, the gods have a rather minor role: admittedly, it is Eros who is
the source of this tragic love affair. He is the one who inflames the two youths (see esp.
Musae. 17–19; 240), gives Leander love advice (vv. 196–201) and eventually does not assist
him against the Moirai (neither do Aphrodite, Poseidon and Boreas, vv. 319–323). Never-
theless, the gods seem to be alluded to rather as some kind of stock motifs from epic and
love narrations: they do exist in (or rather at the edge of) this fictitious world, but they
are not characterised, their actions and motivations are not explained and they do not
strongly interfer with the mortal sphere.
36 The following direct speeches can be found: vv. 74–83 (10 lines): reaction of an
anonymous man to Hero’s appearance at the festival; vv. 123–127 (5 lines): Hero seemingly
indignant because of Leander’s advances; vv. 135–157 (23 lines): Leander’s cunning exhorta-
tion; vv. 174–193 (20 lines): Hero about the problems for their relationship; vv. 203–220 (18
lines): Leander’s plan for a secret wedding; vv. 245–250 (6 lines): Leander before he swims
for the first time; vv. 268–271 (4 verses): Hero’s lament over Leander’s ordeals. Out of 343
hexameters, 86 verses belong to direct speeches, i.e. a quarter of the whole poem.
37 On the myth and its possible aetiological core see above.
play with our expectations. As has been shown in the structure above,
the text focuses in particular on the couple’s meeting, falling in love and
scheming at the Kypris-festival. It draws the reader’s attention to verses
42–231, their content and composition. The analysis will therefore start
with part 1 of the narrative and discuss important passages that build up
the strong novelistic character of this poem (section 3). With these evi-
dent novel allusions in mind, I will then turn to the very beginning of the
poem and re-read the text, concentrating on the title and the proem
(vv. 1–15, section 4) as well as the two expositions at the start of the actual
narrative which set the scene for the following plot (vv. 16–29 and 30–41;
section 5). At the end, the observations of this first and second reading
of Musaeus’ Hero and Leander will be summarised and discussed within
this companion’s generic questions. While there are certainly parallels
and echoes from other genres,38 this contribution will argue that from
the start both epic and novel are the guiding generic patterns for the con-
struction of this poem, its characters and its plot, and that they thus give
it its peculiar form.
3. A New Achillean Novel: Hero & Leander as Leucippe & Clitophon
(Musae. 42–231)39
It is at the festival of Aphrodite and Adonis in Sestos where Hero and

Leander meet.40 At occasions like these, parthenoi were allowed to appear
publicly and boys could catch a glimpse of them.41 This is alluded to in
Musaeus when, in a catalogue, the huge crowd arriving in Sestos is out-
lined: the young men are φιλοπάρθενοι and come not for the sacrifices, but
to see the pretty girls.42 In exposition 2, the divinely beautiful Hero has
38 Cf. Kost (1971); Miguélez Cavero (2008) 26–27.

39 The novels are quoted according to Reardon (2004) for Chariton’s Callirhoe; O’Sullivan
(2005) for Xenophon’s Anthia and Habrocomes; Reeve (31994) for Longus’ Daphnis and
Chloe; Garnaud (32002) for Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon; Rattenburg/Lumb/
Maillon (21960) for Heliodorus’ Aethiopica. Other editions of Greek texts used include Key-
dell (1959) for Nonnus, Dionysiaca and van Thiel (1991) for the Odyssey.
40 Cf. Musae. 42–43. For Adonis and his festival see Kost (1971) 207 and 587 n. 259; and
esp. Baudy (1996); on Adonis in Greek literature and art Atallah (1966).
41 Ov. Ars am. 1.75 suggests the Adonis-festival as a good opportunity to meet girls. Cf.
Kost (1971) 207.
42 Cf. Musae. 51–54. For ἀγειρόμενοι see Kost (1971) 223 who decides in favour of the
variant ἀγειρομένων. That boy and girl encounter at a religious celebration is also common
in the novel: in Xenophon, Anthia and Habrocomes meet at the Artemis-celebrations in
Ephesus (X.Eph. 1.2–3). Likewise, Chariton’s Chaereas literally bumps into Callirhoe when
been equated with her goddess Kypris.43 In the context of this festival,
we might therefore assume that Leander is the like of her mortal lover
Adonis.44 This leads the reader to certain speculations about the follow-
ing story: Aphrodite and the mortal youth become lovers, but the young
man is killed by jealous Ares in the form of a wild boar.45 Furthermore,
the Adonis-festival was connected with prenuptial ceremonies, whereby
women and girls took on the role of Aphrodite.46 Thus, the context of
this festival and the myth of Aphrodite and Adonis foreshadow falling in
love, sexual union (outside a legal marriage) and tragic ending of Hero
and Leander.47
The next lines depict Hero’s radiant appearance on scene and allude to
an important intertext for the following first meeting of the lovers:
ἡ δὲ θεῆς ἀνὰ νηὸν ἐπῴχετο παρθένος ῾Ηρώ,
μαρμαρυγὴν χαρίεσσαν ἀπαστράπτουσα προσώπου
οἷά τε λευκοπάρῃος ἐπαντέλλουσα σελήνη.
ἄκρα δὲ χιονέης φοινίσσετο κύκλα παρειῶν,
ὡς ῥόδον ἐκ καλύκων διδυμόχροον· ἦ τάχα φαίης
she is on her way to a festival for Aphrodite (Char. 1.1.4–6); and in Heliodorus, Theagenes
lights the sacrifical fire in presence of the priestess Charicleia when he attends the Pythian
Games at Delphi (Hld. 2.34–3.6). Kost (1971) 204–205; 221 compares the similar structure in
the depiction of the festival in Musaeus and Xenophon. The latter points out that at this
religious celebration future grooms and brides are chosen (cf. 1.2.3).
43 Musae. 33 ἄλλη Κύπρις ἄνασσα. For the divine beauty of Hero and Leander see my
section 5.
44 Novel heroes are often compared to gods or demigods; see for example Chariton’s
Chaereas (Char. 1.1.3) and Heliodorus’ Theagenes (Hld. 4.3.1; both = Achilles); and Xeno-
phon’s Habrocomes (X.Eph. 1.1.3; = a θεός). Leander does not receive any further descrip-
tion beside the comparison with a star in Musae. 22. Interestingly, Clitophon, hero in
Achilles Tatius and important model for Leander (see below), is not described in detail
either (except for his late comparison with the Scyrian Achilles in 6.1.3).
45 There are varying traditions of this myth, see Atallah (1966).
46 Cf. Baudy (1996) 122: “Das Fest stand im Ruf, zu vorehelichen Formen der Sexualität
Gelegenheit zu bieten.”
47 The Ares-boar in the myth might strengthen the assumption of dangerous rivals,
alluded to by the depiction of men full of desire in Musae. 67–85 and known as a topos
from the novel (see for example Chariton’s Callirhoe); cf. my n. 156. That Adonis is also
a symbol for rebirth and regeneration and shared his after-life alternately with Aphro-
dite and Persephone, might lend some hope for a “happy ever after” of our heroes in the
immortal sphere. However, the gloomy depiction of Hero’s and Leander’s tragic love in
the proem make such an interpretation less likely. And the end of the poem is rather
paradoxical (v. 343): ἀλλήλων δ’ ἀπόναντο καὶ ἐν πυμάτῳ περ ὀλέθρῳ (“they enjoyed each
other even in the outmost end”). While they still have enjoyment in death, the negative
ending is stressed: ὄλεθρος is the last word of the text and described with the superlative
adjective πύματος.
῾Ηροῦς ἐν μελέεσσι ῥόδων λειμῶνα φανῆναι·

χροιὴ γὰρ μελέων ἐρυθαίνετο· νισσομένης δὲ
καὶ ῥόδα λευκοχίτωνος ὑπὸ σφυρὰ λάμπετο κούρης,
πολλαὶ δ’ ἐκ μελέων Χάριτες ῥέον. οἱ δὲ παλαιοὶ
τρεῖς Χάριτας ψεύσαντο πεφυκέναι· εἷς δέ τις ῾Ηροῦς
ὀφθαλμὸς γελόων ἑκατὸν Χαρίτεσσι τεθήλει.
ἀτρεκέως ἱέρειαν ἐπάξιον εὕρατο Κύπρις. (Musae. 55–66)
She was walking through the goddess’ temple, parthenos Hero,
a pleasant gleaming flashing from her face
like she who rises with white cheeks, Selene.
The top part of her rounded, snowwhite cheek was purple
like a rose of buds with two colours. Perhaps you would have said that
on Hero’s limbs a rose-meadow was shining up.
For the colour of her limbs was of a blushing red, and when she was walking,
dressed in white, roses too beamed from underneath the girl’s ankles.
Many Charites flowed from her limbs. The old ones
lied <saying> that only three Charites existed: a single eye of Hero,
when smiling, abounded with hundred Charites.
Certainly, she had found a worthy priestess, Kypris.
As the commentary by Kost (1971) 223–250 shows, the passage is, on the
one hand, stylised through and through by epic and especially Nonnian
language;48 on the other hand, the ecphrasis of the heroine’s beauty refers
to the typical depiction of the female protagonist in the novel.49 Achil-
les Tatius and the description of Leucippe by Clitophon during their first
meeting in Tyrus are strongly alluded to in this passage:
ἐν μέσοις δὲ ἦν γυνὴ μεγάλη καὶ πλουσία τῇ στολῇ. (2.) ὡς δὲ ἐνέτεινα τοὺς
ὀφθαλμοὺς κατ’ αὐτήν, ἐν ἀριστερᾷ παρθένος ἐκφαίνεταί μοι καὶ καταστράπτει
μου τοὺς ὀφθαλμοὺς τῷ προσώπῳ. (3.) τοιαύτην εἶδον ἐγώ ποτε ἐπὶ ταύρῳ
γεγραμμένην ΣελήνηνÂ· ὄμμα γοργὸν ἐν ἡδονῇÂ· κόμη ξανθή, τὸ ξανθὸν οὖλονÂ· ὀφρὺς
μέλαινα, τὸ μέλαν ἄκρατονÂ· λευκὴ παρειά, τὸ λευκὸν εἰς μέσον ἐφοινίσσετο καὶ
48 For the Nonnian language, see for example: μαρμαρυγὴνÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€προσώπου (Musae. 56) in
similar phrases before Musaeus only in Nonnus (Dion. 8.341–342; 9.104; 28.227; 33.24; 35.40–
41; Paraphrasis 9.46; 20.54). ἐπαντέλλουσα σελήνη (v. 57) only in Nonnus (but in different
variations; Dion. 1.175; 3.431; 25.146; 28.230–231). κύκλα παρειῶν (v. 58) as κύκλα παρειῆς a
Nonnian collocation (Dion. 10.180; 33.190; 37.412). διδυμόχροος (v. 59) a Nonnian neologism
(Dion. 5.615; 11.378; 21.216; 29.102; 29.154). (ἦ) τάχα φαίης (v. 59) a Nonnian formula (Dion.
1.57; 4.18; 5.186; 17.13; 25.421; 26.209; 37.292; 46.123; 48.365).
49 See esp. Kost (1971) 224–227 (quote 227): “Der späte Epiker knüpft augenscheinlich
an Homer an. Aber an die Stelle des einfachen Vergleichs mit einer Göttin zum Preise
der Schönheit ist eine pompöse Beschreibung getreten, für die der Liebesroman Pate
gestanden hatÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€Das sprachliche Material ist auch hier vielfach aus Nonnos entlehnt.”
ἐμιμεῖτο πορφύραν, οἵαν εἰς τὸν ἐλέφαντα Λυδίη βάπτει γυνήÂ· τὸ στόμα ῥόδων
ἄνθος ἦν, ὅταν ἄρχηται τὸ ῥόδον ἀνοίγειν τῶν φύλλων τὰ χείλη.
(Ach.Tat. 1.4.1–3)
In the middle of the group was a woman, tall and with a rich stole. (2.) When
I turned my eyes on her, on her left a parthenos appeares to me and dazzles
my eyes with her <bright> face. (3.) Like her I have once seen painted on
a bull Selene: eyes full of lifely spirit in happiness; hair fair, the fair colour
combined with thick curls; eyebrow black, the black unmixed; white cheek,
the white turned reddish towards the middle and imitated purple dye into
which a Lydian woman dips ivory; her mouth was the bloom of roses when
the rose starts to open its petals’ lips.
Clear parallels are set in bold and similar descriptions are underlined in
the texts above: the face (προσώπου, Μusae. 56 ~ προσώπῳ, Αch.Tat. 1.4.2)
of both παρθένοι (Musae. 55 ~ Ach.Tat. 1.4.2) has a dazzling effect, like
lightning (ἀπαστράπτουσα, Musae. 56 ~ καταστράπτει, Ach.Tat. 1.4.2). Both
remind the viewer of Selene (Μusae. 57 ~ Ach.Tat. 1.4.3). The cheeks are
white (λευκοπάρῃος, Μusae. 57 ~ λευκὴ παρειά, Ach.Tat. 1.4.3) whereas the
whiteness turns purple (φοινίσσετο, Musae. 58 ~ ἐφοινίσσετο, Ach.Tat. 1.4.3)
towards the middle (εἰς μέσον, Ach.Tat, 1.4.3), that is, towards the high-
est point of the cheeks’ rounding (ἄκραÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€κύκλα παρειῶν, Musae. 58). In
both cases, further comparisons illustrate the interplay of white and red:
the cheeks are white as snow (χιονέης, Musae. 58) and have the double
colour of a rose (ὡς ῥόδονÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€διδυμόχροον, Musae. 59), or they are similar
to purple dye into which ivory is dipped (ἐμιμεῖτο πορφύραν, οἵαν εἰς τὸν
ἐλέφανταÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€βάπτει, Ach.Tat. 1.4.3). While Hero’s limbs resemble a rose-
meadow (ἐν μελέεσσι ῥόδων λειμῶνα, Musae. 60), and roses light up from
her feet (ῥόδαÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€ὑπὸ σφυρὰ λάμπετο, Musae. 62), Leucippe’s lips are like
the petals of this flower (τὸ στόμα ῥόδων ἄνθος ἦν, ὅταν ἄρχηται τὸ ῥόδον
ἀνοίγειν τῶν φύλλων τὰ χείλη, Ach.Tat. 1.4.3). The rose-meadow on Hero’s
body seems to outdo Leucippe’s rosy lips, but the latter’s beautiful face
and hair are described later on in the text like a meadow too, a meadow
of narcisses, roses, violets, and ivy.50
Through these allusions, Hero is not only depicted as a novel heroine,
but she even takes on the character of Achilles Tatius’ protagonist, almost
becoming a new Leucippe herself.51 Now, this parthenos is a special case
50 Ach.Tat. 1.19.1–2: τὸ γὰρ τοῦ σώματος κάλλος αὐτῆς πρὸς τὰ τοῦ λειμῶνος ἤριζεν ἄνθη.
ναρκίσσου μὲν τὸ πρόσωπον ἔστιλβε χροιάν, ῥόδον δὲ ἀνέτελλεν ἐκ τῆς παρειᾶς, ἴον δὲ ἡ τῶν
ὀφθαλμῶν ἐμάρμαιρεν αὐγή, αἱ δὲ κόμαι βοστρυχούμεναι μᾶλλον εἱλίττοντο κιττοῦÂ· (2.) τοιοῦτος
ἦν Λευκίππης ἐπὶ τῶν προσώπων ὁ λειμών.
51 Note that like Hero, Leucippe is not only compared to Selene, but stands in connec-
tion with the love goddess Aphrodite. Yet this relation is not straightforward: the picture
in the league of novel-heroines whom we know from the five extant Greek
novels: for in contrast to the other chaste parthenoi, Leucippe agrees into
a secret night of love with Clitophon, after he has put all his efforts into
convincing her to sleep with him (Ach.Tat. Book 1 and 2; see esp. 2.19.2).
Their sexual union is only prevented because Leucippe’s mother disturbs
their rendez-vous (2.23.3–6). During their flight and their following adven-
tures abroad, the girl changes her mind because of Artemis, whom she
had seen in a dream: she fights off all advances and stays chaste until her
wedding with Clitophon at the end of the novel. Nevertheless, Leucippe
is not disinclined to sleep with her beloved one: for when she decides to
stay a virgin, she is explicitly not happy with the postponement of sex.52
This depiction of Hero as Leucippe lets a reader expect a parthenos who,
like her novelistic model, can be seduced when approached with the right
actions and words.
After an ecphrasis of Hero’s effect on all men present at the festival
(Musae. 67–85), the text focuses on Leander’s reaction as he sees her
(vv. 86–98). The description of the physical processes is striking:
κάλλος γὰρ περίπυστον ἀμωμήτοιο γυναικὸς
ὀξύτερον μερόπεσσι πέλει πτερόεντος ὀιστοῦ·
ὀφθαλμὸς δ’ ὁδός ἐστιν· ἀπ’ ὀφθαλμοῖο βολάων
κάλλος ὀλισθαίνει καὶ ἐπὶ φρένας ἀνδρὸς ὁδεύει.
εἷλε δέ μιν τότε θάμβος, ἀναιδείη, τρόμος, αἰδώς·
ἔτρεμε μὲν κραδίη, αἰδὼς δέ μιν εἶχεν ἁλῶναι,
θάμβεε δ’ εἶδος ἄριστον, ἔρως δ’ ἀπενόσφισεν αἰδῶ. (Musae. 92–98)
For widely known beauty of a blameless woman
is faster, for men, than a feathered arrow.
The eye provides the way: from the eye’s shooting glances
beauty glides and takes its way into the heart of a man.
It took him then: admiration, shamelessness, tremor, shame.
It trembled, his heart; shame held him of being caught;
he admired her great looks; and love dispelled shame.
of Selene on a bull in Ach.Tat. 1.4.3 refers to the votive drawing of Zeus and Europa at the
beginning of the narrative (1.1.2–13). However, the girl on the bull can also be identified
with the love goddess Astarte (= Greek Aphrodite) in whose temple precinct the votive
drawing is located. The similar symbolism in the myth of Astarte and Europa has been
convincingly analysed by Selden (1994). Achilles Tatius seems to play with both possible
identifications of the girl on the bull. Thus, Leucippe is not only equated with Selene, but
also (through the back-door) with Astarte, i.e. Aphrodite.
52 Cf. Ach.Tat. 4.1.1–8, esp. 4.1.5: ἐγὼ δὲ τὴν μὲν ἀναβολὴν ἠχθόμην, ταῖς δὲ τοῦ μέλλοντος
ἐλπίσιν ἡδόμην.
This passage evokes Clitophon’s description of Leucippe’s impact on him

in Achilles Tatius’ novel:53
ὡς δὲ εἶδον, εὐθὺς ἀπωλώλεινÂ· κάλλος γὰρ ὀξύτερον τιτρώσκει βέλους καὶ διὰ
τῶν ὀφθαλμῶν εἰς τὴν ψυχὴν καταρρεῖÂ· ὀφθαλμὸς γὰρ ὁδὸς ἐρωτικῷ τραύματι.
(5.) πάντα δέ με εἶχεν ὁμοῦ, ἔπαινος, ἔκπληξις, τρόμος, αἰδώς, ἀναίδεια. ἐπῄνουν
τὸ μέγεθος, ἐκπεπλήγμην τὸ κάλλος, ἔτρεμον τὴν καρδίαν, ἔβλεπον ἀναιδῶς,
ᾐδούμην ἁλῶναι. τοὺς δὲ ὀφθαλμοὺς ἀφέλκειν μὲν ἀπὸ τῆς κόρης ἐβιαζόμηνÂ· οἱ
δὲ οὐκ ἤθελον, ἀλλ’ ἀνθεῖλκον ἑαυτοὺς ἐκεῖ τῷ τοῦ κάλλους ἑλκόμενοι πείσματι,
καὶ τέλος ἐνίκησαν. (Ach.Tat. 1.4.4–5)
As soon as I saw her, I was lost immediately: for beauty wounds faster than
an arrow and flows through the eyes into the soul, for the eye is the way
for erotic wounds. (5.) Everything held me at the same time: praise, terror,
tremor, shame, shamelessness. I praised her impressive looks, I was in terror
because of her beauty, I trembled in my heart, I stared shamelessly, I felt
shame for being caught. I forced myself to pull my eyes away from the girl.
Yet they did not so desire, but pulled in the opposite direction, to where
they were drawn by the allure of her beauty. And, finally, they won.
Musaeus does not only allude to Achilles Tatius here, but even translates
this prose passage into his poem. Via this strong intertextual link to the
first meeting of the protagonists in Achilles Tatius, Leander—in accor-
dance with Hero’s depiction as Leucippe—becomes Clitophon. The cast
of a new Achillean novel is set.
In the following lines, the protagonists of this poem even reenact the
first two books of their novelistic model: for Leander’s advances follow
almost exactly the advice given to the love-sick Clitophon by his cousin
Clinias and his servant-friend Satyrus:54 in the first Book, Clinias tells Cli-
tophon to approach the girl carefully,55 to let her get used to him like a
53 Again, the direct parallels are set in bold and similarities are underlined; I will not
discuss them in detail. See the commentary by Kost (1971) 282–292. Both refer with this
physiological explanation of love to Plato’s Phaedrus (251b; 255c); cf. Kost (1971) 285. For
a detailed comparison of Leander’s and Clitophon’s reaction see esp. Kost (1971) 288–291.
He argues convincingly for a circular structure of Leander’s feelings. I agree with his obser-
vation that in Musaeus’ protagonist shamelessness wins (“Die ἀναιδείη gibt den Weg zur
Annäherung frei (v. 99)”), but it is not true that, in contrast, Clitophon held back shyly
(“Demgegenüber hatte der Romanheld Kleitophon, der noch einer ‘Liebeslehre’ bedurfte,
bei der ersten Begegnung schüchtern zurückgehalten und den Kampf der Gefühle mit dem
Sieg der αἰδώς (ᾐδούμην ἁλῶναι!) beschlossen” [both quotes at 289]). Although Clitophon is
fighting his feelings, his eyes and their shameless gaze win the battle.
54 Cf. Kost (1971) 292–434. Kost (1971) 294 outlines the “durchdachte[n] Korresponsion
der Begriffe” in Leander’s advances and Hero’s responses (vv. 101–108). In the quotations in
the following footnotes, direct parallels are set in bold, similarities are underlined.
55 Cf. Ach.Tat. 1.10.5 προσελθὼν ἠρέμα.
wild animal, and to make her believe that he is truly in love with her.56
Never should he talk about sex with the girl, for she is ashamed to hear of
these things. It is only through silent signs that she will show him her con-
sent. If she does, he can cautiously kiss her. The girl, however, will behave
as if she is taken against her will. It is important for Clitophon to read her
behaviour and to know when he has to persevere and when to be patient
and wait.57 Clitophon follows Clinias’ counsel, and his first advances are
indeed successful: Leucippe shows at least some interest.58 In the second
book, Satyrus suggests a rather bold approach: talk cunningly to Leucippe,
touch her hand, press her finger and sigh, call her δέσποινα and kiss her
neck.59 Clitophon, again, acts as suggested, which leads to the first kiss of
the lovers.60
Leander follows this love advice exactly, as if he had read Achilles
Tatius’ novel and used it as a book of reference. But in contrast to his
prose model, he rushes through the complex steps of his novelistic guide
of love: as Clinias suggested, he approaches Hero carefully61 and gives her
interested, but non-verbal signs.62 Hero rejoices when she understands
his desire and returns his secret winks.63 Leander comprehends the signs,
56 Cf. Ach.Tat. 1.9.1–7: εἰ γὰρ τὰ ἄγρια τῶν θηρίων συνηθείᾳ τιθασσεύεται, πολὺ μᾶλλον
ταύτῃ μαλαχθείη καὶ γυνή (1.9.6). φιλουμένη χαίρει (1.9.6). ἓν οὖν σοι παραινῶ μόνον· ἐρᾶσθαι
πιστευσάτω, καὶ ταχέως σε μιμήσεται (1.9.7).
57 Cf. Ach.Tat. 1.10.1–7: σὺ μηδὲν μὲν εἴπῃς πρὸς τὴν παρθένον ᾿Αφροδίσιον, τὸ δὲ ἔργον ζήτει
πῶς γένηται σιωπῇ (1.10.2). παρθένοςÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€ἄφνω συντίθεται τοῖς νεύμασινÂ· ἐὰν δὲ αἰτήσῃς τὸ ἔργον
προσελθών, ἐκπλήξεις αὐτῆς τὰ ὦτα τῇ φωνῇ, καὶ ἐρυθριᾷ καὶ μισεῖ τὸ ῥῆμα καὶ λοιδορεῖσθαι
δοκεῖ (1.10.4). ἡδέως ἤδη προσέρχῃ, σιώπα μὲν οὖν τὰ πολλὰ ὡς ἐν μυστηρίοις, φίλησον δὲ
προσελθὼν ἠρέμα (1.10.5). θέλουσι βιάζεσθαι δοκεῖνÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€ἐπιτήρει πῶς ἀνθίσταταιÂ· σοφίας γὰρ
κἀνταῦθα δεῖ (1.10.6).
58 Clitophon uses examples of lovers in nature to let the girl get used to the idea of Eros
and sex (Ach.Tat. 1.15.1–19.3). Leucippe seems to like to hear these stories (1.19.1) and during
a festival for Dionysus, she even returns his interested looks (2.3.3).
59 Cf. Ach.Tat. 2.4.3–4: δεῖ δέ σε καὶ τὴν κόρην οὐ μέχρι τῶν ὀμμάτων μόνων πειρᾶν, ἀλλὰ
καὶ ῥῆμα δριμύτερον εἰπεῖν. τότε δὲ πρόσαγε τὴν δευτέραν μηχανήν· (4.) θίγε χειρός, θλῖψον
δάκτυλον, θλίβων στέναξον. ἤν δὲ ταῦτά σου ποιοῦντος καρτερῇ καὶ προσίηται, σὸν ἔργον ἤδη
δέσποινάν τε καλεῖν καὶ φιλῆσαι τράχηλον.
60 Cf. Ach.Tat. 2.6.1–7.7 (the bee-episode): Clitophon meets Leucippe by coincidence
on her own; he calls her δέσποινα, pretends to have been stung by a bee in his lips, and
when Leucippe tries to heal the fake wound, murmuring a spell over Clitophon’s mouth,
he kisses her silently; she endures the kiss, seemingly resistant.
61 Musae. 99–100: θαρσαλέως δ’ ὑπ’ ἔρωτος ἀναιδείην ἀγαπάζων, / ἠρέμα ποσσὶν ἔβαινε καὶ
ἀντίον ἵστατο κούρης. Cf. my n. 55 and 57.
62 Musae. 101–102: λοξὰ δ’ ὀπιπεύων δολερὰς ἐλέλιζεν ὀπωπάς, / νεύμασιν ἀφθόγγοισι παραÂ�
πλάζων φρένα κούρης. Cf. my n. 57.
63 Musae. 103–107a: αὐτὴ δ,’ ὡς συνέηκε πόθον δολόεντα Λεάνδρου, / χαῖρεν ἐπ’ ἀγλαΐῃσινÂ·
ἐν ἡσυχίῃ δὲ καὶ αὐτὴ / πολλάκις ἱμερόεσσαν ἑὴν ἐπέκυψεν ὀπωπήν, / νεύμασι λαθριδίοισιν
ἐπαγγέλλουσα Λεάνδρῳ, / καὶ πάλιν ἀντέκλινεν. Cf. my n. 56 and 57.
waits until the evening, and then—following Satyrus’ counsel step by

step—he makes an advance on her again, presses her finger carefully and
sighs.64 Hero reacts as predicted by Clinias: she is quiet and pulls her hand
away as if annoyed.65 Leander reads her reaction as compliable66 and leads
her away to a quiet corner in the temple (vv. 117–119). Again, Hero plays
the game of the unwilling parthenos and even scolds him.67 However, the
boy recognises her willingness68 and kisses her neck.69
At last, he talks to her, combining cunningly epic and novelistic models:70
his comparison of Hero to a goddess,71 his praise of her parents,72 and his
pledge to be heard73 allude to Odysseus’ meeting with Nausicaa.74 As a
priestess of Aphrodite, she should not be a virgin and flee the goddess’
erga, for this will enrage the goddess.75 This argumentation, especially the
mythical example “Heracles and Omphale”76 and the threat of Aphrodite’s
μῆνις,77 evoke Achilles Tatius again: on the one hand, the novel-reader will
think of Clitophon, who, in the second Book, calls Leucippe δέσποινα and
introduces this exact mythical parallel of Heracles as a slave of Eros.78 On
64 Musae. 112–115a: αὐτὰρ ὁ θαρσαλέως μετεκίαθεν ἐγγύθι κούρης, / ὡς ἴδε κυανόπεπλον

ἐπιθρῴσκουσαν ὀμίχλην· / ἠρέμα δὲ θλίβων ῥοδοειδέα δάκτυλα κούρης / βυσσόθεν ἐστονάχησεν
ἀθέσφατον. The ῥῆμα δριμύτερον follows not as the first, but as the last step (vv. 135–157);
for a discussion of Satyrus’ advice and Musaeus’/Leander’s different order of his four steps
of courting, see esp. Kost (1971) 302, and 307. Cf. my n. 59 (and 57).
65 Musae. 115b–116: ἡ δὲ σιωπῇ, / οἷά τε χωομένη, ῥοδέην ἐξέσπασε χεῖρα. Cf. Clinias’ words
in my n. 57 and Leucippe’s reaction to the kiss in Ach.Tat. 2.7.5–7.
66 Musae. 117: ὡς δ’ ἐρατῆς ἐνόησε χαλίφρονα νεύματα κούρηςÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€Kost (1971) 311 does not
see a connection with Ach.Tat. 1.10.4. See my n. 57.
67 Musae. 120–127; cf. ὀκναλέως δὲ πόδεσσιν ἐφέσπετο παρθένος ῾Ηρώ, / οἷά περ οὐκ
ἐθέλουσα (vv. 120–121a). Cf. my n. 57.
68 Cf. Musae. 130: ἔγνω πειθομένων σημήια παρθενικάων; v. 132: Κυπριδίων ὀάρων αὐτάγγελοί
εἰσιν ἀπειλαί.
69 Musae. 133: παρθενικῆς δ’ εὔοδμον ἐύχροον αὐχένα κύσσας; cf. Satyrus in my n. 59.
70 See the commentary by Kost (1971) 325–353.
71 Musae. 135–137: Κύπρι φίλη μετὰ Κύπριν, ᾿Αθηναίη μετ’ ᾿Αθήνην / οὐ γὰρ ἐπιχθονίῃσιν
ἴσην καλέω σε γυναιξίν, / ἀλλά σε θυγατέρεσσι Διὸς Κρονίωνος ἐίσκω. For n. 71–73 see the text
in my n. 74.
72 Musae. 138–139a: ὄλβιος, ὅς σε φύτευσε, καὶ ὀλβίη, ἣ τέκε μήτηρ, / γαστήρ, ἥ σε λόχευσε,
μακαρτάτη.
73 Musae. 139b-140: ἀλλὰ λιτάων / ἡμετέρων ἐπάκουε, πόθου δ’ οἴκτειρον ἀνάγκην.
74 See the discussion in Kost (1971) 325–332 (“Die Rede des armen Schiffbrüchigen ist
zur Rede des um Erhörung flehenden armen Liebhabers geworden” [326]); Od. 6.149–175a:
γουνοῦμαί σε, ἄνασσαÂ· θεός νύ τις ἢ βροτός ἐσσι; / εἰ μέν τις θεός ἐσσι, τοὶ οὐρανὸν εὐρὺν ἔχουσιν, /
᾿Αρτέμιδί σε ἔγωγε, Διὸς κούρῃ μεγάλοιο, / εἶδός τε μέγεθός τε φυήν τ’ ἄγχιστα ἐίσκω· / εἰ δέ τίς
ἐσσι βροτῶν, τοὶ ἐπὶ χθονὶ ναιετάουσι, / τρὶς μάκαρες μὲν σοί γε πατὴρ καὶ πότνια μήτηρ, /Â€.Â€.Â€.Â€/
ἀλλά, ἄνασσ’, ἐλέαιρε.
75 Musae. 141–157; pointed v. 141: Κύπριδος ὡς ἱέρεια μετέρχεο Κύπριδος ἔργα.
76 Cf. Musae. 149–152.
77 See esp. Musae. 157.
78 Cf. Ach.Tat. 2.6.1–3. Leander shows himself as a true expert on Achilles Tatius by
anticipating Hero’s possible playful reply “Hermes sold you?” (following Leucippe): he
the other hand, the passage also reminds the reader of Leucippe’s rival
Melite in Book 5, where, beside other arguments, she adduces Eros’ anger
to scare Clitophon and seduce him. Many times before, when Clitophon
still thought Leucippe to be dead, he fought off his new wife Melite in
honour of his former love. But now, paradoxically, when he knows that
Leucippe is alive, he surrenders and sleeps with her.
Thus, the epyllic hero Leander quotes his epic model Odysseus; but, for
his specific purposes, he relies on his novelistic predecessors: he does not
only adduce the sexually almost successful Clitophon, but also uses the
argumentation of the truly triumphant Melite, who, against the odds, was
able to convince Clitophon to sleep with her.79
In her answer (Musae. 174–193),80 Hero is taking up the Homeric model
of Odysseus and Nausicaa.81 But it is foremost the description of her life
that must be noted here: in contrast to lines 30–41, which will be discussed
below, Hero is not the willingly chaste priestess who seeks the isolation of
her tower and wants to appease the gods of love. According to Hero, it is
because of her parents’ hated decision (v. 190 στυγεραῖς βουλῇσι τοκήων)
that she lives in the tower outside the city, with only wind and sea as her
neighbours, while the girls of her age are far away.82 It is because of her
parents, and not because of her status as a priestess, that a relationship
with the foreign Leander seems impossible to her.83 I will come back to
this change in the description of Hero’s life and character.84
adds immediately that in his case, it was not Hermes, but Kypris who sent him to Hero
(cf. Musae. 152). See as well Kost (1971) 341–353; for the μῆνις of the goddess of love he does
not compare Melite’s argumentation in Achilles Tatius.
79 Ach.Tat. 5.25.1–6.1.1.
80 Like Clitophon in the Melite-episode, Hero does not know what to say at first and
looks to the ground (Musae. 160; 169 and Ach.Tat. 5.25.4; 5.26.1). This is also a typical reac-
tion in love poetry, cf. Kost (1971) 356–357.
81 See for example her address ξεῖνε (Musae. 174) which is the first word in Nausicaa’s
reply (Od. 6.187 ξεῖν’); her introduction of herself at the end of her speech (cf. Musae.
186–193 and Od. 6.194b-197); and her fear of being seen with a stranger (Musae. 177b–184
and Od. 6.255–315); cf. Kost (1971) 369–390.
82 Cf. Musae. 187–193.
83 She is impressed by his speech (Musae. 174), but believes that his words are spoken
in vain (v. 177), for her parents would never accept a foreign groom (v. 180). Line 175 (τίς
σε πολυπλανέων ἐπέων ἐδίδαξε κελεύθους;) might hint at Clitophon’s surrender to Melite
with the explanation: ταῦτα φιλοσοφήσασα [Melite]—διδάσκει γὰρ ὁ ῎Ερως καὶ λόγους (Ach.
Tat. 5.27.1).
84 It is then Eros who helps Leander contrive his scheme of swimming through the
Hellespont (Musae. 196–202). That Eros is like a midwife, giving birth to love and always
finding a way to heal lovesickness and to consume sex, is also a topic in Achilles Tatius;
cf. Ach.Tat. 1.10.1–2 (αὐτοδίδακτος γάρ ἐστιν ὁ θεός σοφιστήςÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ μαιωθεὶς τοῦ θεοῦ);
5.27.4 (αὐτουργὸς γὰρ ὁ ῎Ερως καὶ αὐτοσχέδιος σοφιστὴς καὶ πάντα τόπον αὑτῷ τιθέμενος
μυστήριον).
4. Confusion from the Start: Epic or Greek Novel? (Musae. 1–15)
I will now come back to the beginning of the poem, and re-read the text
with this clear connection to the Greek novel (esp. Achilles Tatius) in
mind. From early Greek literature onwards, recipients were accustomed
to finding information about a work at its beginning and were influenced
by these given characteristics.85 In the fifth century AD, almost a thou-
sand years after the introduction of title forms, our book was presumably
a codex, with author-name and title standing at the beginning of the work
as in modern editions.86 Before starting with the actual text, the ancient
reader—like his modern counterpart—will have read its Titelei:
Μουσαίου τὰ καθ’ ῾Ηρὼ καὶ Λέανδρον87
Εἰπέ, θεά, κρυφίων ἐπιμάρτυρα λύχνον ἐρώτων
καὶ νύχιον πλωτῆρα θαλασσοπόρων ὑμεναίων
καὶ γάμον ἀχλυόεντα, τὸν οὐκ ἴδεν ἄφθιτος ᾿Ηώς,
καὶ Σηστὸν καὶ ῎Αβυδον, ὅπῃ γάμος ἔννυχος ῾Ηροῦς.88
85 Cf. e.g. the proems of the Iliad and Odyssey, where the focus and main strands of the
songs are highlighted.
86 It became necessary to add titles to papyrus roles during the boom of literature
and book production which started in Athens of the fifth/fourth century BC. From then
onwards, titles must have been in more or less common use. See Nachmanson (1941),
Blanck (1992), Dihle (2001), and esp. Schmalzriedt (1970).
87 Text according to Livrea/Eleuteri (1982) 1. Kost (1971) 90 adds γραμματικοῦ after the
author-name. According to him (16; 90, app.crit.), γραμματικοῦ is transmitted by P, N and V
(14th cent.; Livrea/Eleuteri [1982]: 13th cent.), but it is not attested in the oldest manuscript
B (10th/11th cent.). He suggests that the absence can be explained by the early assumption
that the author was the mythical Musaeus, “den man sich scheute als Grammatiker zu
bezeichnen” (16). Livrea/Eleuteri (1982) 1 cites for γραμματικοῦ N and P (= ε), V, K, H? (read-
ing unclear), but also the oldest manuscript B. Other editions also disagree on B: without
γραμματικοῦ Dilthey (1874) and Malcovati (1947); with it Ludwich (1912). This apposi-
tion, a common title of authors in the fifth and sixth century AD, seems to have been
in many branches of the manuscript tradition, and could be quite old. See Färber (1961)
93 and 100–101; Gelzer (1975) 297–302; Hopkinson (1994a) 137; Morales (1999) 43; Fornaro
(2000a) 503.
88 Livrea/Eleuteri (1982) 1 follows the unanimously transmitted text. Kost (1971) 90–91
and 137–138 argues for Ludwichs emendation γάμον ἔννυχον; thus the sentence is con-
nected with the following line, γάμον ἔννυχον being a further accusative object of ἀκούω;
likewise Gelzer (1975) 344 and Hopkinson (1994a) 42. Kost’s (1971) 119 analysis of the first
five lines is convincing; he shows how the important elements of the narrative are pre-
sented in a circular way, giving further information in the second half (see my discussion
below). Although the text suits us better in the emended version, we should rather follow
the manuscript tradition (i.e. Livrea/Eleuteri). Kost’s analysis does not lose its weight: the
circular presentation of the elements is not lost when putting a full stop after ῾Ηροῦς (v. 4).
The close connex between lamp and Leander in v. 5 is taken up again in v. 15: the end of
the lamp and the death of Leander are inseparably connected. This parallel strengthens the
transmitted text in v. 4.
νηχόμενόν τε Λέανδρον ὁμοῦ καὶ λύχνον ἀκούω, 5

λύχνον ἀπαγγέλλοντα διακτορίην ᾿Αφροδίτης,
.Â€.Â€.
ἀλλ’ ἄγε μοι μέλποντι μίαν συνάειδε τελευτὴν 14
λύχνου σβεννυμένοιο καὶ ὀλλυμένοιο Λέανδρου. (Musae. 1–15)
Musaeus, The Affair of Hero and Leander89
Speak, goddess, about the lamp, witness of secret love-affairs,
about the nightly seaman of seafaring wedding,
about the marriage, hidden in the misty dark, which she did not see,
immortal Eos,
and about Sestos and Abydos where the nightly marriage of Hero happened.
Of swimming Leander as well as of the lamp I hear, 5
the lamp which reported the service of Aphrodite,
.Â€.Â€.
But come, sing with me, praising, the single end
of the lamp extinguished and of dying Leander. 15
4.a Author-name
The text is said to have been written by Musaeus. While we do not know
any specific details about the real author,90 the name itself invokes some
important associations: Μουσαῖος is a derivation, meaning “of or belonging
to the Muses.”91 As a proper name, it is especially known from the mythi-
cal figure Musaeus who was connected with Eleusis:92 like Orpheus, he is
supposed to be a descendant or a companion of the Muses93 as well as
the author of a diverse corpus ranging from oracles and purification texts
to books about the afterlife.94 As regards poetry, he receives a prominent
position: according to Gorgias he was the ancestor of Homer,95 Democritus
89 Cf. Whitmarsh (2005) 606. See discussion below.

90 See section 2 above.
91 Cf. LSJ s.v. “Μούσειος, ον, Aeol. Μοισαῖος, -α, -ον”; Frisk (1970) s.v. μοῦσα; for the suffix -i ̭o-
(-αῖος) see Schwyzer (21953) vol. 1, 465–472. Τhe personal name Μουσαῖος is not uncommon,
see Pape/Benseler (31875) s.v.; Preisigke (1922) 220–221 (Egypt) and LGPN I-V s.v. Μουσαῖος.
92 For the following see Graf (1974), esp. 8–22; West (1983), esp. 39–44 (quotes: 39+44):
“We class him as a mythical person, but there are no myths about him. His life is a blank.
He is nothing but a source of verses. Even his name, ‘belonging to the Muse’, is a patent artifi-
cialityÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€The use of Musaeus as a pseudonym does not seem to have continued, like the use
of Orpheus, through the Roman period.”; Kauffmann-Samaras (1992); Heinze (2000).
93 Cf. Plat. Resp. 364e: βίβλων δὲ ὅμαδον παρέχονται Μουσαίου καὶ ᾿Ορφέως, Σελήνης τε καὶ
Μουσῶν ἐγγόνων. For Musaeus’ genealogy cf. Henrichs (1985).
94 Plato speaks of “a babble of books”; cf. my n. 93. See Emlyn-Jones (2007) 184 and
Vegetti (1998) 42 with n. 47.
95 Gorg. 82 B 25 DK: ῾Ελλάνικος δὲ καὶ Δαμάστης καὶ Φερεκύδης εἰς ᾿Ορφέα τὸ γένος
ἀνάγουσιν αὐτοῦÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€Γοργίας δὲ ὁ Λεοντῖνος εἰς Μουσαῖον αὐτὸν ἀνάγει.
believed that he had invented the hexameter,96 and in the canonical order
of poets he took second place after Orpheus, before Hesiod and Homer.97
Musaeus thus stands as a symbol for the, or one of the archegetes of Greek
hexameter poetry.
Some early scholars—as for example Julius Caesar Scaliger in
1561—believed that the author of our text was in fact identical with the
mythical poet Musaeus and that he and his work had to be positioned
even before Homer—chronologically as well as in terms of literary value.98
For the same reason, the Aldine Press published Musaeus as its first
Greek text, calling him in the preface of the edition 1494 Μουσαῖον τὸν
παλαιότατον ποιητήν.99 The poem Hero and Leander was very popular in
these centuries and was used as an introduction to Greek, a fact certainly
strengthened by the identification with the mythical poet.100 But as soon
as the real date of the text had been recognised as chronologically at the
other end of ancient Greek literature, the idea of a pseudonym came up,
an idea which is still prevalent today.101
We cannot decide if this name is an intentional pseudonym or not, but
we can discuss its possible influence on a reader’s expectations.102 That
96 Democr. 68 B 16 DK: metrum dactylicum hexametrum inventum primitus ab Orpheo

Critias asserit, D. a Musaeo.
97 See Hippias 86 B 6 DK and Plat. Ap. 41a: ἢ αὖ ᾿Ορφεῖ συγγενέσθαι καὶ Μουσαίῳ καὶ
῾Ησιόδῳ καὶ ῾Ομήρῳ ἐπὶ πόσῳ ἄν τις δέξαιτ’ ἂν ὑμῶν; contrast Hdt. 2.53.
98 Cf. Iulius Caesar Scaliger, Poetices libri septem, vol. 5, p. 215a (ed. Vogt-Spira [1998]
50); Kost (1971) 15; Gelzer (1967) 131 n. 17 and (1975) 323; Vogt-Spira (1998) 50–51 with n. 12;
Morales (1999) 41.
99 Gelzer (1967) 131 n. 17 and (1975) 323; Morales (1999) 41; Fornaro (2000a) 504.
100 Cf. Gelzer (1967) 131.
101 Cf. Kost (1971) 15–16 (against the pseudonym-theory); Gelzer (1967) 131 n. 17 and 140
n. 72; Gelzer (1975) 323 (“Musaeus was often identified, as he himself probably intended,
with the archaic poet of Eleusis”); Hopkinson (1994a) 137 (“Some have suspected that his
name is a pseudonym, since Musaeus and OrpheusÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€were the mythical founding fathers
of Greek poetry; but in Egypt at least the name was a common one during this period”);
Morales (1999) 41 (“It is possible that this misidentification was courted by the author, who
purposefully assumed a pseudonym”); Fornaro (2000a) 504 (“dessen Name durchaus auch
ein Pseudonym sein könnte”).
102 The fact that Musaeus was a common name in Egypt does not contradict the hypoth-
esis of a pseudonym or of the name’s associations for a reader; see Hopkinson (1994a) 137
and Morales (1999) 41; cf. also the references in my n. 91. Gelzer (1967) 140 n. 72 connects
Musaeus with Christian Neoplatonism; he points out that the adoption of a new name is
known from the Neoplatonist Porphyrius (originally Malchos) and the Christian John of
Damascus (Mansur). According to Gelzer, Musaeus was a dogmatic authority for Neopla-
tonists. I do not want to follow his line of interpretation here, but rather interpret this
name and its implications on a literary level. Nevertheless, his observations show that the
adoption of a pseudonym was not an uncommon practice in antiquity. For other speaking
author names, see my n. 105.
the element Μουσαῖος did influence recipients throughout the centuries

is clearly attested by the poem’s reception: readers like Scaliger got the
impression that this text had been written by an author who stands in
close relation to Musaeus, the or one of the archegetes of Greek hexam-
eter poetry, and to the Muses themselves, the inspirational, all-knowing
divinities.103 For such a reader who gives the author-name some weight
in his reading of the poem, the following text is put under the heading of
“weighty” authorities in the art of poetry; thereby a statement about its
poetic value is made. Already, with the very first word, our book seems
to position itself in the epic tradition: it is in rivalry with its predecessors
and wants to exceed Homer, the father of Greek epic himself, by claiming
to predate him.104 However, Musaeus’ epic aemulatio will surprise us in
terms of form and content.105
4.b Title
The title which is transmitted by the manuscripts is τὰ καθ’ ῾Ηρὼ καὶ
Λέανδρον. The form of this title is not poetic/epic, but, for us modern
readers, well known from another genre: the Greek novel.106 While there
103 The assistance of one of them (θεά) is invoked just at the beginning of our work in
line 1 as well as in lines 14–15. If Procopius is addressing “our” Musaeus in his two letters
(Ep. 147 and 165 Garzya/Loenertz), it is interesting to note that he connects Musaeus’ work
with the “Muses”; cf. for example Ep. 147: δέδεγμαι τὴν βίβλον, ποθεινοτέραν μοι γενομένην, ὅτι
ταῖς ὑμετέραις ἀναληφθεῖσα χερσὶ τάχα τι καὶ μουσικὸν ἐπεσπάσατοÂ€.Â€.Â€. “I received your book,
which became even more desirable for me, because, taken up by your hands, it gained
some ‛Muse-inspired’ character tooÂ€.Â€.Â€.” Cf. Färber (1961) 93–94 (“Anhauch der Muse”); cf.
also Ep. 165 (οὐ γὰρ Μουσῶν εὔφορος ἐγώ, in contrast to his addressee Musaeus?).
104 See for example Nonnus, Dion. 25.265 (πατρὸς ῾Ομήρου).
105 In four of the five extant Greek novels, the author is brought to the reader’s atten-
tion by two means: either via a sphragis at the beginning (Chariton, Callirhoe) or at the end
of the text (Heliodorus, Aethiopica) or through an anonymous primary narrator-setting
which introduces the actual story, a setting which, because of its anonymous narrator,
points back to the author-name provided in the title (Longus, Daphnis and Chloe; Achilles
Tatius, Leucippe and Clitophon). In at least two cases, the details of the author’s perso-
nalia seem to stand in close relation to the content of the novel: Chariton, “the one of the
Charites,” of Aphrodisias, the city of Aphrodite; and Heliodorus, “Gift of Helios,” of Emesa,
the city of the mountain and sun-god Elagabal. Both divinities and their associates play
an important role in each novel. In the scope of my Ph.D.-project, I am currently examin-
ing these names and their possible implications for the text. What is important for our
purpose here is that, similarly to Musaeus, the names of at least some novel authors can
influence a reader.
106 Cf. e.g. Kost (1971) 117–118; Hopkinson (1994a) 138 (“The poem’s titleÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€is of a type
common in prose romances, and leads us to expect a love story”); Whitmarsh (2005)
603–604.
are certainly various different forms attested for novelistic titles,107 a ten-
dency for mentioning the names of the two protagonists can be observed:108
a close parallel and important intertext—especially after recognising the
allusions from lines 55 onwards—is Achilles Tatius’ τὰ κατὰ Λευκίππην
καὶ Κλειτοφῶντα (second century AD).109 Other novels show the same
title structure with an additional element (a content descriptor),110 as for
example Heliodorus’ τὰ περὶ Θεαγένην καὶ Χαρίκλειαν Αἰθιοπικά (fourth
century AD).111
What did an ancient reader read as title of Musaeus’ poem? Would he
also have connected it with the novelistic tradition, like his modern equiv-
alent? This is difficult to decide, but there are some hints that make this
hypothesis likely: as regards the novel, we can assume that Heliodorus’
title is authentic, for it is attested in the sphragis.112 Furthermore, the early
attestation for Chariton’s title in a papyrus-colophon from the second/
third century AD is a sign for the ancient titling practice of περί with the
heroine’s name.113 These are indications that novel-titles with περί/κατά
and the name of one or two protagonists were already common in antiq-
uity. τὰ καθ’ ῾Ηρὼ καὶ Λέανδρον is attested rather late.114 But no other titling
variants are transmitted. Moreover, it was definitely given to the text at
some time in its tradition and therefore might at least be evidence for a
reader/copyist who connected this poem with the genre of the novel and
gave it a title which, at his time, was common for novelistic texts.
In a study examining the titles of the Greek romance and their implica-
tions for the genre, Whitmarsh (2005) goes so far as to establish the “τὰ περὶ/
κατὰ + girl or girl-boy (or boy-girl) formula”115 as a pattern for the titles of
the five extant Greek novels. Adducing later examples like Musaeus and
107 Thus, the heroine’s name (cf. Chariton’s τὰ περὶ Καλλιρόης); the names of boy and
girl; and/or a content descriptor. For a collection and analysis of the transmitted novel-
titles see Whitmarsh (2005), esp. 590–600.
108 Cf. Kost (1971) 117–118.
109 περί beside κατά is recorded for both Achilles Tatius and Musaeus; for the latter
cf. Livrea/Eleuteri (1982) 1 (app. crit.). For Achilles Tatius, see Whitmarsh (2005) 591–592
and 600.
110 Whitmarsh’s (2005) terminology.
111 See the collected evidence for Heliodorus’ title in Whitmarsh (2005) 592–594 and
600. Cf. as well Xenophon’s τὰ κατὰ ᾿Ανθίαν καὶ ῾Αβροκόμην ᾿Εφεσιακά and Longus’ τὰ κατὰ
Χλόην καὶ Δάφνιν; cf. Whitmarsh (2005) 590–600 (incl. variants).
112 Hld. 10.41.4: τοιόνδε πέρας ἔσχε τὸ σύνταγμα τῶν περὶ Θεαγένην καὶ Χαρίκλειαν ΑἰθιοπικῶνÂ·
ὃ συνέταξεν ἀνὴρ Φοῖνιξ ᾿Εμισηνός, τῶν ἀφ’ ῾Ηλίου γένος, Θεοδοσίου παῖς ῾Ηλιόδωρος.
113 τὰ περὶ Καλλιρόην διηγήματα; see Whitmarsh (2005) 590.
114 See the references in my n. 87.
115 Whitmarsh (2005) 603.
the Byzantine novels as proof, Whitmarsh even identifies this formula as

a generic marker for a genre for which antiquity does not provide us with
any generic terminus at all: “Given the genealogical relationship to the
novel that these texts [i.e. Musaeus and the Byzantine novels] proclaim,
these exceptions surely supportÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€the rule that τὰ περὶ/κατὰ + girl’s (and
boy’s) name indicated to a reader that she or he was reading a text of the
genre that we now call the ideal Greek novel.”116 The title—he argues—
brings the novel’s thematic innovation to the point: these texts advance
“narratives of the emotional, sexual, and psychological lives of young men
and (most shockingly of all) young women, even παρθένοι,” and thus these
works represent “gleeful transgressions of the boundary between public
and private.”117 His hypothesis of a generic marker might go too far, for
we cannot be certain that the transmitted titles of all the ancient novels
and of Musaeus’ poem are authentic. However, his analysis provides an
interesting characterisation of these novelistic titles and their possible
associations for a reader.
To sum up the observations so far: while the author-name lets the
reader expect hexameter poetry—perhaps even a poem by the mythical
archaic poet-archegete Musaeus—, form and content of the title seem to
characterise the following text as something different: a novel—that is, as
a prose text with a rather un-heroic topic: the emotions of a young couple
and their ordeals to find their happy ending. The genre of the ideal novel
itself strongly points back to the epic tradition, its protagonists (re)playing
“adventurous Odysseus” and “adored, but chaste and faithful Penelope”
who find their happy ending only after a long time of separation and
struggles. However, the underlying tone of these novels is often pseudo-
epic and comic, and thus the novel plays epic in a new form and with a
surprising content. Is Musaeus’ poem Hero and Leander just a new, playful
form of the ideal novel, a clearly stated synthesis of epic and novel?118
A further element might puzzle the reader: the two protagonists of this
“hexameter novel” are Hero and Leander. As stated earlier in this contri-
bution, a reader from the fifth century AD onwards is presumably familiar
with their love story and their sad fate: he knows that what will await
116 Whitmarsh (2005) 603–604.

117 Whitmarsh (2005) 606–607; he argues against Henrich’s hypothesis that the novels’
original titles were only content descriptors (like ᾿Εφεσιακά for Xenophon or Αἰθιοπικά for
Heliodorus) and therefore stating a strong connex with historiography (esp. 604–605).
118 Cf. Kost (1971) 117–118: “[M]an <hat> mit einem gewissen Recht angenommenÂ€.Â€.Â€.,
Musaios habe seinem Epos einen Romantitel gegeben und damit ein Stück Romantradi-
tion in den poetischen Bereich übergeführt.”
him is not the ideal novel plot where boy meets girl, both fall in love,
endure many adventures around the Mediterranean, and at last are hap-
pily united in marriage forever. This is a tragic love story, ending with the
death and suicide of the young couple. The reader’s curiosity is provoked:
what kind of text will this be—poetry, prose, archaic, recent, epic, novel,
or rather a “hexameter novel” with a new, un-ideal novel plot?
4.c Proem
Εἰπέ, θεά, κρυφίων ἐπιμάρτυρα λύχνον ἐρώτωνÂ€.Â€.Â€.: the beginning of the nar-
rative leads the reader back onto poetic/epic territory. The text is a hex-
ameter poem; and with the first two words, the invocation of the Muse,
Musaeus positions himself in the poetic tradition: the formula εἰπέ, θεά is
attested for the first time in Hellenistic poetry, in Callimachus’ Hymn to
Diana and Theocritus’ Idyll 22.119 Both passages bring the poet’s self-
conception and self-representation as the Muse’s mouthpiece to the point:
he is only the messenger of her knowledge.
But it is especially Nonnus to whom these words allude: he apparently
is the first author to use εἰπέ, θεά at the beginning of an epic poem (Dion.
1.1). Beside these Hellenistic passages, Nonnus and Musaeus both refer
with this formula to Homer and combine the Muse-invocation of the Iliad
(1.1 μῆνιν ἄειδε, θεάÂ€.Â€.Â€.) and the Odyssey (1.1 ἄνδρα μοι ἔννεπε, ΜοῦσαÂ€.Â€.Â€.;
1.10 τῶν ἀμόθεν γε, θεά, θύγατερ Διός, εἰπὲ καὶ ἡμῖν).120 As in the latter epic,
Musaeus addresses the Muse twice at the beginning and the end of the
actual proem, thus framing his invocation (Musae. 1 εἰπέ, θεά; 14 ἀλλ’ ἄγε
μοι μέλποντι μίαν συνάειδε τελευτήν).121 Hence, like his poetic predecessors,
Musaeus is strongly dependent on divine inspiration. In his case, however,
the connection with the Muses is not only given by the poetic tradition
and strengthened through these Hellenistic and epic allusions, but it is
119 Callim. Hymn 3.186 and Theoc. Id. 22.116. See Kost (1971) 122–123 (nb not Theoc. Id.
22.16).
120 Nonnus joins with this phrase the Muse-invocation of the Iliad and the Odyssey in
the same way as his work (48 books) unites both Homeric epics in their length (24 + 24
books). See Kost (1971) 122–123.
121 Cf. Kost (1971) 120; see as well Nonnus, Dion. 1.1 and 1.45. In my opinion, Kost (1971)
152 is correct to connect συνάειδε with μοι μέλποντι “sing with me while I praise”; against
Birt who analyses συν- as “at the same time,” taking it to μίαν τελευτήν. The fact that at the
end of the proem the poet himself is active and only receives help from the Muse does
not conflict with the beginning where he asks the goddess to tell the story herself (εἰπέ).
Accepting a different reading of the text in lines 4–5 (see my n. 88 above), Kost argues that
the poet has heard the story through oral tradition in Sestos and Abydos and, in addition
to this, he asks the Muse for her assistance in narrating it.
already stated by his own name: “he who belongs to the Muses” is asking
one of his goddesses for assistance.
The allusion to Nonnus’ proem at the very beginning of Hero and Lean-
der is pointed and, in my opinion, also insinuates the former’s charac-
terisation of the Dionysiaca’s poetics:122 the epic poem represents a clear
imitatio et aemulatio of the Homeric “father” who is alluded to and even
mentioned several times in the text.123 This “striving to emulate yet to
escape, to be like yet unlike Homer”124 is emphasised explicitly in Nonnus’
two proems (1.1–45; 25.1–270) and is shown throughout the epic narrative,
in language, metre, and narration.125 In the first proem, which is of special
importance for us, the poet introduces Proteus as a chiffre for his poetics:
the god is described as πολύτροπος (1.14)126 and as having a ποικίλον εἶδος
(1.15); with his many forms, he represents a challenge for the epic narrator
which he gladly (and successfully) takes on. Proteus becomes a symbol for
the changing and cunning character of the epic’s protagonist Dionysus,127
but also for the poet himself and for the following epic. For like the Egyp-
tian god, the Dionysiaca is described as a ποικίλος ὕμνος.128 One aspect
of the poem’s ποικιλία is the different generic influences which can be
observed.129 Another is the manifold episodes connected with Dionysus’
life and deeds, which led some scholars to the description of the Diony-
siaca as a sequence of epyllia.130
122 For the following see esp. Hopkinson (1994b) and Shorrock (2001).
123 Cf. e.g. πατρὸς ῾Ομήρου at Nonnus, Dion. 25.265. See Hopkinson (1994c) 9.
124 Hopkinson (1994c) 32.
125 For a concise summary of the relation between Nonnus and Homer, see Hopkinson
(1994c); see for example Nonnus, Dion. 25.27 νέοισι καὶ ἀρχεγόνοισιν ἐρίζων and the interpre-
tation by Hopkinson (1994c) 13 (“a phrase which in context might be taken to apply either
to more or less recent heroes [i.e. mythological tradition] or to Ancients and Moderns in
literature [i.e. epic tradition]”).
126 Another reference to the Odyssey’s proem.
127 For the meaning of πολύτροπος (“with many turns; much wandering; with many
wiles”) cf. e.g. Hopkinson (1994c) 10–11 and LSJ s.v.
128 Nonnus, Dion. 1.13–15: ἀλλὰ χοροῦ ψαύοντι Φάρῳ παρὰ γείτονι νήσῳ / στήσατέ μοι
Πρωτῆα πολύτροπον, ὄφρα φανείη / ποικίλον εἶδος ἔχων, ὅτι ποικίλον ὕμνον ἀράσσω. See the
discussion in Hopkinson (1994c), esp. 9–12 (quote: 11): “hero [i.e. Dionysus], poet, and
poem are shown to resemble each other in their similarity to the admirably polymorphic
escapologist. But in Homer Proteus did not escapeÂ€.Â€.Â€.: like Menelaus, Nonnus will keep his
grip and will conquer. He will surpass Homer.”
129 Cf. Shorrock (2001).
130 See Shorrock (2001), esp. 16–17, discussing a hypothesis by D’Ippolito who views
the Dionysiaca “as a sequence of epyllion-style episodes, based around the central ‘epic’
section of the Indian War.” Shorrock is rather cautious: “On a general level, in contrast to
the ‘classic’ model of Homeric epic, the Dionysiaca may be characterized as both episodic
A further element must be noted here: in the same verse of

Musaeus’ poem just after εἰπέ, θεά, the lamp is introduced as κρυφίων
ἐπιμάρτυραÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€ἐρώτων. The lamp as erotic witness is a motif in love
poetry.131 Thus, only within Titelei and first verse, four different generic
elements seem to be combined, underlining the poem’s ποικιλία:
Μουσαῖος: poetic/epic → title: prose/novel
→ εἰπέ, θεά: poetic/epic → λύχνος: lyric.
Via the short formula εἰπέ, θεά, a signal is set at the start of Hero and Lean-
der: the unclear nature of this poem, its multiple generic characterisation
must be seen in a Nonnian tradition, a tradition of imitating and emulat-
ing the literary predecessors (foremost, but not only Homer), of being dif-
ferent with every new “move,” of being slippery and difficult to get hold
of and to define. Nonnus and Musaeus seem to go in a similar direction in
ποικιλία, but one choosing the highway, the other a small pathway. In this
contribution, I will concentrate on the epic and novelistic characteristics
of this text, leaving the lyric elements aside.
This ambiguous nature can be observed in some elements of the
proem, especially when reading the text a second time and thus seeing
it with novelistic, Achillean eyes. What follows is a proper epic proem:
apart from the invocation for divine assistance, the main elements of the
narrative are mentioned. Musaeus wishes his goddess to sing about four
topics:132 these are λύχνος (v. 1), νύχιος πλωτῆρ (v. 2), γάμος ἀχλυόεις (v.
3), Σηστός and ῎Αβυδος (v. 4). The first three elements are quoted again
in lines 4 and 5 and receive further details which bring some light into
the darkness of the cryptic lines 1–3. Thus we find a circular composition
(A-B-C-D-C-B-A):133 lamp (A), seaman (B), wedding (C), Sestos and Aby-
dos (D), the wedding is of Hero (C), the seaman is Leander (B), lamp (A);
an encomion on λύχνος follows in lines 6–13 and explains its prominent
position in the list.
The focused topics are not epic, but belong to the realm of love and
love poetry. Taking up over half of the proem and even receiving a proper
in form and highly erotic in content—two features which owe a clear debt to Hellenistic
epyllia.” But he does not agree with the supposed “clear epic/epyllion dichotomy.”
131 See Kost (1971) 126–132.
132 In contrast, for example, to the single topic of the Iliad (1.1 μῆνιν → the anger of
Achilles) or the Odyssey (1.1 ἄνδρα → Odysseus); cf. Kost (1971) 120 who identifies this
“Abundanz” as a characteristic of proems of late ancient literature; he refers to Lucan’s
Pharsalia with seven elements.
133 According to Kost (1971) 119.
encomion, the chief rank is given to λύχνος.134 The torch does play an
important role in the love story of Hero and Leander, as their unfortunate
guide to their secret wedding and as an eventual bringer of death. It has
already been mentioned that λύχνος as a witness of love, personified and
even equated with gods, is a common motif in love poetry.135 I would like
to adduce one interesting parallel for a lamp with a prominent position
in a novelistic plot: on their adventurous journey and in the fear of being
separated, the protagonists in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica decide on several
tokens of recognition, designating as their verbal symbols torch and palm
branch.136 These symbols have a pre-eminent meaning for the couple, for
in their presence they have “kissed” for the first time. Also, a torch figured
during their first meeting and falling in love.137 While it seems evident that
the lamp as a symbol of love in erotic poetry stands behind both Musaeus’
and Heliodorus’ text, the function of Musaeus’ λύχνος in the lovers’ com-
ing together also makes sense when set against a novelistic background.
It is easy to assume that the mystic νύχιος πλωτήρ in line 2 is Leander,
and this assumption is immediately confirmed in line 5. πλωτήρ originally
means “he who sails” and was metaphorically used for a swimmer.138 The
passage plays with both meanings of the noun: Leander swims through
the Hellespont like a personified ship. This comparison is stated by the
young man who calls himself ὁλκὰς ῎Ερωτος (“Eros’ ship,” Musae. 212). And
in line 255, he is described as αὐτὸς ἐὼν ἐρέτης, αὐτόστολος, αὐτόματος νηῦς
134 The lamp is the first and last element in the list. It is mentioned altogether five
times in the proem, emphasised through its position after the bucolic diaeresis (vv. 1 and
5) and at the beginning of lines 6, 8 and 15. Besides, out of 15 lines, the encomion of the
lamp takes eight lines and even claims its apotheosis—the same is not even asked for the
protagonists of this story, for Hero and Leander.
135 Kost (1971) 125–126 points out that ἐπίμαρτυς (Musae. 1) is used for gods and divine
powers (quote: 125): “Wird nun dieses den Göttern vorbehaltene Wort von Menschen oder
von Dingen gebraucht, so ist diesen göttliche Würde und Kraft zugedacht.”
136 See Hld. 5.5.2: ἐκ δὲ λόγων σύμβολα ἡ μὲν λαμπάδα ὁ δὲ φοίνικα συνετίθεντο.
137 Charicleia and Theagenes fall in love during a sacrifice at Delphi (Hld. 3.5.2–6.1),
while she, the priestess of Artemis, is supposed to hand a torch to Theagenes, who, as the
leader of a sacred embassy, has the duty to light the sacrificial fire (3.5.3 τὴν δᾷδα; 3.5.4
τὸ πῦρ; 3.5.5 τὴν δᾷδα; 3.6.1 τὸ λαμπάδιον; just before this passage, a λύχνος is mentioned;
cf. 3.5.1). It is again in the light of a torch that they meet a second time: at a tournament,
Charicleia has to present the palm of victory to the winner of a footrace. Standing at the
end of the racetrack, she holds a torch in her left hand and a palm branch in her right.
Theagenes wins the race by far, running directly into her arms. Receiving his prize, he
secretly kisses her hand (4.1.1–4.4.5; 4.1.2 λαμπάδιον).
138 Cf. LSJ s.v. πλωτήρ: “sailor, seaman,” but also “swimmer,” esp. in later epic; for exam-
ple, in Nonnus’ Dionysiaca, the Zeus-bull is called πλωτήρ as a swimmer and as a meta-
phorical ship for Europa (Dion. 1.65; 1.132). Cf. as well πλώω/πλέω “to sail; to swim”; and
Hesychius π 2640: πλωτῆρεςÂ· ναῦται; and τ 1752: τῶν πλωτήρωνÂ· τῶν πλεόντων, τῶν ναυτῶν.
(“he himself is oarsman, self-sent, and a self-going ship”).139 The motif of a

sailor trying to reach his girl or wife is well known from epic poetry: thus
Odysseus, fighting to find a way home to Penelope on Ithaca, becomes
the sailor par excellence. However, travels over sea, including storm and
shipwreck, are also common features in the Greek novel (they refer to
their epic predecessor): the couple has to undergo these adventures on
land and sea to find at last its happy ending. Leander—like Odysseus and
like every novel hero—has to “sail” over sea and to endure pain to find his
beloved Hero and to celebrate their wedding.140
Yet their marriage is not socially accepted, and thus their love is secret
(κρυφίωνÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€ἐρώτων, v. 1), their γάμος is ἀχλυόεις (“hidden in the misty
dark,” v. 3), only celebrated during the night (ἔννυχος, v. 4), never seen by
Eos (τὸν οὐκ ἴδεν ἄφθιτος ᾿Ηώς, v. 3). Although the love of couples in novels
is usually secret at the beginning of the narrative, by the latest at the end
of their adventures they get married with the assent of family and soci-
ety and live happily ever after.141 Τhis is the difference between the novel
couples and the lovers in Musaeus’ poem: the latter succeed in having sex,
or, as they phrase it, in “getting married” without the knowledge of their
parents and society. While Hero and Leander shows many parallels for the
five extant ideal novels, their success in fulfilling their love and their tragic
ending must be seen as the big contrast to the usual plot. This narrative is
not an ideal, but an un-ideal novel.
5. Setting the Un-ideal Novel (Musae. 16–41)
The two expositions that follow the proem set the scene and introduce
place and cast. Many aspects can be paralleled in the novelistic tradition
and thereby influence the reader’s expectations and understanding of the
plot. As during the first meeting of Hero and Leander, which adapts parts
139 Cf. Kost (1971) 132–133.

140 Even in Longus’ novel where the “action never leaves Lesbos” (Morgan [2004] 4),
the topoi “ship and shipwreck” are still alluded to: Daphnis, who has been abducted by
pirates, finds himself with stolen cattle on a ship, still close to Lesbos. When the cattle fol-
low Chloe’s syrinx-melody, jump off board, and thus let the ship sink, Daphnis has to swim
back to Lesbos and his beloved girl (Long. 1.28–31); cf. Morgan (2004) 4.
141 Chariton’s Callirhoe and Chaireas as well as Xenophon’s Anthia and Habrocomes
already get married at the beginning of the novel after having secretly fallen in love and
suffered for a while. But it is only after many adventures abroad that at last they can enjoy
their marriage at home.
of the script of Achilles Tatius (see section 3 above), the poem almost fol-
lows a novel-plot, formulated in poetic/epic language.142
At the beginning of the exposition 1 (vv. 16–29), the location is out-
lined briefly: the story of Hero and Leander does not belong to a mythical
time and place, but is situated in the Greek world, in Sestos and Abydos.143
Towards the end of this first description, the primary narrator even invites
his recipient to visit these places: he will still be able to see the remains of
this love story, as witnesses of its supposed authenticity.144 This setting in
the “real” world is also typical for the novel: in Chariton, historical people
and events are invoked and thus the impression is given that the story is
happening in the fifth/fourth century BC, i.e. several hundred years before
the text was probably written and read in the first century AD.145 In Achil-
les Tatius the love story is told directly to the primary narrator by the
protagonist Clitophon (thus a close past is implied; Ach.Tat. 1.2.1–1.3.1).146
After the depiction of the location, Eros in action is introduced: the
god of love shoots one single arrow against both towns Sestos and Abydos
and inflames Hero and Leander.147 Eros’ plotting against the protagonists
is a common novel-feature: we encounter the specific idea of one single
arrow, being used for both youths, in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe.148 In
Chariton, Eros wishes to couple Callirhoe and Chaereas, although the
girl has many suitors and their fathers, political rivals in Syracuse, would
142 See Kost (1971) 154–203.

143 Musae. 16–17a: Σηστὸς ἔην καὶ ῎Αβυδος ἐναντίον ἐγγύθι πόντου· / γείτονές εἰσι πόληες.
The start of this passage (Sestos as the first word and located just beside the sea) reminds
the reader of the beginning of Achilles Tatius’ novel (1.1.1 Σιδὼν ἐπὶ θαλάττῃ πόλις).
144 Musae. 23b-27: σὺ δ’ εἴ ποτε κεῖθι περήσεις, / δίζεό μοί τινα πύργονÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€/ δίζεο δ’ ἀρχαίης
ἁλιηχέα πορθμὸν ᾿Αβύδου, / εἰσέτι που κλαίοντα μόρον καὶ ἔρωτα Λεάνδρου. Note that the bay
of Abydos is still mourning the fate of Leander. This heightens the tragic love story and
its fame and closes the distance to the time when these events have happened (either in
a near or in a distant past).
145 For example, Hermocrates from Syracuse is Callirhoe’s father (Char. 1.1.1); like his
historical namesake, he is a Sicilian statesman and leader against the Athenian expedi-
tion in 415–413 BC; see Reardon (1989b) 18. For the chronology of the ancient novels cf.
Bowie (2002).
146 Longus’ primary narrator, on the other hand, finds a drawing on Lesbos which pre-
sumably is a votive gift by Daphnis and Chloe and which displays their story (Long. p. 1
and 4.39.2).
147 Musae. 17b-19a: ῎Ερως δ’ ἀνὰ τόξα τιταίνων / ἀμφοτέραις πολίεσσιν ἕνα ξυνέηκεν ὀιστόν, /
ἠίθεον φλέξας καὶ παρθένον.
148 Long. 1.7.1–2: in a dream the adoptive fathers of Daphnis and Chloe see the nymphs
handing over their children to a fearsome but pretty boy who is clearly identified as
Eros by his equipment. The god touches the teenagers with one arrow (τὸ δὲ ἐφαψάμενον
ἀμφοτέρων ἑνὶ βέλει) and thus prefigures their falling in love.
never seek to connect the two families. It is this fact that even spurs on
Eros, for he loves victory and likes success against the odds.149
Musaeus’ text does not give an explicit reason why Eros chose these
young people, but some hints are provided in the following lines that
might lead to an answer when set against the novelistic tradition: Hero
and Leander are both described as stunning stars of their towns and sim-
ilar in their beauty.150 Their exceptional looks and equation with stars
remind the reader of novel heroes who are often characterised as radiant
like the sun, the moon, or the stars.151 Mostly gods and half gods serve as
comparison.152 Likewise, Hero is called a second or a new Kypris,153 and
she is identified with one of the Charites.154 That a boy and a girl of sim-
ilar outstanding appearance must come together is a condicio sine qua
non of the Greek novel.155 According to this novel “law,” Hero must marry
the man who is as beautiful as she. But the typical novel plot with cities,
fathers, and families at last recognising the necessity of a lawful connec-
tion of the lovers, cannot be followed in Musaeus’ “novel”—the myth does
not allow such a turn of events and, thus, it does not allow its adaptation
as a typical ideal novel.156
149 Cf. Char. 1.1.3 ὁ δὲ ῎Ερως ζεῦγος ἴδιον ἠθέλησε συλλέξαι; 1.1.4 φιλόνικος δέ ἐστιν ὁ ῎Ερως
καὶ χαίρει τοῖς παραδόξοις κατορθώμασιν.
150 Musae. 22–23a: ἀμφοτέρων πολίων περικαλλέες ἀστέρες ἄμφω, / ἴκελοι ἀλλήλοισι. In the
proem, the primary narrator wishes that Zeus would have granted an apotheosis to the
lamp and would have made it a star in the night sky (vv. 8–10). He does not state the same
wish for the protagonists, maybe because they have been already stars on earth.
151 Thus Chaereas is στίλβων ὥσπερ ἀστήρ (Char. 1.1.5); Leucippe looks like Selene from
a painting (Ach.Tat. 1.4.3); Theagenes shines like lightning (Hld. 3.3.4) and Charicleia
appears like the sun or Eos (3.4.1–6).
152 Thus Chariton’s Callirhoe is equated and even confused several times with Aphro-
dite, as if she is a walking epiphany of hers (e.g. Char. 1.1.2; 2.3.6); Xenophon’s Anthia and
Heliodorus’ Charicleia are like Artemis (X.Eph. 1.2.7; Hld. 1.2.6; 5.31.1). On the other hand,
Chariton’s Chaireas is also compared to historical Alcibiades besides mythical Achilles,
Nireus and Hippolytus (Char. 1.1.3).
153 Musae. 33a ἄλλη Κύπρις ἄνασσα; v. 68b νέη διεφαίνετο Κύπρις. The goddess is said to
have found a worthy priestess (v. 66 ἀτρεκέως ἱέρειαν ἐπάξιον εὕρατο Κύπρις).
154 Musae. 77: ἦ τάχα Κύπρις ἔχει Χαρίτων μίαν ὁπλοτεράων.
155 In Char. 1.1.11, it is the assembly of the city that begs Callirhoe’s father to agree with
the marriage, for “they are worthy of each other” (ἡ πόλις μνηστεύεται τοὺς γάμους σήμερον,
ἀλλήλων ἄξιοι). In Xenophon, the crowd at the local Artemis-festival is struck by the divine
beauty of the protagonists and some even shout: “What a match Habrocomes and Anthia
would make!” (1.2.9: ἤδη δέ τινες καὶ τοῦτο προσέθεσαν· ‘οἷος ἂν γάμος γένοιτο ῾Αβροκόμου καὶ
᾿Ανθίας’). Translation according to Anderson (1989) 129.
156 These outstanding looks lead to troubles for the novel heroes: men and women
equally try to conquer them. Familiar with the typical novel plot, a reader might expect
analogical developments in Musaeus’ poem. And in fact, Hero’s effect on men is detailed
in Musae. 67–85, thus preparing such a plot: all men present at the feast—and they came
There is another possible explanation for Eros’ action, provided

in the outline of Hero’s life in the now following second exposition
(vv. 30–41): exhibiting σωφροσύνη and αἰδώς (v. 33),157 the priestess Hero
lives a lonely life in a tower. She never joins the other women and girls of
her age, because she fears their jealousy. In strong contrast to the gather-
ing women and the pleasant dancing of the girls,158 she stays alone, always
seeking to appease Aphrodite and often consoling Eros and his heavenly
mother with offerings.159 Hero does not only sacrifice as part of her duty,
but explicitly tries to placate the gods of love.160 The reason given is her
fear of Eros’ flaming quiver.161 But why does she fear his arrows? We can
assume that as a priestess—even of the love-goddess Aphrodite—, Hero
has to stay chaste.162 But so far, the text does not tell us if it is because of
her own inclination or because of her priestly status that she avoids love
at any cost. Maybe, as she fears the jealousy of mortal women, she also
tries to prevent the possible jealousy of her goddess.163
en masse from far (vv. 44–54)—desire Hero (vv. 69b–70). This reminds us of Callirhoe’s
suitors in Chariton who travel from everywhere to Sicily to ask for her hand (Char. 1.1.2).
When Chaereas marries her, the suitors team up, plot against him and drive him so mad
in his jealousy that he seemingly kills his wife—the reason why their adventures abroad
begin (1.2–5). Although Musaeus’ text plays with the possibility of troubles presented by
jealous rivals, it is not these men that become dangerous for the couple and lead to their
destruction.
157 Kost (1971) 186–189 in my opinion unnecessarily argues for a lacuna after v. 33.
158 Musae. 34–37: οὐδέποτ’ ἀγρομένῃσι συνωμίλησε γυναιξὶν / οὐδὲ χορὸν χαρίεντα μετήλυθεν
ἥλικος ἥβης, / μῶμον ἀλευομένη ζηλήμονα θηλυτεράων / καὶ γὰρ ἐπ’ ἀγλαΐῃ ζηλήμονές εἰσι
γυναῖκες.
159 Musae. 38–40a: ἀλλ’ αἰεὶ Κυθέρειαν ἱλασσομένη μετ’ ᾿Αθήνην [Ludwich; codd.
᾿Αφροδίτη(ν)] / πολλάκι καὶ τὸν ῎Ερωτα παρηγορέεσκε θυηλαῖς / μητρὶ σὺν οὐρανίῃ. Cf. Kost
(1971) 92 and 196–198.
160 This wish for appeasing them is strongly expressed. See also Kost (1971) 195–196
(quote: 196): “Hero verrichtet die Opfer also nicht allein in Ausübung ihres priesterlichen
Amtes als regelmässige kultische Handlung, sondern vor allem aus persönlichen Beweg-
gründen.”
161 Musae. 40b: φλογερὴν τρομέουσα φαρέτρην. Nevertheless, she will not flee Eros’ fiery
arrows (v. 41).
162 It is attested for Sicyon that the only two women who were allowed to enter the
temple of Aphrodite were both abstinent (Paus. 2.10.4). Οn Aphrodite in Sicyon, cf. Fehrle
(1910) 98 and Burkert (1985) 98. Fehrle (1910) 98 concludes: “Wir dürfen annehmen, daß
Aphrodite in Sikyon an die Stelle einer Erdgöttin getreten ist, denn sonst liebt sie nirgends
die Jungfräulichkeit, sondern bestraft Menschen, die sich zu beständiger Keuschheit ver-
pflichten.” However, sexual abstinence seems to be a general requirement of ἁγνεία for
priests/priestesses, at least during their service; see Burkert (1985) 95–98.
163 Kost (1971) 179 and 196 compares Hero’s lonely life and adverse reaction to love
with the “hellenistische[n] Typus des spröden Mädchens” (196). But in contrast to this
type who often even despises Eros or Aphrodite, Hero believes “gerade dadurch, daß sie
Again, it is the novelistic tradition that sheds some further light on

these details and their implications for Hero’s virginity: thus, Xenophon’s
Habrocomes does not just avoid Eros, but even denies him as a god.
Eros, absolutely furious, goes to war against the boy. Even when Habro-
comes falls in love with Anthia and starts honouring him, Eros is still
not appeased and prepares a great punishment for the boy’s arrogance.164
Habrocomes’ hybris and Eros’ pitiless vengeance give rise to the love story
and the couple’s adventures. In Achilles Tatius, Clitophon fights his love
for Leucippe, for he should marry his half-sister Calligone.165 When he
decides to renounce Leucippe and to obey his father, Eros warns him:
“Well, bold boy, against me you wage war and hold your ground?!”166
But the closest comparison to Hero can be found in the description
of Heliodorus’ Charicleia: she decides not to get married and to stay a
virgin forever, becoming the priestess of Artemis at Delphi, spending her
time hunting and exercising archery.167 She lives alone and secluded in
the temple precinct (Hld. 3.6.1). While virginity is her new goddess, she
curses Eros, Aphrodite and marriage.168 However, she too cannot flee the
power of Eros and eventually falls in love with Theagenes. Charicleia and
Hero live a life of chastity and isolation, devoted to a goddess and shun-
ning the powers of love. Hero is characterised like Charicleia. At this point
of the poem, we might expect similar chaste behaviour of her as the one
displayed by the novel-heroine: Charicleia has her beloved Theagenes
swear an oath not to touch her before reaching their goal Ethiopia and
being rightfully wedded (4.18.4–6).
Aphrodite dient und ihr opfert, das gefährliche Wirken dieser Göttin von sich abwenden
zu können” (179).
164 X.Eph. 1.1.5: ῎Ερωτά γε μὴν οὐδὲ ἐνόμιζεν εἶναι θεόν. 1.2.1: μηνιᾷ πρὸς ταῦτα ὁ ῎ΕρωςÂ·
φιλόνεικος γὰρ ὁ θεὸς καὶ ὑπερηφάνοις ἀπαραίτητος· ἐζήτει δὲ τέχνην κατὰ τοῦ μειρακίουÂ·
καὶ γὰρ καὶ τῷ θεῷ δυσάλωτος ἐφαίνετο. ἐξοπλίσας οὖν ἑαυτὸν καὶ πᾶσαν δύναμιν ἐρωτικῶν
φαρμάκων περιβαλόμενος ἐστράτευεν ἐφ’ ῾Αβροκόμην. 1.4.5: ὁ δὲ ῎Ερως ἔτι ὠργίζετο καὶ μεγάλην
τῆς ὑπεροψίας ἐνενοεῖτο τιμωρίαν [τὸ] πράξασθαι τὸν ῾Αβροκόμην.
165 He sees himself torn between two opposites: Eros and his father are antagonists
(Ach.Tat. 1.11.3: ἐν μεθορίῳ κεῖμαι δύο ἐναντίωνÂ· ῎Ερως ἀνταγωνίζεται καὶ πατήρ). He fears that
if he does not follow Eros, the god will burn him with his fire (1.11.3).
166 Ach.Tat. 2.5.2: ναί, τολμηρέ, κατ’ ἐμοῦ στρατεύῃ καὶ ἀντιπαρατάττῃ. Eros lists all his
means with which he will make Clitophon suffer if he does not surrender.
167 Hld. 2.33.4: ἀπηγόρευται γὰρ αὐτῇ γάμος καὶ παρθενεύειν τὸν πάντα βίον διατείνεται καὶ
τῇ ᾿Αρτέμιδι ζάκορον ἑαυτὴν ἐπιδοῦσα θήραις τὰ πολλὰ σχολάζει καὶ ἀσκεῖ τοξείαν. Cf. Kenney
(1998) 65.
168 Hld. 2.33.5: ἐκθειάζουσα μὲν παρθενίανÂ€.Â€.Â€., ῎Ερωτα δὲ καὶ ᾿Αφροδίτην καὶ πάντα γαμήλιον
θίασον ἀποσκορακίζουσα.
Hero’s fear of Eros and her efforts to avoid him by any means might
have challenged the god and led to this (unfortunate) love. It seems
paradoxical that the priestess fears—and eventually is attacked by—the
powers of her own goddess.169 But, in my opinion, it is exactly this Span-
nungsverhältnis between the realm of the goddess (love and sexuality)
and the requirements for her priestess (abstinence) that makes the motif
“chaste girl falling in love against her will” even more complex. “The ten-
sion seeks discharge.”170 As we have already seen, this paradox is also used
as an argument by cunning Leander himself later on when he tries to
seduce the girl.171
As has been already discussed in section 3 above, the characterisation
of our celibate priestess Hero will be turned upside down soon enough,
when she is described as and is acting like Leucippe in Books 1 and 2
of Achilles Tatius’ novel. By invoking these two different novel heroines,
Hero’s characterisation changes radically from the chaste parthenos par
excellence in lines 30–41 to a girl that, with the right advances, can be
easily seduced in lines 42–231.172 In the end, Hero is not the priestess
of the virgin Artemis like Charicleia, but of the love goddess Aphrodite
whose mortal equal she symbolises. The priestess of Kypris will, naturally,
show another behaviour towards love and sexual pleasure. With Hero’s
description of her life in her own words (vv. 187–193), the deconstruc-
tion of the Charicleia-model is eventually complete. This positive attitude
towards love and a sexual relationship might have been present in the
169 Kost (1971) 196 sees Hero’s fear “nicht eindeutig motiviert; denn mag eine zur
Keuschheit verpflichtete Priesterin Eros’ und Aphrodites Waffen noch so sehr fürchten
und wegen ihres Gelübdes um Standhaftigkeit bitten, in diesem Zusammenhang ist die
Annahme jedenfalls merkwürdig, die Göttin könne ihre eigene Priesterin in Gefahr brin-
gen.” He simply explains the “leichte Unklarheit” by the fact, “daß sich die typischen Züge
nicht ganz mit den besonderen Voraussetzungen dieser Erzählung decken.”
170 Thus Burkert (1985) 98, describing the ancient custom of consecrating boys and
girls to a temple, also mentions the situation in Sicyon: “the goddess of sexual life can be
approached freely only by those who are excluded from her works. The tension seeks dis-
chargeÂ€.Â€.Â€.” Cf. also Kenney (1998) 66 (“a priestess of the goddess of love perversely wedded
to celibacyÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€a contradiction in terms”).
171 See Musae. 141–144a: Κύπριδος ὡς ἱέρεια μετέρχεο Κύπριδος ἔργα. /Â€.Â€.Â€.Â€/ παρθένον οὐκ
ἐπέοικεν ὑποδρήσσειν ᾿Αφροδίτῃ· / παρθενικαῖς οὐ Κύπρις ἰαίνεται. Cf. Kenney (1998) 66. It
might be noteworthy that it is not Aphrodite who attacks Hero, but her son Eros who is
known for his naughty, disobedient behaviour towards his mother. See for example Ap.
Rhod. Argon. 3.1–155, esp. 3.90–105.
172 The two novels have often been compared, whereby Heliodorus was praised as
chaste and Achilles Tatius criticised as shameless; see, for example, Photius’ Bibliotheca 94
(73b): ὁ μὲν ῾Ηλιόδωρος σεμνότερόν τε καὶ εὐφημότερον, ἧττον δὲ αὐτοῦ ὁ ᾿Ιάμβλιχος, αἰσχρῶς
δὲ καὶ ἀναιδῶς ὁ ᾿Αχιλλεὺς ἀποχρώμενος. See Plepelits (1980) 48–61.
Aphrodite-priestess from the start. It was only through the narrator’s

outside perspective that her chaste life was described as her own choice.
With Leander in the role of Clitophon, Hero takes on the part of a willing
Leucippe.173
6. Conclusion
But all that is epic is transformed, and it is the transformation which is all
important. The epyllion is epic which is not epic, epic which is at odds with
epic, epic which is in contrast with grand epic and old epic values.
Gutzwiller (1981) 5.
For Musaeus’ Hero and Leander, I would alter this characterisation of the
epyllion slightly: for it is not only epic that is transformed and with which
this text is at odds, but also the ideal novel and its typical elements. Bartels
(2004), in her book on Roman epyllia, follows a rather recent approach on
the generic question which seems to me very adequate: it defines genres
as open systems which are determined by formal, structural and content-
related characteristics. A text does not have to exhibit all these elements,
but enough of them so that it can be easily related to a certain genre.
With this approach, texts with many similarities belong to the core of
this generic group, texts with less, but still enough, similarities to its
periphery.174 Maybe we should think of generic groups like the circles of
the mathematical set theory: the model cases of a genre lie at the core
of the group, as Bartels describes it, but some texts tend towards the
periphery, i.e. towards another generic set. There are always elements that
belong to more than one genre. The bigger this cut set between two or
several genres and the more of these shared features a text exhibits, the
more difficult is its generic definition.
I would characterise Musaeus’ poem as a cut set between both epic and
novel. However, this combination is not only the sum of its constituents,
but something new, something which is difficult to define. The allusion
to the Nonnian proem and, implicitly, to the metapoetic figure Proteus
at the very beginning of the text can be read as an early warning for the
173 See, however, Kost’s (1971) 370 description of Hero’s change: “Der Dichter ruft die
Vorgeschichte in Erinnerung und beleuchtet sie von der veränderten seelischen Situation
der Heldin aus. Von dem Augenblick an, wo sie liebt und sich geliebt sieht, empfindet sie
ihr Leben als einsam und trostlos und den Willen ihrer Eltern als grausam.”
174 Cf. Bartels (2004) 7–8; see also Zymner (2003) on different theoretical approaches
to generic questions.
recipient to be careful when reading Musaeus’ poem and trying to “grasp”

it. This text, like Proteus in Nonnus’ Dionysiaca, changes its generic form
again and again. The poem thus speaks especially to a reader with a wide
παιδεία in Greek literature who will recognise old (Homer) and new (Non-
nus) epic allusions as well as the novelistic elements and who can enjoy
the poem’s ποικιλία and playful learnedness in as many facets as possible.
Not only is Musaeus’ epyllion a Protean text, but also its novelistic
intertexts are difficult to identify as a single generic group. The novel, like
the epyllion, is also a cut set which plays with many elements of the liter-
ary and generic tradition.175 It is interesting to compare Chariton’s Cal-
lirhoe with Musaeus’ Hero and Leander: while the former strongly infuses
his prose text with Homeric quotations,176 our poet does the opposite
and “translates” novelistic prose into his short epic. In both cases, these
allusions influence a learned reader’s understanding of the text and of
its generic affiliation:177 Müller correctly interprets Chariton’s allusions
“als Aufforderung an den LeserÂ€.Â€.Â€., den Roman als epische Erzählung und
seinen Autor gleichsam als einen Homeriden der Prosa zu betrachten.”178
Musaeus’ synthesis of these two genres is visible in several elements of
Hero and Leander: as, possibly, in the Titelei with author-name and title;
in some of the main strands highlighted in the proem; and in the descrip-
tion of Leander as both Odysseus and Clitophon and—less strikingly—of
Hero as Penelope/Nausicaa and Charicleia/Leucippe. As regards its gen-
eral structure, we can even separate the narrative into two parts.
175 See e.g. Müller (2006) 391–444 on the novel’s epic, historiographic, dramatic, and
elegiac characteristics; he concludes: “der Roman <bereitet> im allgemeinen schon dem
Versuch einer Gattungsbestimmung wegen seines proteushaften Charakters besondere
Schwierigkeiten” (403); “der Roman als ‛offene Form’ <holt> sich seine Bausteine überall
dortÂ€.Â€.Â€., wo er sie findet, undÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€das gesamte Feld der Literatur <steht ihm> als Reservoir
zur anverwandelnden Aneignung zur Verfügung” (392–393).
176 Müller (2006) 445–475 summarises Chariton’s relation to Homer pointedly (quote:
461–462): “Indes durch ein ebenso ungewöhnliches wie eindeutiges Mittel zeigt Chariton
selbst, wie er seinen Roman gattungsgeschichtlich eingeordnet sehen möchte. Er betrachÂ�
tet ihn als nichts Geringeres denn als eine epische Erzählung in der Nachfolge der homeÂ�
rischen Gedichte und dokumentiert diesen Anspruch durch 37 in den Roman eingefügte
HomerverseÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€Das bedeutet, daß dem Leser innerhalb eines Buches alle zwei bis zehn
Seiten ein Homerzitat begegnet.”
177 Müller (2006) 466–467: “Chariton überzieht solchermaßen seine Erzählung mit
einem Netz von Homerzitaten, die aufgrund ihres Verweisungscharakters die Handlung
des Romans auf eine zweite, eine homerische Ebene projizieren und zugleich das Epos in
die Sinndeutung des Romangeschehens einbeziehen.”
178 Müller (2006) 467.
The first one, which encompasses the setting of the scene and the falling
in love of the protagonists, follows a novelistic plot, especially the seduc-
tion of Leucippe by Clitophon and the advice on love which is given to
the hero by his friends in Αchilles Tatius (vv. 16–134). The second, which
includes the planning and realising of the secret wedding and the death
of Leander, promotes the protagonist as a new, but tragic Odysseus.179 The
typical plot of the ideal novel is abandoned, for now the couple succeeds
in celebrating their forbidden wedding and meets its tragic ending. Thus,
the conditions of the myth—set from the start—are eventually fulfilled.
The story comes back to its tragic, i.e. its rather lyric/elegiac character
(vv. 158–343). Leander’s first speech (vv. 135–157) lies between these two
parts and combines the two traditions, whereby, chiastically to the main
structure (novel—epic), lines 135–140 allude to Odysseus and Nausicaa
in the Odyssey (epic) and lines 141–157 take up Clitophon’s and Melite’s
erotic argumentation in Achilles Tatius (novel).
Furthermore, the development in the characterisation of Hero from
chaste Charicleia to willing Leucippe pointedly shows the innovation of
Musaeus’ new “hexameter novel”: this text is not the typical plot with
happy ending, but rather an un-ideal novel, promoting illegitimate sex
and the tragic death of both protagonists.
179 Several allusions to the Odyssey, esp. to Odysseus’ journey on sea from Ogygia
to the land of the Phaeacians (Od. 5), can be found in the rest of the poem, mostly in
Leander’s second speech (Musae. 203–220); his first journey (esp. vv. 244–255); and the
night of the storm and of his death (vv. 309–330 which ends with πολυτλήτοιο Λεάνδρου).
πολυμήχανος Leander keeps on playing his epic role of πολυμήχανος Odysseus; cf. Musae.
202 πολυμήχανον ἔννεπε μῦθον and Il. 2.173. See Kost (1971) 515: “Der homerische Odysseus,
der dem Dichter schon so oft als episches Modell für seinen Helden dienteÂ€.Â€.Â€., bleibt das
auch für Leanders letzten Kampf. In dem Seesturm, den Poseidon vor der Phaiakenküste
erregt (ε 291ff, 313ff), entgeht Odysseus nur mit knapper Not dem Tode des ErtrinkensÂ€.Â€.Â€.”
For references see Kost (1971) (cf. his index s.v. “Odysseus als Vorbild für Leander”).
“Museum of Words”:1
Christodorus, the Art of Ekphrasis and the Epyllic Genre
Silvio Bär
1. Problem/Introduction
Scholars like to think in categories. As far as literature is concerned, we

are used to arranging texts which share certain features into groups; these
we usually call “genres.” The problem, however, is how to define these
features: which definition criteria can be regarded as valid in order to
postulate a specific literary genre, and which cannot, and why? Further,
how can we establish generic criteria and at the same time avoid circu-
lar arguments (e.g., when we exclude a text from a specific genre due to
the abscence of a certain feature which we consider constituent for the
genre)? And what, finally, is the benefit of any categorisation at all?2
These problems are particularly virulent with regard to the ancient
“epyllion”: did a literary genre of this kind exist in antiquity, or is it an
invention, or projection, of the last two centuries? If it did exist, which
defining criteria had been applied to it?3 In this paper, instead of attempt-
ing to solve this problem, I shall add to the jigsaw by examining a text
which has never been regarded as an epyllion so far; a text which can,
however, be seen to be in line with those texts that are normally con-
sidered epyllia, since it shares the two most important formal features
with them: that is, (a) the stichic dactylic hexameter, and (b) the relative
brevity.4 In so doing, I take a counter-position to those critics who argue
for a restrictive definition of the genre for the sake of “generic clarity.”5
1 Following the title of the seminal study on ekphrasis and its metapoetic bearings by
Heffernan (1993).
2 On the whole theoretical issue concerning literary genre, cf. e.g. Behrens (1940), Rossi
(1971), Hempfer (1973), Nauta (1990) 116–120, Farrell (2003), White (2003), Zymner (2003);
also Dümmler in this volume.
3 Cf. in detail section 4.
4 Cf. section 4 for a more detailed discussion of these definition criteria.
5 Such as Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004) 191 do: “Modern discussion hasÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€been bedevilled by
the grouping together of poems so diverse as to render that grouping almost meaningless,
however many individual points of contact they may share.”
448 silvio bär
Instead, I intend to take advantage of the existing “generic nebulosity” in

order to explore new options.
In concrete terms, I speak of Christodorus of Coptos and his ἔκφρασις
τῶν ἀγαλμάτων τῶν εἰς τὸ δημόσιον γυμνάσιον τοῦ ἐπικαλουμένου Ζευξίππου.
Living under the reign of the Byzantine emperor Anastasius I (491–518
AD), this ἐποποιός6 of Egyptian provenance, who is traditionally contextu-
alised in the circle of the so-called “school of Nonnos,”7 composed various
(longer and shorter) dactylic poems8 of which the ἔκφρασις,9 usually dated
to around 500 AD,10 is his only major piece of writing to survive. This
“description of the statues in the public bath-gymnasium11 of the so-called
Zeuxippus” in Constantinople—a building which used to be adjacent to
the emperor’s Μέγα Παλάτιον in the south-eastern end of the peninsula,
but was destroyed during the Nika revolt in 532 AD12—constitutes a cata-
logue of some eighty museal statues, featuring pagan gods, Greek mythi-
cal/epic heroes, and various famous personages from the (historical and
mythical) past of Greece (and Rome). Preserved as Book II of the Antholo-
gia Graeca,13 it “constitutes one tantalizing element in the jigsaw of liter-
6 Which is what he is called in Suda s.v. Χριστόδωρος (χ 525 Adler).

7 Cf. Miguélez Cavero (2008) on the “school of Nonnos” and the problems concerned
with this term. Cf. further Cameron (1965) on the concept of “wandering poets” in the
Byzantine era.
8 Cf. Tissoni (2000) 15–44 for a detailed evaluation of the testimonies on Christodorus’
“life and works,” as well as a discussion of, and commentary on, the fragments and the few
other (shorter) poems of the Anth. Gr. (1.10; 7.697; 7.698; 9.656) attributed to him. See also
the synopses offered by Baumgarten (1881) 6–8, Waltz (1928) 51–52, and Miguélez Cavero
(2008) 31–33.
9 I use ἔκφρασις written in Greek letters to refer to Christodorus’ specific text in Anth.
Pal. II, whereas “ekphrasis” written in Latin letters refers to the literary mode or genre in
general.
10 The dating of the ἔκφρασις can be regarded as almost undisputed: Cameron (1973)
154 places it to no later than 500 AD, and Tissoni (2000) 21–23 proposes 503 AD, or shortly
after.
11 The so-called “bath-gymnasium” was “a new architectural type developed in Asia
Minor during the imperial era combining the Roman bath and the Greek gymnasium”
(Yegül [1992] 250; cf. id. 250–313 for a detailed description and evaluation of the typus).
Terminologically, they are sometimes called γυμνάσιον, sometimes also βαλανεῖον.
12 Cf. Lange (1880) 111, Baumgarten (1881) 10–14, and Guilland (1966) for what is known
about the Zeuxippus bath from antique and Byzantine textual sources. For an evaluation
of the material evidence, cf. Casson et al. (1928) and (1929), Casson (1930), Müller-Wiener
(1977) 51–52, and Guberti Bassett (1996) 492–494. The destruction during the Nika revolt is
attested by Procopius de bell. Pers. 1.24.9, and elsewhere (cf. Stupperich [1982] 213 n. 12).
13 408 hexameters in length in the Anthologia Palatina, 416 in the Anthologia Planudea.
On the transmission and constitution of the text, cf. Cameron (1993) 147–148 and Tissoni
christodorus, the art of ekphrasis and the epyllic genre 449
ary and archaeological evidence for the early appearance of Constantine’s

capital.”14
In the last few years’ reappraisal of Greek epic poetry of the (later) impe-
rial period,15 Christodorus’ ἔκφρασις has received scant attention. Due to
the almost total lack of material evidence,16 it has traditionally been looked
upon from a factual viewpoint only: that is, to consider if it might serve as
a (potential) textual source for the reconstruction of the statues and their
arrangement in the Zeuxippus. Differing as these approaches are in detail,
they are all based on the assumption of a unidimensional text-image rela-
tion and thus ignore the question whether the text represents and there-
fore helps to reconstruct the museal order.17 From a literary point of view,
therefore, Christodorus’ ἔκφρασις has received very little, if any, attention,
and its value as a piece of literature has mostly been disavowed as hack-
neyed, superficial, or worse.18 Similarly, questions relating to its genre, or
its affinities towards other genres, have hardly been tackled beyond the
obvious categorisation as an ekphrasis.19 It is only with the publication of
(2000) 63–65; the additional eight verses in the Planudea are to be regarded as authentic
(cf. Cameron [1993] 147; Tissoni [2000] 63; Nesselrath [2003] 324).
14 Whitby (2002) 379.
15 On this growing reappraisal, cf. e.g. Shorrock (2001) and (2011) on Nonnos of Pano-
polis, Baumbach/Bär (2007a) and Maciver (2012) on Quintus of Smyrna, or the collection
of essays by Paschalis (2005). The monograph by Miguélez Cavero (2008) is the first in the
course of this development to offer a book-length study on Greek epic poetry of this period
which goes beyond the scope of individual authors or texts.
16 Only two statue bases, inscribed with the names of Hecabe and Aeschines, were
found; cf. Casson et al. (1929) 18–21 and Guberti Bassett (1996) 495 (pictures on 498).
17 Cf. Lange (1880), who believed that Christodorus on the one hand slavishly followed
the allegedly arbitrary disposition of the statues, but, on the other, freely (and mostly
wrongly) invented their naming. Baumgarten (1897), then, discarded the text as “für die
Kunstgeschichte völlig wertlos” (2451), since it would not be serviceable to regain (sic!) the
statues (“ein jeder Versuch, die von ihm so pomphaft und doch so ungenau geschilderten
Bildwerke unter dem Antikenschatz unserer Museen wieder aufzufinden, muss misslin-
gen,” ibid.). Along similar lines, also Baumgarten (1880) 14–20, followed by Hohlweg (1971)
49. Stupperich (1982), on the other hand, although refusing attempts to reconstruct the
statues’ spatial disposition on the mere basis of the text (216), nonetheless suggests various
potential reconstructions of this very kind (cf. esp. 216–228). Finally, cf. also Guberti Bas-
sett (1996), who attempts to use literary and archaeological evidence in a complementary
way for the reconstruction of the statuary, but rejects Stupperich’s elaborate suggestions
for display arrangements.
18 Cf. esp. Baumgarten (1880) 51 and (1897) 2451; Waltz (1928) 54–55; Downey (1959) 940.
19 Cf. e.g. Hohlweg (1971) 49, Hunger (1978) vol. 1, 177 (“ein eindrucksvolles Beispiel einer
Ekphrasis in epischer Form”), Selzer (1997) 1166, and Tissoni (2001) 45–54 (who contextua-
lises the ἔκφρασις in the late antique / early Byzantine tradition of encomiastic/panegyric
ekphrasis, following Viljamaa [1968]; cf. also my section 3.1 [incl. n. 63]).
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Tissoni’s (2000) commentary that some “literary turn” can be postulated.20

In his chiefly linguistic analysis, Tissoni shows that Christodorus is, for the
most part, indebted to Homer and Nonnos with regard to the constitution
of his own epic code, but also—if to a lesser extent—to hexameter poets
“in between,” notably Apollonios of Rhodes, Callimachus, and Quintus of
Smyrna.21 It would therefore be unduly simplistic, if not blatantly wrong,
to reduce Christodorus to a “Nonnian” poet; in fact, his epic code can be
regarded as “Homeric-Nonnian” both as it is primarily oriented towards
the combination of Homeric and Nonnian style and as it encompasses the
main representatives of Greek epic poetry overall, of which Homer and
Nonnos constitute the two outermost landmarks. However, as far as the
structure and composition of the ἔκφρασις are concerned from a literary
point of view, comparatively little is said by Tissoni either.22 In addition,
Kaldellis (2007) has published an article in which he attempts not to use
the ἔκφρασις “as a source of information on the statues themselves” but
to read it “as a poem in its own right” (362); he argues that our text may
have been designed to be “performed before an audience at the Zeuxip-
pos” (369). This approach, stimulating and innovative as it is, focuses on a
performative (and encomiastic) aspect, but largely leaves aside questions
relating to either the literary qualities or the genre of the text.
Following the research approach as outlined above, I shall therefore in
the first place attempt to show the poem’s autonomy as a piece of litera-
ture by scrutinizing its composition from a literary viewpoint, looking at
it as a “museum of words” rather than as a mere source (or “non-source”)
for art history (section 2). Subsequently, attention shall be drawn to the
interaction between hexameter poetry and the (at the time partially inde-
pendent) genre of ekphrasis as well as to the epigram with which Christ-
odorus’ text shares a particular affinity due to its position in the Anth. Gr.
(section 3). Finally, on the basis of all these considerations, the question
will be raised whether the approximation of the ἔκφρασις to the epyllic
genre can possibly shed new light on either of them (section 4).
20 Cf. Whitby (2002) 379: “T[issoni]Â€.Â€.Â€.Â€highlights literary features rather than artistic
programmes, an important corrective, indeed in my view an essential preliminary.” Cf.
also the other reviews by Cassella (2001), Lamagna (2001), Scorsone (2001), Bevegni (2002),
Cacouros (2002), Taragna (2002), Gigli Piccardi (2004), and Nesselrath (2004).
21 Cf. Tissoni (2000) 68: “Ricapitolando, è possibile affermare che gli ‘autori’ di Crist-
odoro furono, in ordine di importanza, Nonno, Omero, Apollonio, Callimaco, Quinto Smir-
neo, Teocrito e Gregorio di NazianzoÂ€.Â€.Â€.”
22 Cf. his subchapter on “[l]a struttura e le principali caratteristiche letterarie e stilis-
tiche” (55–62).
2. The ἔκφρασις’s Literary Composition23
As indicated above, Christodorus’ ἔκφρασις consists of a description of

eighty museal statues. In the text, they are arranged in the following
order:24
1. Deiphobus (1–12) 29. Democritus (131–135) 56. Amphiarus (259–262)

2. Aeschines (13–16) 30. Heracles (136–138) 57. Aglaus (263–265)
3. Aristoteles (16–22) 31. Auge (138–143) 58. Apollo II (266–270)
4. Demosthenes (23–31) 32. Aeneas (143–147) 59. Telamonian Ajax (271–6)
5. Euripides (32–35) 33. Creusa (148–154) 60. Sarpedon (277–282)
6. Palaephatus (36–37) 34. Helenus (155–159) 61. Apollo III (283–287)
7. Hesiod (38–40) 35. Andromache (160–164) 62. Aphrodite III (288–290)
8. Polyeidus (40–44) 36. Menelaus (165–167) 63. Achilles (291–296)
9. Simonides (44–49) 37. Helena (168–170) 64. Hermes (297–302)
10. Anaximenes (50–51) 38. Odysseus (171–175) 65. Apuleius (303–305)
11. Calchas (52–55) 39. Hecabe (175–188) 66. Artemis (306–310)
12. Pyrrhus I (56–60) 40. Cassandra (189–191) 67. Homer (311–350)
13. Amymone (61–64) 41. Pyrrhus II (192–196) 68. Pherecydes (351–353)
14. Poseidon (65–68) 42. Polyxena (197–208) 69. Heraclitus (354–356)
15. Sappho (69–71) 43. Oilean Ajax (209–214) 70. Cratinus (357–360)
16. Apollo I (72–77) 44. Oenone (215–218) 71. Menander (361–366)
17. Aphrodite I (78–81) 45. Paris (219–221) 72. Amphitryon (367–371)
18. Alcibiades (82–85) 46. Dares (222–224) 73. Thucydides (372–376)
19. Chryses (86–91) 47. Entellus (225–227) 74. Herodotus (377–381)
20. Julius Caesar (92–96) 48. Philon or Philammon 75. Pindar (382–387)
21. Plato (97–98) or Milon (228–240) 76. Xenophon (388–392)
22. Aphrodite II (99–101) 49. Charidemus (241–242) 77. Alcma(o)n (393–397)
23. Hermaphroditus (102–7) 50. Melampus (243–245) 78. Pompeius (398–406)
24. Erinna (108–110) 51. Panthous (246–247) 79. Homer of Byzantium
25. Terpander (111–116) 52. Thymoites (248–250) (407–413)
26. Pericles (117–120) 53. Lampon (251–253) 80. Virgil (414–416)
27. Pythagoras (120–124) 54. Clytius (254–255)
28. Stesichorus (125–130) 55. Isocrates (256–258)
Chart 1 The Eighty Museal Statues of Christodorus’ ἔκφρασις
23 For the text of the ἔκφρασις, I follow the edition by Beckby (21965) vol. 1. All transla-
tions of Greek and Latin primary texts are my own, if not otherwise indicated.
24 The textual transmission of the ἔκφρασις does not show inconsistencies (with the
exception of those few verses which are omitted in the Anthologia Planudea [cf. my
n. 13]); therefore the sequence of the individual statue descriptions can be taken for
granted. For all philological details, which will not be discussed here, cf. Tissoni’s (2000)
detailed commentary. Only few of the statues are disputed as to their identification: 6.
Palaephatus (ibid. 102–104), 43. Oilean Ajax (ibid. 173–175), 48. Philon/Philammon/Milon
(ibid. 180–185), 56. Amphiarus (ibid. 193–196), 57. Aglaus (ibid. 196–197), 59. Telamonian
Ajax (ibid. 200–201), 77. Alcma(o)n (ibid. 248–250).
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At first sight, this arrangement gives the impression of a seemingly hap-

hazard collection of various mythical and historical personages whose only
common feature seems to be that they are all, in some way or another,
part of Greece’s (and, few of them, Rome’s) cultural memory / cultural
heritage.25 However, it seems worthwile to take a second look:
A first compositional feature which catches the reader’s eye is that some
of the statues are to be imagined as arranged in pairs and/or juxtaposed,
such that one is inclined to view them so.26 The most obvious couples
are the following: 13. Amymone + 14. Poseidon, 16. Apollo I + 17. Aphro-
dite I, 30. Heracles + 31. Auge, 32. Aeneas + 33. Creusa, 36. Menelaus + 37.
Helena, 41. Pyrrhus II + 42. Polyxena, 44. Oenone + 45. Paris, 46. Dares +
47. Entellus, 61. Apollo III + 62. Aphrodite III; further, the quad 51. Pant-
hous + 52. Thymoites + 53. Lampon + 54. Clytius. Also, the juxtaposition of
the two philosophers 68. Pherecydes + 69. Heraclitus, the two comedians
70. Cratinus + 71. Menander, and the two historians 73. Thucydides + 74.
Herodotus, are likely to be read pairwise.
Hence, a categorisation of the statues into subgroups according to their
“métier” may suggest itself:27
1. Mythical characters featuring in the Trojan War (25×): 1. Deiphobus, 11.

Calchas, 12. Pyrrhus I, 19. Chryses, 32. Aeneas, 33. Creusa, 34. Helenus,
35. Andromache, 36. Menelaus, 37. Helena, 38. Odysseus, 39. Hecabe,
40. Cassandra, 41. Pyrrhus II, 42. Polyxena, 43. Oilean Ajax, 44. Oenone,
45. Paris, 51. Panthous, 52. Thymoites, 53. Lampon, 54. Clytius, 59. Tela-
monian Ajax, 60. Sarpedon, 63. Achilles.
2. Mythical characters not featuring in the Trojan War (6×): 13. Amymone,
30. Heracles, 31. Auge, 56. Amphiaros, 57. Aglaus, 72. Amphitryon.
3. Mythical seers (8×): 6. Palaephatus, 8. Polyeidus, 11. Calchas, 19. Chry-
ses, 34. Helenus, 40. Cassandra, 50. Melampus, 77. Alcmaon.
25 Cf. e.g. Lange (1880) 113, who believed that Christodorus, in the arbitrariness of his
description, followed closely the arbitrariness of the statues’ exhibition. Stupperich (1982),
on the other hand, was the first to pointedly emphasise the sytematic disposition of the
statues, albeit from an archaeological/factual, not from a literary point of view; cf. further
discussion below.
26 Cf. Baumgarten (1881) 19 n. 3; Waltz (1928) 54; Beckby (21965) vol. 1, 184; Stupperich
(1982) 216sqq. (who goes much further in tracing correspondences between the individual
statues than I do here); and Tissoni’s (2000) commentary ad loc.
27 Most of the statues represent a Greek figure; the few Romans are printed in italics
in this list. Some characters have to be attributed to more than one group: 11. Calchas, 19.
Chryses, 30. Heracles, 34. Helenus, 40. Cassandra, 77. Alcma(o)n.
4. Gods and goddesses (11×): 14. Poseidon, 16. Apollo I, 17. Aphrodite I,
22. Aphrodite II, 23. Hermaphroditus,28 30. Heracles,29 58. Apollo II, 61.
Apollo III, 62. Aphrodite III, 64. Hermes, 66. Artemis.
5. Poets and writers (16×): 5. Euripides, 7. Hesiod, 9. Simonides, 15. Sap-
pho, 24. Erinna, 25. Terpander, 28. Stesichorus, 65. Apuleius, 67. Homer,
70. Cratinus, 71. Menander, 73. Thucydides, 74. Herodotus, 75. Pindar,
76. Xenophon, 77. Alcman, 79. Homer of Byzantium, 80. Virgil.
6. Philosophers (7×): 3. Aristoteles, 10. Anaximenes, 21. Plato, 27. Pythago-
ras, 29. Democritus, 68. Pherecydes, 69. Heraclitus.
7. Orators and statesmen / public figures (6×): 2. Aeschines, 4. Demos-
thenes, 18. Alcibiades, 20. Julius Caesar, 26. Pericles, 49. Charidemus,
55. Isocrates, 78. Pompeius.
8. Sportsmen (3×): 46. Dares, 47. Entellus, 48. Philon/Philammon/Milon.
Looking at these subgroups from a bird’s eye view, it becomes evident that
they do not appear in closed groups, but—as I would put it—in “perme-
able clusters”: the three largest clusters are constituted by 32.–45. (Trojan
cluster), 58.–66. (gods and goddesses), and 65.–80. (poets and writers);
smaller and looser clusters can, for example, be seen in the close appear-
ance of three seers (6., 8., 11.), or 2x three poets (5., 7., 9. and 24., 25., 28.). As
in a symphony, a particular keynote is announced long before it becomes
dominant, and it suddenly resonates at some point when another keynote
has already taken over. For example, the large Trojan cluster is emphati-
cally, but isolatedly announced by the very first statue (1. Deiphobus);
three others follow gently (11., 12., 19.) before it finally gets going (32.–45.);
then, shortly after the Trojan cluster has been terminated, some more fol-
low with a certain distance like an echo (51.–54., 59., 60., 63.). Thus, the
text is artfully structured without tediously revealing its composition at
first sight, implying a “natural” viewing order (effet de réel)30 rather than
an artificial, clear-cut structure—but without being arbitrary at the same
time.31
Another specific feature of the ἔκφρασις is its strong emphasis on clas-
sical παιδεία:32 for one thing, the description of Homer’s statue (67.) is by
far the longest, and the Trojan War is omnipresent through the numerous
28 Demigod.
29 Demigod.
30 Following Barthes (1968).
31 Cf. also n. 36.
32 Cf. Manderscheid (1981) 64 n. 451 (refering to p. 38) and Stupperich (1982) 228–231.
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statues/characters related to it (cf. further discussion of this below); for

another, poets and writers, philosophers, orators and statesmen almost
all appertain to the Archaic or Classical period of Greece, which in the
fifth century AD belonged, nota bene, to a remote (and glorified) past. As
Stupperich (1982) pointed out, a strong emphasis on erudition (“Berück-
sichtigung des Bildungsaspekts,” 229), and, in particular, the presence of
portraits of famous historical (not contemporary) personages, was not so
typical for public baths, but rather for gymnasia and libraries,33 and there-
fore requires explanation. According to his interpretation, the collection
of the Zeuxippus, as described by Christodorus, reflected Constantine’s
attempt to establish his city, Constantinople, as a “Third Troy”—in direct
continuation of (and opposition to) the notion of Rome, its rival, viewed
as a “Second Troy.”34 In a comparable political interpretation, but in oppo-
sition to Stupperich’s emphasis on the role of Troy, Guberti Bassett (1996)
believed that “[t]his singular choice” rather “reflected a desire to detach
Constantinopolitan identity from the confining agenda of local history
and link it with the universal cultural traditions of Greece and Rome.”35
Both of these interpretations have in common that they use Christodorus’
ἔκφρασις as a source for the interpretation of the statues in the Zeuxippus
bath—but they do not, in fact, interpret the text qua text. By no means do
I wish to challenge Stupperich’s and Guberti Bassett’s approach a priori;
however, the question needs to be asked what the text’s strong emphasis
on classical παιδεία can mean for the text as such.
From a literary viewpoint, the fact that the assemblage of statues (as it
stands according to the ἔκφρασις) was untypical for the average inventory
of public baths should, in my view, be read as an indicator of the text’s
autonomy. By claiming this, I do not imply that it does not (or cannot)
somehow reflect the statue gallery in the Zeuxippus bath. However, the
text-image relation seems rather problematic on such a factual level; we
do not know, for example, whether Christodorus was selective or com-
prehensive in his description, or whether he followed the disposition
of the statues in the gallery or rearranged them in his text.36 Further, it
33 Cf. Stupperich (1982) 228–229; also Manderscheid (1981) 34–45 and Guberti Bassett
(1996) 504–505.
34 Cf. Stupperich (1982) 233–235.
35 Cf. Guberti Bassett (1996) 505–506 (quotation: 491).
36 Cf. also Guberti Bassett (1996) 500–501: “[A]lthough it is clear that Christodoros
implies a viewing order, it is by no means certain that the progression described is a man-
datory one. Indeed, in the context of the bath where there was no fixed program of use and
the visitor was free to circulate at will, a prescribed sequence seems unlikelyÂ€.Â€.Â€. Instead,
seems manifest that by describing the statues of mythical and historical

personages from Greece’s cultural heritage, the description amounts, in
some way or another, to a glorification of this remote classical past. As
mentioned above, mythical characters from the Trojan War constitute the
largest group of all,37 whereas non-Trojan characters are rather scarce.38
Accordingly, Homer takes pride of place in the ἔκφρασις: seventy of the
eigthy statue descriptions are between two and six verses in length;39 nine
others are between seven and fourteen hexameters long;40 while with its
forty hexameters, the ekphrasis of the Homeric statue clearly exceeds the
average length of all the others (Anth. Pal. 2.311–350).41 In this lengthy
ekphrasis, numerous Homeric topoi are evoked, such as Homer’s “sweet”
old age (vv. 321–322 ἔικτο μὲν ἀνδρὶ νοῆσαι / γηραλέῳ, τὸ δὲ γῆρας ἔην γλυκύ),
his blindness (v. 334 φαέων γὰρ ἐρημάδες ἦσαν ὀπωπαί), his rod (v. 344
χεῖρας ἐπ᾿ ἀλλήλῃσι τιθεὶς ἐπερείδετο ῥάβδῳ), etc.42 Seen from a metapoetic
angle, however, what is most interesting is the text’s emphasis on Homer’s
divinity, his proximity to the gods, and his divine inspiration: his statue is
the designers of these thermal collections preferred a loose placement and juxtaposition-
ing of images that allowed for various viewing possiblities on both a grand and an intimate
scale. Christodoros’ description suggests just this kind of ensemble. The overall picture to
emerge is one of a collection in which statues of gods and demigods mingled indiscrimi-
nately with representations of heroes and historical figures. On occasion, this seemingly
random display was punctuated by smaller, thematic gatherings.”
37 Note that the Trojan cluster (32.–45.) is not only by far the largest (cf. above), but
that the first statue which is described (1. Deiphobus) is also a Trojan figure.
38 Stupperich (1982) 223sqq. even went so far to explain away the non-Trojan charac-
ters and forcibly incorporate them in the Trojan cycle, for the sake of his interpretation (cf.
above); an attempt which was rightly contested by Guberti Bassett (1996) 502–503.
39 2 verses: 6. Palaephatus, 10. Anaximenes, 21. Plato, 49. Charidemus, 51. Panthous,
54. Clytius · 3 verses: 7. Hesiod, 15. Sappho, 22. Aphrodite II, 24. Erinna, 30. Heracles, 36.
Menelaus, 37. Helena, 40. Cassandra, 45. Paris, 46. Dares, 47. Entellus, 50. Melampus, 52.
Thymoites, 53. Lampon, 55. Isocrates, 57. Aglaus, 62. Aphrodite III, 65. Apuleius, 68. Phere-
cydes, 69. Heraclitus, 80. Virgil · 4 verses: 2. Aeschines, 5. Euripides, 11. Calchas, 13. Amy-
mone, 14. Poseidon, 17. Aphrodite I, 18. Alcibiades, 26. Pericles, 44. Oenone, 56. Amphiarus,
70. Cratinus · 5 verses: 8. Polyeidus, 12. Pyrrhus I, 20. Julius Caesar, 27. Pythagoras, 29. Dem-
ocritus, 32. Aeneas, 34. Helenus, 35. Andromache, 38. Odysseus, 41. Pyrrhus II, 58. Apollo II,
61. Apollo III, 66. Artemis, 72. Amphitryon, 73. Thucydides, 74. Herodotus, 76. Xenophon,
77. Alcma(o)n · 6 verses: 9. Simonides, 16. Apollo I, 19. Chryses, 23. Hermaphroditus, 25.
Terpander, 28. Stesichorus, 31. Auge, 43. Oilean Ajax, 59. Telamonian Ajax, 60. Sarpedon,
63. Achilles, 64. Hermes, 71. Menander, 75. Pindar.
40 7 verses: 3. Aristoteles, 33. Creusa, 79. Homer of Byzantium · 9 verses: 4. Demos-
thenes, 78. Pompeius · 12 verses: 1. Deiphobus, 42. Polyxena · 13 verses: 48. Philon/Philam-
mon/Milon · 14 verses: 39. Hecabe.
41 Seen from a purely formal point of view, one could argue that the description of the
Homeric statue resembles an epyllion, whereas all the others are epigrammatic in length.
42 On this aspect cf. Kaldellis (2007) 375.
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thought of as wrought by the hands of the goddess Athena (vv. 315–318),

as “she personally inhabited Homer and let her prudent song resound”
(vv. 318–319 ἐν γὰρ ῾Ομήρῳ / αὐτὴ ναιετάουσα σοφὴν ἐφθέγγετο μολπήν).43
Furthermore, he is closely associated with Apollo, the leader of the Muses
and god of the beaux arts (v. 320 σύννομος ᾿Απόλλωνι “Apollo’s compan-
ion”; vv. 346–347 δόκεεν δὲ καὶ ᾿Απόλλωνος ἀκούειν / ἢ καὶ Πιερίδων τινὸς
ἐγγύθεν “he seemed to listen to Apollo or to one of the Muses nearby”),
who himself appears thrice as a statue in the ἔκφρασις;44 and he is divinely
inspired by a Pierian bee (v. 342 Πιερικὴ δὲ μέλισσα περὶ στόμα θεῖον ἀλᾶτο
“a Pierian bee was dancing around his godlike mouth”).45 Homer himself
is therefore “godlike” (v. 320 ἰσόθεος φώς; v. 321 θεῖος ῞Ομηρος);46 for the
epic narrator, however, he is “my father” (v. 320 πατὴρ ἐμός). By saying
this, Christodorus aligns himself with an old tradition according to which
Homer was not only the father of all (epic) poetry, but also of all literature
in general,47 yet he also quotes Nonnos’ call to the Muse in the second
part of his Dionysiaca: “take me, goddess, into the midst of the Indians
once more, the inspired spear and shield of my father Homer in my hand”
(Dion. 25.264–265: ἀλλὰ, θεά, με κόμιζε τὸ δεύτερον εἰς μέσον ᾿Ινδῶν, / ἔμπνοον
ἔγχος ἔχοντα καὶ ἀσπίδα πατρὸς ῾Ομήρου).48 All of these roles—Homer as
god, Homer as father of all poets and Homer as the father of Nonnos and
Christodorus—are condensed in verse 320 in a tripartite climax: σύννομος
᾿Απόλλωνι → πατὴρ ἐμός → ἰσόθεος φώς.
There are two deities who appear three times in the form of a statue:
Apollo (16., 58., 61.) and Aphrodite (17., 22., 62.).49 This accumulation
was, apparently, not uncommon in a public bath of that period.50 From
43 There is no room here to discuss these topoi at great length; cf. Tissoni (2000)
212–226, with further references to parallels and secondary literature.
44 In this context, it does not seem accidental that an Artemis statue is described right
before the ekphrasis of Homer’s statue: Artemis is Apollo’s twin sister, and on the basis
of her function as a birth goddess she can also be replenished with metapoetic meaning.
She can for example be read as the “birth goddess” who gives birth to a “new epic style” in
Quintus of Smyrna’s in-text proem (Posthomerica 12.306–313, at 312; cf. Bär [2007] 57–59).
45 The topos of a poet’s inspiration by a bee (on which cf. Waszink [1974]) is actually
a locus communis for Pindar, to whom it is applied by Christodorus as well (vv. 385–387;
cf. Tissoni [2000] 244–245).
46 On this widespread topos, cf. Tissoni (2000) 218–219.
47 Cf. the survey by Cameron (1995) 273–276.
48 On this famous passage, cf. Shorrock (2001) 170–174.
49 Note the close cluster-like sequence of 16. Apollo I, 17. Aphrodite I, and 22. Aphrodite
II, as well as 58. Apollo II, 61. Apollo III, and 62. Aphrodite III.
50 Cf. Stupperich (1982) 228: “Götterstatuen waren in Thermen sehr häufig; daß Aphro-
dite, aber auch Apollo dreimal vorkommen, ist nichts Besonderes.” Cf. also Manderscheid
(1981) 30–34 and Guberti Bassett (1996) 501.
a metapoetic viewpoint, however, we might want to take a second look:

Apollo’s triple appearance seems to be closely connected with his role as
“Homer’s companion”; Aphrodite as the goddess of beauty, then, may be
regarded as his female equivalent. Most interestingly, Homer too seems
to have a second and a third appearance in the two very last statues of
the ἔκφρασις (79. and 80.): by speaking of an ἄλλος ῞Ομηρος in v. 407, the
epic narrator clearly leads the reader astray. By analogy to Apollo’s and
Aphrodite’s second and third appearance, the reader is led to read ἄλλος
῞Ομηρος in the sense of “another = a second Homer [statue]”—but this
interpretation is instantly revised in the following relative clause: it is
not Homer “the son of Meles” (v. 408), but Homer of Byzantium, a tragic
poet of whom otherwise very little is known.51 Subsequently, the last
statue—Virgil’s—is introduced nominatim (v. 415 Βεργίλλιος) before he
too is called ἄλλος ῞Ομηρος in the last verse (v. 416). Here, however, we are
meant to understand ἄλλος ῞Ομηρος in a different sense again: it is not the
name of another poet who is also called “Homer,” but it is an antonomasia
for Virgil, the Roman equivalent to the Greek poet-father; ἄλλος ῞Ομηρος
here ultimately means νεὸς ῞Ομηρος / Homerus novus. It does not seem far-
fetched to read these two ἄλλοι ῞Ομηροι as personifications of the continu-
ity of Greek παιδεία both in Constantinople and Rome, and thus “Homer”
as a symbol for the erudition’s culturally unifying force; indeed, given the
strong emphasis on classical Greek παιδεία which the text continously dis-
plays, this interpretation seems almost unavoidable.52 In addition to this,
however, we should not ignore the triple meaning of the expression ἄλλος
῞Ομηρος, and the way the reader is thus led astray, too carelessly: it is the
changeability of Homer, after all, which is accentuated; we can see Homer
playing the role first of a tragic Byzantine,53 then of the major Roman epi-
cist. This reminds us of Nonnos who, in the first proem of his Dionysiaca,
calls upon the Muses and asks for the multi-shaped Proteus, whom he
considers appropriate to the “diversity” (ποικιλία) of his poem; cf. Dion.
1.14–15: στήσατέ μοι Πρωτῆα πολύτροπον, ὄφρα φανείη / ποικίλον εἶδος ἔχων,
51 Cf. TrGF vol. 1, pp. 268–269 (no. 98) Snell; cf. also the commentaries by Tissoni (2000)
253–255 and Vox (2000) 250–252.
52 Cf. Tissoni (2000) 253: “L’ekphrasis si chiude con le statue di Omero di Bisanzio e Vir-
gilio, l’Omero di Roma (414–6). Questa volta, l’omaggio cortigiano si serve di Omero—qui
assunto a simbolo di continuità culturale—per mostrare come l’eredita dell’antica Grecia
continui a vivere (pur in forme mutate) sia a Costantinopoli sia a Roma, le due capitali
dell’Impero. Evidentemente, la paideia era sentita quale elemento unificante delle due
partes Imperii, sempre più lacerate da controversie politiche e religioseÂ€.Â€.Â€.”
53 The Aristotelian concept of Homer as a dramatist is also reminiscent here (cf. Poet.
1448b 34–38 and 1459b 12–16).
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ὅτι ποικίλον ὕμνον ἀράσσω. “Bring me Proteus, the much-turned, so that he

may appear with his manifold shape, because I strike a manifold song.” It
therefore seems plausible to consider the Nonnian concept of ποικιλία54
as constituent for the poetics of Christodorus’ ἔκφρασις. This hypothesis
inevitably leads us to the question about the ἔκφρασις’s potential generic
relations. The subsequent section will shed light on this.
3. Generic Relations: Ekphrasis and Epigram
3.1 Christodorus’ ἔκφρασις and the Ekphrastic Genre

Research on ekphrasis has been immense in classical scholarship over the
past few decades with regard to both its quantity and its (methodologi-
cal and theoretical) complexity. Any attempt to give a survey and locate
Christodorus’ ἔκφρασις within this whole context would extend the scope
of this article too far. A few general considerations will therefore have to
suffice.55
In the early Byzantine period, to which Christodorus belongs, ekphra-
seis in all imaginable variations were not only frequently employed as
insets in all kinds of literary genres (notably enough, in “our” epyllia, but
also elsewhere, for example in the novel), but “the ekphrasis” as such also
constitued an autonomous literary genre; it was, as Maguire (1974) puts it,
“one of the standard exercises of late antique rhetoric to which a Byzan-
tine, even as late as the fifteenth century, was subjected in the course of
his primary education.”56 As a literary mode, ekphrasis had always been
54 On Nonnian ποικιλία, see D’Ippolito (1964) 37–57, String (1966) 33–70, Fauth (1981),
Gonzalez-Senmartî (1981), Hopkinson (1994c) 10–11+22–24, Tissoni (1998) 79–85, Shorrock
(2001) 21–23 (“a coordination of different narratives and structuresÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€constructed out of
a series of different frames (epyllionic, astrological, encomiastic etc.), which all intersect,
and overlie one another,” 22), and Miguélez Cavero (2008) 139–145+162–168. From a generic
point of view, Nonnos seems to aspire to a syncretism of all three major epic subcatego-
ries: in the first half of the Dionysiaca, hymnic epic (Books 1–24) and didactic epic (Books
13–24) dominate, whereas heroic epic takes priority in the second half (Books 24–48).
55 I give the following (highly selective) further reading list: Friedländer (1912a) 1–103,
Maguire (1974), Fowler (1991), Heffernan (1993), Webb (1999), Elsner (2001), Bartsch/Elsner
(2007) (esp. the contributions by Cunningham [2007], Goldhill [2007], and Rifkin [2007]),
and Webb (2009); cf. also the lexicon articles by Downey (1959), Hohlweg (1971), and Fan-
tuzzi (1997); for further bibliography, cf. Bartsch/Elsner (2007) 124–135 and Webb (2009).
Cf. also Hörander (2006) 218–219 for bibliography on Byzantine ekphrasis.
56 Maguire (1974) 113. On (both autonomous and non-autonomous) ekphrasis in late
antique / early Byzantine literature, education, and culture, see Maguire (1974); Hunger
(1978) vol. 1, 116–117, 170–188, vol. 2, 109–111; Miguélez Cavero (2008) 283–309 (who differ-
there, ever since the Iliadic description of Achilles’ divinely wrought

shield (Il. 18.478–608), which is the archetype of all ekphraseis; as a liter-
ary genre, however, it only gradually became independent in the course of
the defunctionalisation of rhetorical practice during the imperial period.57
Thus, both autonomous and non-autonomous ekphraseis were coexistent
in late antique / early Byzantine literature; either of them could appear
in verse and in prose.
As far as ekphraseis within hexameter poems are concerned, the affin-
ity to their Iliadic archetype is, of course, particularly close. With Bloom
(1973), one could argue that—although the ekphrastic genre had clearly
emancipated itself over the centuries—when it comes to an ekphrasis
written in hexameters, the insurmountable Oedipal struggle between
the gargantuan predecessor and any rivalling “latecomer” is inevitable.
Hence, ekphraseis are frequently, but not necessarily, a component of
those short hexameter texts which we call epyllia.58 Likewise, the Iliadic
shield description is also prominently revitalised in the two most sig-
nificant “big” epic poems of the imperial period: in Quintus of Smyrna’s
Posthomerica, where Achilles’ shield itself is described a second time after
Homer (Posthomerica 5.6–101), only to be “topped up” by another shield
description: Eurypylus’ shield, containing a depiction of Heracles labours
(Posthomerica 6.198–293);59 and in Nonnos’ Dionysiaca, with an ekphrasis
of Dionysus’ shield (Dion. 25.380–567).60
Christodorus’ ἔκφρασις, however, is usually seen in line with texts such
as Anth. Pal. 1.10 (the so-called Saint Polyeuktos Epigram);61 Paul the Silen-
tiary’s ἔκφρασις τοῦ ναοῦ τῆς ῞Αγίας Σοφίας (which was recited on the occa-
sion of the reopening of the Hagia Sophia in 562); John of Gaza’s ἔκφρασις
entiates between “structural use of the ἔκφρασις” [~ non-autonomous] and “[s]elf-standing

descriptions” [~ autonomous], at 294).
57 Cf. e.g. Hunger (1978) vol. 2, 110: “Die Ekphrasis (Beschreibung) findet sich seit früÂ�
hesten Zeiten in der griechischen Literatur, erhielt aber durch die Entwicklung der Rhetorik
im Lauf der kaiserzeitlichen Jahrhunderte eine feste Stellung im rhetorischen Unterricht—
im Rahmen der Progymnasmata—und in verschiedenen literarischen Genera.”
58 Cf. my discussion of “hard” and “soft” definition criteria for the epyllion in section 4.
59 Cf. Baumbach (2007).
60 Cf. Miguélez Cavero (2008) 298–300.—It may be added that owing to the huge
impact of the Iliadic prototype, it repeatedly remains the god Hephaestus who acts as
the manufacturer of various objects which are artfully described: for example, Pandora’s
frontlet (Hes. Th. 578–584), Europa’s basket (Mosch. Eur. 37–62), and Harmonia’s neck-
band (Nonn. Dion. 5.142–189).
61 On which cf. the study by Whitby (2006).
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τοῦ κοσμικοῦ πίνακος;62 or Procopius of Gaza:63 i.e., ekphrastic hexameter

texts which had an encomiastic/panegyric function and were publicly
recited64—texts which are, as it were, ekphrastic in their form, but enco-
miastic in their function.65 As regards Christodorus’ text, however, we
should take into account that the internal textual evidence which would
justify such a parallelism is rather weak: the description of Pompeius’
statue (vv. 398–406) leads to a very brief praise of the emperor Anasta-
sius I (vv. 403–404),66 but no other explicit panegyric is offered anywhere
else in the text. This micro-encomium, however, is nothing compared to,
for example, the glorification of Justinian by Paul the Silentiary in the
iambic proem to his ἔκφρασις,67 and it seems to me that an encomiastic
categorisation of Christodorus’ ἔκφρασις is—to some extent—due to the
lack of a “better explanation.”68 But if we read the text qua text again, it
becomes evident that its Bedeutungspotential is particularly strong from
a literary point of view: it can be regarded as the result of two ekphrastic
traditions/practices superimposed upon one another, a combination of
(a) the independent ekphrastic genre, which is a decidedly late antique /
early Byzantine feature in the context of rhetorical progymnasmata, and
(b) the long-established practice of incorporating an ekphrasis into a hex-
ameter poem. This interpretation corresponds with the text’s emphasis
on classical παιδεία, which is primarily seen through Homeric lenses and
culminates in the lengthy and metapoetically determined description of
Homer’s statue (vv. 311–350 [cf. above, section 2]). There is little textual
evidence for reading Christodorus’ ἔκφρασις functionally, as an encomium;
rather, I will argue, it should be read as “a literary game” with the purpose
of “stylistic ἡδονή,”69 or (Nonnian) ποικιλία.
62 Cf. the seminal study by Friedländer (1912a) on these two texts from the Justinian era.
63 On which cf. the study by Friedländer (1938).
64 Cf. Friedländer (1912a) 95, Viljamaa (1968) 15–17 and 60–63, Renaut (2005), Tissoni
(2008) 45–54, and Miguélez Cavero (2008) 294.
65 Cf. Viljamaa (1968) 15: “It is quite natural that the ecphrasis cannot always be pre-
cisely distinguished from the encomium, for not only does the ecphrasis describe its object
but it also presents it with admiration and praise.”
66 Cf. the commentary by Tissoni (2000) 250–253 on this passage and Kaldellis (2007)
377–381 on the identification of Pompeius.
67 The assumption that Christodorus’ ἔκφρασις must therefore also have been preceded
by an iambic proem which is now lost (cf. n. 70) is methodologically unsound.
68 Cf. e.g. Friedländer (1912a) 95: “wird denn die Ekphrasis des Johannes für die etwas
ältere des Christodor die nächste Parallele abgeben, und zu dieser ein ähnlicher äußerer
Anlaß hinzuzudenken sein” (my emphasis).
69 Miguélez Cavero (2008) 294+295, with reference to Anth. Pal. 9.363, an epyllic
poem.
3.2 Christodorus’ ἔκφρασις and the Epigrammatic Genre

Classical scholarship has often indulged itself in discussing the authentic-
ity and completeness of “its” texts, and it seems to be a recurrent pattern
that the less comprehensible a text appears, the more hotly questions of
this kind are disputed. Regarding the ἔκφρασις’s authenticity, Christodorus
has, to the best of my knowledge, been spared; as to the text’s complete-
ness, however, Baumgarten held the view that it was incomplete in the
form in which it was passed down in the Anth. Gr. Baumgarten argued
that it must have been originally preceded by an iambic proem—a view
which he based on an analogy with the ekphraseis by Paul the Silen-
tiary and John of Gaza;70 likewise, he felt ill at ease with the seemingly
abrupt ending (“minimeÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€Vergilii statua ita describitur, ut ultimam eam
fuisse intellegamus”).71 Along similar lines, Leo advanced the view that
the ἔκφρασις had not originally been a coherent text, but a sequence of
individual epigrams72—a hypothesis which seems to make sense as the
ἔκφρασις is part of a large collection of epigrams. However, Friedländer
rightly contested this stance by pointing out the fact that “unter all den
Beschreibungen gibt es äußerst wenige, die so, wie sie sind, ein Epigramm
abgeben würdenÂ€.Â€.Â€.; fast allen fehlt die für das Epigramm wesentliche Zus-
pitzung auf einen Punkt, so verschieden sie auch sonst sind.”73 Interest-
ingly enough, though, Friedländer speculated that the same view as Leo’s
may have been the reason why the ἔκφρασις was actually included in the
Anth. Gr.: that is, the compilator of the Anth. Gr. conceived, according to
Friedländer, the ἔκφρασις as consisting of various subsequent, individual
epigrams.74
It seems evident that any of these hypotheses will ultimately have to
remain in the realms of speculation. I do not wish to re-open the ques-
tion about the poem’s completeness; there is simply no evidence either
70 Cf. also above, section 3.1, on these two texts.

71 Baumgarten (1880) 8 (ditto [1897] 2451), followed by Beckby (21965) vol. 1, 185, Stup-
perich (1982) 214, and Guberti Bassett (1996) 493, contested by Waltz (1928) 53 n. 7. Tissoni
(2000) 57 remains unassertive (“non resta che formulare ipotesi”). Surprisingly enough,
Friedländer (1912a), who deals with the ἔκφρασις briefly (94–95), does not touch on this
matter.
72 Leo (1892/93) 6; also Unger (1878) 281+325, Downey (1959) 940, Cameron (1973) 106,
Cameron (1993) 147, Whitby (2006) 170 n. 38, and Kaldellis (2007) 361.
73 Friedländer (1912a) 94 (my emphasis), followed by Stupperich (1982) 210 (“ein ein-
ziges zusammenhängendes Gedicht im epischen Stil”) and 215 n. 20. It should, however,
be acknowledged that a content-oriented definition of the antique epigram is highly prob-
lematic (cf. my n. 76).
74 Friedländer (1912a) 94 n. 2; ditto Waltz (1928) 51.
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pro or contra Baumgarten’s assumption, and I cannot see how a final

decision in either direction would significantly further our understand-
ing of the text. However, the question why the ἔκφρασις was included in
the Anth. Gr. may lead us to some thoughts worth considering: Friedlän-
der implicitly presupposes that the Anth. Gr. constitutes an anthology of
epigrams only. This simplifying view, however—although in accordance
with the communis opinio75—, cannot be maintained upon closer inspec-
tion: adhering to the (purely formal) classical definition of an epigram
as a poem which is (a) relatively short (i.e., approximately, between c. 2
and 12 verses, or 1 and 6 distichs) and (b) written in dactylic metre (ele-
giac distichs by default, but also, regularly, in stichic hexameters),76 we
find numerous poems in the Anth. Gr. which do not meet these strict
criteria. First, various poems are written in a metre other than dac-
tylic: iambics (usually acatalectic iambic trimeters);77 occasionally hen-
decasyllabics; various epodic structures (i.e. combinations of different
metres in the same poem—notably in Book 13, which consists entirely
of epodes); and the well-known iconic poems in Book 15.78 Further, we
find poems which exceed the average length of an epigram,79 such that
the demarcation between the genre of epigram and the genre of elegy
(distichic) or epyllion (stichic)—the epigram’s “big sisters”—becomes
blurred. Amongst these longer poems, not only liber II holds a special
position, but also liber IV, which comprises the proems to the epigram
collections by Meleager, Philippos, and Agathias, where we find, again,
75 Cf. e.g. Degani’s (1997) 1108 definition: “die große, aus der Ant[ike] überlieferte
SammÂ�lung griech[ischer] Epigramme.”
76 Cf. e.g. Degani (1997) 1108. The elegiac distich becomes the standard metre for the
epigrammatic genre after the third century BC at the latest. A purely formal definition of
the genre is justified, if not essential, in view of the abundant variety of content which the
Anth. Gr. offers. The criterion of brevity is, of course, a moot point; however, it can be pos-
tulated that briefness was largely considered a, if not the distinctive feature of an epigram
in antiquity; cf. e.g. Anth. Pal. 9.369: πάγκαλον ἐστ᾿ ἐπίγραμμα τὸ δίστιχον· ἢν δὲ παρέλθῃς /
τοὺς τρεῖς, ῥαψῳδεῖς κοὐκ ἐπίγραμμα λέγεις. “The distich is a very nice epigram; but if you
go beyond the number of three, you’re a rhapsodist and no longer write an epigram.” Cf.
Lausberg (1982) 29–63 and Hess (1989) 27–30 for a survey of the relevant antique passages
on the criterion of brevity.
77 Notably to be found in Books 6, 7, 9, 10, 11, 15, and 16.
78 Anth. Pal. 15.21–22 and 15.24–27.
79 Anth. Pal. 1.10 (76 vv.) (attributed to Christodorus by Tissoni [2000] 23 n. 36), 1.106
(18 vv.), 1.119 (28 vv.), 1.121 (13 vv.), 4.1 (58 vv.), 4.2 (14 vv.), 4.3 (143 vv.), 5.255 (18 vv.), 5.293
(24 vv.), 5.302 (20 vv.), 6.219 (24 vv.), 6.220 (16 vv.), 7.89 (16 vv.), 7.334 (18 vv.), 7.472 (16 vv.),
7.614 (16 vv.), 9.202 (15 vv.), 9.362 (27 vv.), 9.363 (23 vv.), 9.367 (16 vv.), 9.384 (24 vv.), 9.385
(24 vv.), 9.437 (18 vv.), 9.440 (29 vv.), 9.482 (28 vv.), 9.485 (14 vv.), 9.505 (18 vv.), 9.524
(26 vv.), 9.525 (26 vv.), 9.584 (16 vv.), 9.656 (21 vv.), 9.668 (14 vv.), 10.16 (14 vv.), 10.56 (18 vv.),
11.352 (18 vv.), 11.354 (20 vv.), 11.365 (14 vv.), 11.382 (22 vv.), 12.132 (14 vv.), 14.123 (16 vv.), 15.28
(14 vv.), 15.32 (14 vv.), 15.33 (14 vv.), and 16.92 (14 vv.).
both dactylic and iambic structures.80 Finally, and most interestingly for
our purposes, liber IX comprises three poems (all in stichic hexameters)
which may be described as “micro-epyllia,” both (primarily) with regard to
their length and (secondarily) to their content:81 9.362, an address to, and
description of, the river Alpheus, relating the complicated love story of
Alpheus and Arethusa; 9.363, a brief idyllic/bucolic spring scenery (locus
amoenus); 9.440, a jocular little “warrant of apprehension” for little Eros
by his mother. The first two poems are anonymous (9.363 is sometimes
ascribed to Meleager); the third one, however, is attributed to Moschus,
the author of the two epyllia Europa and Megara.82
Bearing these observations in mind, I would like to argue that, instead
of merely speaking of a compilation of epigrams, we may more adequately
categorise the Anth. Gr. as a (miscellaneous and highly complex) collec-
tion of literary miniatures.83 Thus, the incorporation of Christodorus’
ἔκφρασις in the Anth. Gr. does not look unfitting at all. On the contrary,
if we take into account the literary ποικιλία which we identified as typi-
cal for the text, then it seems to be almost predestined for a collection
like the Anth. Gr. Moreover, the context of the Anth. Gr. itself adds to the
ἔκφρασις’s ποικιλία in turn; although our text was, as a matter of course,
not composed in order to be incorporated into this collection, the fact that
it eventually ended up there is an important Rezeptionszeugnis, and seen
from a reader’s perspective, the ἔκφρασις’s anthological context becomes
an inextricable part of it as soon as it exists.84
4. Christodorus’ ἔκφρασις and the Epyllic Genre
4.1 Once Again: What “Is” an “Epyllion”?

It is an undisputed fact that “epyllion” as a literary term and concept is
not an antique, but a modern, probably eighteenth-century construct.85
80 Meleager and Philippos both composed their proems in elegiac distichs, whereas
Agathias follows a tripartite structure: iambic trimeters → stichic hexameters → elegiac
distichs.
81 On the definition criteria of the epyllion, cf. section 4 (incl. n. 93).
82 Further, Anth. Pal. 16.200, an epigram of three distichs about Eros, is also ascribed
to Moschus.
83 There is no room here to retrace the complex genesis of the Anth. Gr.; cf. Bernhardy
(31861) 768–775, Finsler (1876), Preisendanz (1910), Wifstrand (1926), Gow (1958), Beckby
(21965) vol. 1, 10–116, Cameron (1993), and the brief survey by Degani (1996) 734.
84 In accordance with modern reader-response criticism as developed by, e.g., Jauß
(21970).
85 Cf. the contribution by Tilg in this volume.
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Consequently, there has been much debate about the tension between the
antique meaning of the word ἐπύλλιον and what we think is, or might be
considered, “the” ancient epyllion as a literary genre.86 As is well-known,
views on this issue vary considerably: on the one hand, some definitions
are rather strict and attempt to define the genre as tightly as possible.
A case in point at this extreme is argued by Crump (1931), according
to whom
[a]n epyllion is a short narrative poem. The length may and does vary con-
siderably, but an epyllion seems never to have exceeded the length of a
single book, and probably the average length was four to five hundred lines.
The subject is sometimes merely an incident in the life of an epic hero or
heroine, sometimes a complete story, the tendency of the author being to
use little-known stories or possibly even to invent new ones. The later Alex-
andrians and the Romans preferred love stories and usually concentrated
the interest on the heroine. The style varies; it may be entirely narrative, or
may be decorated with descriptive passages of a realistic character. The dra-
matic form is frequently employed, and it is usual to find at least one long
speech. So far the only distinction between the epyllion and the narrative
hymn consists in the subject. A hymn always tells the story of a god, whereas
an epyllion // deals with human beings; gods may appear as characters, but
there is no emphasis on their divinity. There is, however, one characteristic
of the epyllion which sharply distinguishes it from other types, namely the
digression.87
On the other hand, based on the fact that the Greek word ἐπύλλιον obvi-
ously does not bear “our” meaning in the few ancient passages where it is
attested, Allen (1940) took the view that the genre did not exist in antiq-
uity at all, but was a purely backward projection of the nineteenth cen-
tury. Various other definitions tend to take a middle position; I mention
only three: Gutzwiller (1981), for instance, sees (a) brevity, (b) the dactylic
hexameter, (c) narrativity, and (d) an “ironic approach to the Homeric
world of heroes and gods” (6), as common distinctive features which con-
stitute the epyllic genre as “a recognizable literary form” (3). According to
86 Cf. esp. Heumann (1904), Perrotta (1923), Crump (1931), Allen (1940), Kirkwood
(1942), Reilly (1953/54), Allen (1958), Vessey (1970), Gutzwiller (1981), Most (1982), Wolff
(1988), Koster (2002), Bartels (2004), and some contributions in this volume. An interesting
approach is developed by Masciadri in this volume, who shows that the “epyllia” which
have been seen as a (more or less) cohesive generic group of texts since the nineteenth
century were probably not yet considered such in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and even in
the eighteenth century. On the rise of the term in eighteenth/nineteenth-century scholar-
ship, cf. the contributions by Trimble and Tilg in this volume.
87 Crump (1931) 22–23. For the lasting influence of Crump’s study and her criteria, cf.
also Trimble in this volume, pp. 74–76.
Koster (2002), an epyllion always contains, by way of definition, a love

story (ἐρωτικὸν πάθημα), usually within a digression. Fantuzzi/Hunter
(2004) define Hellenistic epyllia as “[s]mall-scale hexameter narratives on
mythic subjects” (191). The list could be continued.88
Without tracing and commenting upon the reception history of the
modern term in detail, it can be broadly stated that Crump’s (1931) stance
has been most influential and has usually (and uncritically) been con-
sidered communis opinio;89 therefore, short hexameter poems such as
Colluthus’ ῾Αρπάγη ῾Ελένης or Triphiodorus’ ᾿Ιλίου ἅλωσις have not been
regarded as epyllia for long.90 This complex issue cannot be treated here
in detail. What, then, is the lowest common denominator according to
which the epyllion can be reasonably (i.e. neither too broadly nor too
narrowly) defined? I would like to argue that since any ancient literary
genre primarily follows formal definition criteria,91 it seems appropriate
to take the following three as the only “hard” criteria for the definition
of the epyllic genre: (1) by limiting the epyllion to hexameter poetry, it
is to be distinguished from the elegy, which is written in distichs (hex-
ameter + pentameter).92 (2) Relative brevity, then, is an important cri-
terion since an epyllion is clearly longer than an epigram (“demarcation
downwards”),93 but also considerably shorter than an epic poem (“demar-
cation upwards”), i.e. normally no longer than the average length of an
ancient book scroll of 400–600 hexameters.94 (3) Finally, narrativity in its
88 Cf. also the list of criteria compiled by Baumbach in his contribution to this volume,
pp. 144–145.
89 This shows, for example, the DNP article by Fantuzzi (1998a) who adopts almost all
the criteria established by Crump (1931). Similar is Merriam (2001), or Courtney (1996).
90 Cf. Fantuzzi (1998a) 32: “nicht konformÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€vom kyklischen Thema und der mangeln-
den Einheit der Handlung her.” But cf. the contribution by Tomasso in this volume.
91 This stance is at least as old as Aristotle; cf. Poet. 1447b 13–16: οἱ ἄνθρωποί γε
συνάπτοντες τῷ μέτρῳ τὸ ποιεῖν ἐλεγειοποιοὺς, τοὺς δὲ ἐποποιοὺς ὀνομάζουσιν, οὐχ ὡς κατὰ τὴν
μίμησιν ποιητὰς ἀλλὰ κοινῇ κατὰ τὸ μέτρον προσαγορεύοντες. “By linking the making of poetry
with metre, people call some [poets] ‘makers of elegies,’ some ‘makers of epic,’ addressing
them as ‘poets’ not according to their [kind of] imitation, but, generally, according to the
metre [they use].”
92 It is sometimes argued that the term “epyllion” should/could also be applied to
poems written in elegiac distichs (cf. e.g. Fantuzzi [1998a] 31 and, cautiously, Fantuzzi/
Hunter [2004] 193), but I am inclined to agree with Hollis (2006) 141 n. 2 who “resist[s] the
application of ‘epyllion’ to poems written in metres other than hexametric.” Cf. also the
contribution by Klooster in this volume.
93 On the moot point of the ideal length of an epigram, cf. section 3.2 (incl. n. 75).
94 Cf. the lengths of some of the extant Greek and Latin hexameter texts which are
traditionally categorised as epyllia: Bion of Smyrna, Adonis: 98 vv.; [Bion], Achilles & Dei-
dameia: 32 vv. (fragmentary); Catullus, c. 64: 408 vv.; Moschus, Europa: 166 vv.; Moschus,
Megara: 124 vv.; Musaeus, Hero & Leander: 343 vv.; Petronius, Satyricon 119–124: 294 vv.;
466 silvio bär
broadest sense (as opposed to a purely descriptive, or argumentative, text,

for example) is a third formal definition criterion.95 On the other hand,
all the other criteria—as established by, for example, Crump (1931)—are
to be seen as “soft” criteria. In other words: they may constitute, as Gutz-
willer puts it, “features which tend to occur in epyllia,”96 but we should
beware of turning them into “hard” criteria and of classifying texts strictly
according to them, which inevitably leads to circular arguments.97
4.2 Christodorus’ ἔκφρασις as a Narrative Text

It is evident that Christodorus’ ἔκφρασις does not meet the third of these
three criteria, as there is no story being told. However, we should, in my
opinion, beware of jumping to the conclusion that our text was purely
descriptive/ekphrastic; rather, I would like to argue that we can in fact see
several aspects where the ἔκφρασις displays (some sort of) narrativity:
1. The text is narrated in the past tense by a first-person-narrator98
who, occasionally, enters into a (pseudo-)dialogue with some of the stat-
ues described;99 thus, a concrete visit to the “museum” of the Zeuxippus
bath is evoked, which, according to Tissoni (2000), “dà al testo l’aspetto
Theocritus, Id. 13: 75 vv.; id., Id. 17: 137 vv.; id., Id. 24: 172 vv. (fragmentary); [id.], Id. 25: 281 vv.;
id., Id. 26: 38 vv.; Virgil, Georgica 4.281–588 (= Aristaeus Epyllion): 286 vv.; [id.], Ciris: 541
vv.; [id.], Moretum: 122 vv.; [id.], Culex: 414 vv. Further, note also the lengths of the texts
which are not commonly seen as epyllia, but discussed in this volume: Homer, Odyssey
8.266–369 (Hunter and Bierl): 104 vv.; [Hesiod], Aspis (Bing): 480 vv.; Hymn. hom. Ven.
(Baumbach): 293 vv.; Triphiodorus, ᾿Ιλίου ἅλωσις (Tomasso) 691 vv.—However, we must
not forget that some poems which (probably) ran over a thousand verses are also consid-
ered epyllia, such as Eratosthenes’ lost Hermes or Callimachus’ fragmentarily preserved
Hecale (cf. Fantuzzi/Hunter [2004] 191). In any case, even these “macro-epyllia” are con-
siderably shorter than an epic poem, which is what primarily counts for a broad generic
“demarcation upwards.”
95 Ditto, e.g., Mendell (1951) 206: “a short poem in hexameter verse which tells a story.”
This broad definition implicates the question of how to include (or exclude?) the narrative
hymns in this complex; cf. the contributions by Baumbach and Petrovic in this volume.
96 Gutzwiller (1981) 3 (my emphasis).
97 Cf. Vessey (1970) 43: “Poets in general do not write according to abstract rules, and it
is not for the philologist to assume the role of a literary Procrustes.”
98 V. 32 ὡς δὲ δοκεύω; v. 82 τέθηπα; v. 89 ὡς δοκέω δέ; v. 99 ἴδον; v. 117 ἠγασάμην; v. 123
ὡς γὰρ ὀίω; v. 125 ἐνόησα; v. 157 ὡς δοκέω δέ; v. 161 ὡς γὰρ ὀίω; v. 168 ἠγασάμην; v. 180 ὡς
δὲ δοκεύω; v. 179 ἐνόησα; v. 231 οὐ γὰρ ἐγὼ δεδάηκα; v. 266 εἶδον; v. 288 θάμβησα; v. 315 οὐ
γὰρ ἐγὼ κατὰ θυμὸν ὀίομαι; v. 336 ὡς δὲ δοκεύω; v. 377 οὐδ᾿Â€.Â€.Â€.Â€με παρέδραμε; v. 395 ἐγὼ δ᾿
᾿Αλκμᾶνα δοκεύω; v. 408 ὀίω.
99 Vv. 44–49 (Simonides); vv. 117–120 (Pericles); vv. 131–135 (Democritus); vv. 143–147
(Aeneas); vv. 175–188 (Hecabe); 197–208 (Polyxena); 256–258 (Isocrates).—Cf. Nesselrath
(2003) 324: “[D]en Realismus der Darstellung betont er [= Christodorus], indem er manche
Statuen wie lebende Personen anspricht.”
di una rievocazione della memoria,”100 and therefore gives it a narrative

framing which goes beyond the text’s seeming non-narrative function as
a mere “vademecum per gli ammirati visitatori.”101 Hence, the ἔκφρασις is
related to “our” epyllia much more closely than it may seem at first sight;
it bears a resemblance to ekphrastic (digressive) insets in epyllia such
as Europa’s basket (Mosch. Eur. 37–62), which are narrated in the past
tense also—for contextual reasons, as they are part of a larger narrative
frame—and which often resemble the description of a pictorial represen-
tation. In a wider context, we might even consider a text like Philostratus’
Eikones as a parallel—an ekphrasis in prose of 64 pictures in a gallery in
Naples; here again, the sequence of single little ekphraseis is kept together
by a loose narrative frame (by a first-person-narrator guiding a young boy
through the exhibition).102
2. Although the ἔκφρασις is not a narrative text, narrativity will be per-
ceived on a meta-level nonetheless, as various stories are “hidden” behind
each statue. Allusions to stories are explicitly read “into” the statues and
their appearance by the epic narrator, some are even briefly renarrated;
for example, at the very beginning of the ἔκφρασις (vv. 3–4), by the sight
of Deiphobus’ statue, the narrator feels reminded (and thus reminds his
readers) of the hero’s encounter with Menelaus in Troy.103 In so doing,
he directs the reader’s attention to Homeric epic poetry and the Trojan
War from the beginning. In addition to all these explicit allusions and
“micro-narratives,” we must not, of course, forget all the countless indi-
vidual associations which each reader will necessarily have according to
his own reading experience, when encountering all the statue descrip-
tions. Evidently enough, the ἔκφρασις does not turn into a narrative text
in the actual sense of the word because of this; however, by juxtaposing it
to its “epyllic sister texts,” the contours of its narrative potential become
more distinctive; the statics of the descriptio is enhanced by the dynamics
of the narratio.
100 Tissoni (2000) 57.

101 Tissoni (2000) 51. Waltz (1928) 54 n. 4 believed that the past tenses were an indi-
cation that the ἔκφρασις must have been written after the destruction of the Zeuxippus
during the Nika revolt in 532 AD (on which cf. above, section 1, with my n. 12). Kaldellis
(2007) 369 thinks that the past tense serves to evoque the text’s “epic and specifically
Homeric flavor.”
102 On Philostratus’ Eikones, cf. e.g. Noack-Hilgers (1999/2000), Leach (2000), Baumann
(2011).—Yet another parallel has been suggested to me by Martin Korenjak: the ekphrastic-
narrative structure in consideration is also (loosely) reminiscent of the shadows of the
dead as displayed in Odyssey 11 (Nekyia).
103 Cf. Od. 8.517–520; Verg. Aen. 6.494–534; Q.S. 13.354–373; cf. Tissoni (2000) 90–91.
468 silvio bär
3. One of the most striking characteristics of late antique epic, and of

Nonnos’ Dionysiaca in particular, is its episodic narrative, which can, by
and large, be seen as an inheritance from the Alexandrian poetic ideal,
as opposed to the classical Homeric model.104 Along similar lines, the
Nonnian narrative has been described as being composed of “pieces of
mosaic,”105 or as a “jeweled style”106—two metaphors by which the juxta-
position, the “paratactical arrangement”107 of the single narrative units, is
expressed.108 Hence, ekphraseis are no longer used as mere insets within
an overarching, continuous narrative frame (such as in the novel), but
narration is constructed by analogy to a decidedly ekphrastic manner of
descriptio; in fact, the “suggestive connection between the visual arts and
literature”109 becomes a dominant feature of the period of late antiquity,
and “[i]n both art and literature there is a tendency to fragmentation and
miniaturization of the compositional plane at the expense of the organic
conception of the whole.”110 When seen from this angle, Christodorus’
ἔκφρασις takes on a completely new shape: with the mosaic-like, succes-
sive juxtaposition of its single ekphrastic units that are framed by a loose
narrative structure (i.e., the first-person-narrator’s visit to the museum), it
perfectly fits in the orbit of late antique / Nonnian narrative;111 in fact, we
might even go so far as to describe the ἔκφρασις, from a structural point of
view, as a small-scale, “epyllic” variant of Nonnos’ big-scale epic narrative
which itself consists of a collection of various “epyllic” units.
104 D’Ippolito (1964) suggested that the Dionysiaca “be viewed as a sequence of epyl-
lion-style episodes, based around the central ‘epic’ section of the Indian War” (quote
[= summary of D’Ippolito’s thesis]: Shorrock [2001] 16); similarly, he described the Diony-
siaca as a “poema barocco” (D’Ippolito [1964] 52–57; but cf. already Friedländer [1912b] 43
and Keydell [1936] 911; this metaphor/analogy was criticised as inadequate by String [1966]
4, Fauth [1981] 12–13, and others).
105 Cf. e.g. Keydell (1936) 910, Vian (1976) 90, Braden (1974) 863, and Shorrock (2001)
17–19 (with n. 36 for further references).
106 Shorrock (2001) 19, adopting a term which was coined by Roberts (1989) with refer-
ence to late antique Latin literature.
107 Roberts (1989) 115.
108 Cf. also Abel-Wilmanns (1977) 211: “Die Dionysiaka bestehen aus einer Menge einzel-
ner, abgeschlossener, untereinander mäßig verbundener Erzählungen; weder Handlungen
noch Figuren noch Handlungszeiten und -orte formen miteinander echte Systeme. So stel-
len die Dionysiaka im Gesamt kein geschlossenes System dar, die Gesamterzählung bildet
keine einheitliche finale Handlung, deshalb auch keine semantische Einheit im Sinne einer
kohärenten Erzählung.”
109 Shorrock (2001) 18.
110 Roberts (1989) 97; similarly Cameron (1970) 272: “When the writer of ecphraseis
turned his hand to a more ambitious work, such as an epic, inevitably it tended to consist
of a series of ecphraseis.”
111 I deliberately avoid the problematic term “school of Nonnos”; cf. my n. 7.
Consequently, it might stand to reason to associate our text with other

narrative texts of similar length: with “our” epyllia. All in all, I would there-
fore argue that whereas an epyllion can be described as a short hexameter
narrative which often incorporates ekphrastic elements, Christodorus’
text is somehow composed “the other way round”; that is, a hexametric
ekphrasis of comparable length which—explicitly and implicitly—incor-
porates various short narrative elements and allusions and bears a striking
resemblance to the “ekphrastic” mode of narration which is a decidedly
late antique feature.
4.3 Christodorus’ ἔκφρασις and Nonnian ποικιλία

Kroll (1924) considered “generic hybridisation” (“Kreuzung der Gattun-
gen”) a predominant feature of Alexandrian poetry,112 and Gutzwiller
(1981) sees the emergence of the epyllic genre in Hellenistic literature
within this context: that is, in the period’s striving for literary diversity,
and originality: πολυείδεια, or ποικιλία.113 This characteristic, however, is
not restricted to Alexandrian poetry; in fact, it is also a dominant feature
of late antique / early Byzantine epic poetry in general, and of Nonnos’
Dionysiaca in particular.114 I have been trying to demonstrate that Christ-
odorus is striving for literary ποικιλία in the composition of his ἔκφρασις
along similar lines; for the sake of convenience, the main aspects may be
recapitulated here:
– the accentuation on Homeric παιδεία, strong references both to Homer
and Nonnos, and the staging of Homer as a Proteus-like figure (cf.
section 2);
– the superimposing of two different ekphrastic traditions, one which leads
back to the Homeric tradition in a direct way, and another which is firmly
rooted in the contemporary tradition of the autonomous ekphrastic genre
(cf. section 3.1);
– the fact that the text was later incorporated into the Anth. Gr., which
itself is a collection of literary miniatures the common feature of which
is ποικιλία (cf. section 3.2);
112 Kroll (1924) 202–224; cf. also Deubner (1921) 375–378.

113 Gutzwiller (1981) 8. Along similar lines is Hollis (2006) 141: “[T]he history of the epyl-
lionÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€is a history of strange transformations and combinations with a wide range of other
literary genres.” On the Callimachean term and concept of πολυείδεια, cf. Acosta-Hughes
(2002).
114 Cf. my n. 53.
470 silvio bär
– the closeness to the “ekphrastic” style of narration which is typical for

late antique epic narrative, and for Nonnos’ Dionysiaca in particular (cf.
section 4.2).
We should further remember that it is exactly around 500 AD, in the
Constantinople of the Byzantine emperor Anastasius I (491–518 AD), that
two other Greek epyllia emerge: Colluthus’ ῾Αρπάγη ῾Ελένης and Musaeus’
Hero and Leander;115 two texts which themselves clearly display both their
Hellenistic and their Nonnian “inheritance.” Again, ποικιλία is a dominant
feature of the literary scene of this period; cf. Jeffreys (2006) 137:
[A]t the turn of the fifth to the sixth century late Roman—or early Byz-
antine—literary culture could tolerate a wide range of tastes, styles and
attitudes;Â€.Â€.Â€.Â€writers could move between traditional genres and more inno-
vative ones;Â€.Â€.Â€.Â€poetry, according to context, could either look back to a Cal-
limachean epyllion (as did Colluthus) or across the plateia to an incense
redolent cathedral (for the hymns of Romanos).
When seen from this angle, Christodorus’ ἔκφρασις may again appear in
a new light: in a context where traditional literary forms are revitalised
but, at the same time, almost everything seems possible, the compara-
tively open form of small-scale epic seems to be predestined to act as a
“receptacle” for experiments in combining various genres and contents.
It therefore does not seem coincidental that Christodorus’ contemporary
Musaeus is the author of a short hexameter narrative which is today com-
monly regarded as an epyllion, but in fact bears a striking resemblance to
the ancient novel and defies any clear generic categorisation—so much so
that Bernhardy, in his Grundriss der griechischen Litteratur, not only con-
sidered Hero and Leander “the germ of the Byzantine novel at the cross-
roads between ancient and Middle Greek poetry,”116 but even thought of
it as some sort of “bouquet of epigrams” with affinities to the erotic elegy
and the ekphrastic genre117 rather than a coherent epic narrative. Unex-
115 Cf. the short survey by Hollis (2006) 154–156. On Christodorus and Colluthus, cf. Jef-
freys (2006). Cf. also Dümmler (this volume) on Musaeus. During Anastasius’ reign, Mari-
anus of Eleutheropolis wrote an iambic paraphrase of Callimachus’ Hecale (cf. Callim. test.
24 Pf.), which may also account for the popularity of the epyllic form at that time.
116 Bernhardy (31867) 405: “Dieses Gedicht steht gleichsam an dem Scheidewege zwi-
schen der alt- und mittelgriechischen PoesieÂ€.Â€.Â€.; in ihm ruht der Keim des Byzantinischen
Romans.” Cf. also Dümmler (this volume) on the idea of Hero and Leander as a (newly
invented) “hexameter novel.”
117 Bernhardy (31867) 404: “gehört er weniger in das Epos als in das Feld der beschreiben-
den Poesie, namentlich der erotischen ElegieÂ€.Â€.Â€.Â€Sein Epyllium gleicht einer ῎Εκφρασις,
einem dicht gewundenen Strauss von Epigrammen und Schilderungen.”
pressedly, he thus saw “generic hybridisation,” or ποικιλία, at the heart

of Musaeus’ literary technique. Mutatis mutandis, the same can be said
about Christodorus’ ἔκφρασις too.
Whether we call these short hexameter texts “epyllia” or not is, after
all, a matter of taste. What counts, however, is the fact that there seems
to have been some sort of revival of post-Nonnian short-scale hexameter
poetry around 500 AD in Constantinople, under the gargantuan influ-
ence of Nonnos’ Dionysiaca and his poetic concept of ποικιλία. As should
have become evident by now, there is no reason not to see Christodo-
rus’ ἔκφρασις in line with “our” epyllia; in fact, many of its facets become
articulate only by this juxtaposition.118
118 My heartfelt thanks go to all the participants of the Zurich Epyllion Conference,
especially to Manuel Baumbach and Nicola Dümmler, for their ideas and criticism, which
enabled me to significantly improve the quality of this paper, and to Kathy Courtney for
her most appreciated help with my English.
The Motif of the Rape of Europa: Intertextuality
and Absurdity of the Myth in Epyllion and Epic Insets
Peter Kuhlmann
1. Moschus
1.1 Contents
Moschus, a late Hellenistic poet and grammarian born in Syracuse, was
a contemporary of Aristarchus.1 Moschus is particularly famous for the
epyllion Europa consisting of 166 hexameters. Dealing with this unheroic
myth about a young girl’s strange love adventures,2 this epyllion came to
be the crucial model for further treatment of this subject, e.g. in an ode
of Horace (c. 3.27) and the Metamorphoses of Ovid (2.833–3.7), in Achilles
Tatius’ romantic novel (Leucippe and Clitophon 1.1), or Nonnus’ epic (Dio-
nysiaca 1.46–364). Moreover, this epyllion was probably also the structural
model for Catullus c. 64, which is regarded as an epyllion κατ’ ἐξοχὴν:3
both poems contain insets both mirroring and contrasting the first-level
main plot. In addition, there are obvious parallels in the narrative tech-
nique between Moschus and Catullus. These are very unlikely to be acci-
dental. Apart from the structure, there is especially the peculiar depiction
of the narrator, which in places creates an ironic narrative style. To this
extent, the epyllion about Europa, while almost never treated in philologi-
cal research, was a highly influential text within short epic literature in
antiquity itself.
The Europa poem treats the way Europa and Zeus develop a mutual
erotic attraction: first Aphrodite sends Europa a dream in which two
women—one called Asia and one with no name—appear and fight for
the girl. In her dream, Europa feels sexually attracted to the anonymous
woman and reflects on this experience after waking up. After a while, eager
for action, she walks to a meadow full of flowers close to the beach together
with her female companions. There, she gathers flowers in a metal basket
1 As explained in the Suda encyclopedia (s.v. Μόσχος).

2 On these aspects generally cf. Merriam (2001) 51–73.
3 Cf. Kroll (1923) 140–141; Friedländer (1912a) 16; Bühler (1960) 20–28; Trimble in this
volume, pp. 55–79.
474 peter kuhlmann
forged by Hephaestus which depicts the lot of her ancestor Io, who falls
prey to Hera’s jealousy, wanders across the Ionic Sea and Asia to Egypt
in the form of a heifer, and there gives birth to Epaphus. While the girls
are gathering flowers, Zeus appears, disguised as a white bull, and entices
the girls with gentleness, beauty, and the fragrance of ambrosia. Europa
caresses the bull, kisses it on the mouth, which is soaking with saliva,
and mounts its back. The bull jumps up, abducting Europa across the sea,
where dolphins, Nereïds, Poseidon, and Tritons merrily accompany the
wedding couple. A long time later, Europa asks the bull where he intends
to take her. Having mourned the loss of her home for a short while, she
finally utters that she is convinced the adventure will end well. In a short
response, Zeus reveals his true identity and announces their future love
union and the birth of famous sons. The poem ends with a remark by the
narrator that Zeus’ words came true and that Europa became “thereafter
straightway too a mother of children unto the son of Cronus.”4
1.2 Narrative Pattern
Because of its semantic structure, the myth of Europa, which is already
presented in Hesiod’s Catalogue of Women,5 can be regarded as more
or less belonging to a narrative pattern handed down since the Archaic
Period and called Mädchentragödie (“girl’s tragedy”) by Walter Burkert.6
In this pattern, a human girl leaves her home, meets a god and gets
pregnant by him. The word “tragedy,” however, does not properly fit here
because the predominant function of such myths originally was aetiologi-
cal in the broadest sense of the word. It was mainly about establishing a
genealogy of certain families. In this case, Europa becomes the mother
of Sarpedon, Minos and Rhadamanthys, which Moschus, however, leaves
unmentioned at the end of the text. But the word “tragedy” fits the char-
acteristics of this narrative scheme insofar as the human girls in the usual
versions of the myths, i.e. the texts that are available to us, are deceived,
taken by surprise, and raped by the male gods. A good example is Io,
who suffers greatly from being turned into a heifer and being pursued by
Hera. The serious and rather tragic character of this narrative scheme is
also expressed in the adaptations of this topic in tragedies. The Io topic is
treated in the tragedy Prometheus transmitted under the name of Aeschy-
4 Translation by Edmonds (21928) 441.

5 Hes. fr. 141 MW = fr. 56 Hirschberger ([2004] 115–116 and 308–312 with a commentary).
6 Burkert (1998) 91–92.
the motif of the rape of europa 475
lus, and the Europa topic can be found in fragments of Aeschylus’ tragedy
Κᾶρες.7
Today, Moschus’ version of the myth about Europa is regarded as
almost canonical, but there are some significant differences from earlier
versions. Generally speaking, the late Hellenistic epyllion lacks the serious
and tragic character of tragedies. Contrary to other heroines in a similar
situation, Europa even seems to voluntarily let herself be abducted and
impregnated by her divine admirer. Thus, Moschus runs counter to the
expectations based on the reader’s prior knowledge regarding a Mädchen-
tragödie. The plot structure is also different from that of the pre-texts: a
rationalization of the myth can be found in the tragedy fragments and in
Acusilaus’ work,8 i.e. Zeus does not turn himself into a bull, but uses a bull
to abduct Europa. After the seduction of the girl was successful, this bull
is put into the sky as a constellation. Moschus, however, refers back to the
archaic version transmitted by Hesiod, in which the god turns himself into
a bull. This intended choice of motif might have resulted in another little
surprise effect in contemporary reader response.
1.3 Structure and Narrative Mode

The characteristics of contents, structure and narrative mode in this poem
can also be found elsewhere in shorter poetical genres of Alexandrian-
Hellenistic literature—especially in Callimachus and Theocritus.9 Apart
from the obvious eroticizing, the many (in relation to the total scope of
the works) insets like dream, ekphrasis, and character’s speeches are par-
ticularly striking. These seem to relate to the main plot on the first level
of understanding, but run counter on a second level.
Furthermore, the systematical alternation of main plot and insets
causes correspondences which give the text as a whole a mirror-symmet-
rical structure. These reflections are analogous to the opposition of insets
and extradiegetic narration, i.e. the plot of the first level.10 In a simplified
manner, this can be presented as follows:
7 Fr. 99 Nauck2 = TrGF vol. 4, pp. 217–222 Radt (with introduction); mentioned again in
Euripides’ Phrixos (fr. 820 Nauck2 = fr. 820 TrGF vol. 5.2, p. 864 Kannicht).
8 Fr. 29 = FGrHist 29.
9 On this in general see Morrison (2007).
10 Cf. also Schmiel (1981) 261–266; Kuhlmann (2004) 279–281.
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1–5: Introduction (5 vv.), and 6–15: Europa’s dream (10 vv.)

16–27: Europa’s monologue: initially afraid (12 vv.)
28–36: Europa and companions in the meadow full of flowers (9 vv.)
37–62: Ekphrasis of the basket: Io on the sea as a heifer (26 vv.)
63–71: picking flowers and catalogue of flowers (9 vv.)
72–88: Zeus in love and transforming himself (17 vv.)
----------------------- mirror axis ---------------------------
89–100: Zeus and Europa with increasing erotic attraction (12 vv.)
101–107: Europa’s joy (7 vv.)
108–134: authorial “ekphrasis”: Europa taken away by the bull (27 vv.)
135–152: Europa’s words to Zeus (18 vv.)
153–161 Zeus’ response: Europa need not be afraid (9 vv.)
162–166 End (5 vv.)
Chart 1 Structure of Moschus’ Europa
The correspondences of the two almost equally long ekphrasis-like descrip-

tions11 (vv. 37–62 // vv. 108–134) and the correspondence of Europa’s
monologue (vv. 16–27) and Zeus’ speech (vv. 153–161) regarding subject
matter are particularly striking. The motif of both corresponding and con-
trasting reflection12 can be observed in the ekphrasis of the basket and the
description of Europa’s riding the bull.13 In both cases, one of the two lov-
ers is a piece of cattle, in the first case the girl, in the second case Zeus. In
both cases, a journey across the sea leads to a sexual encounter. Yet Io is
an unhappy, driven person, who fits well into the narrative pattern of the
Mädchentragödie, whereas Europa seems to act voluntarily. Of course, the
ekphrasis of the basket gives the reader a hint at what will happen later in
the text, particularly because through Epaphus, Libye, and Telephasse Io
is Europa’s great-great-grandmother. The narrator reveals the genealogical
connection between the two women at least in part before the ekphrasis
proper (vv. 39–42)—but only from Libye on so that the reader does not
get the really essential piece of information, namely the direct descent of
Europa from Io. Thus the genealogy as it is presented in the text remains
without function. But, of course, the reader knows this genealogical con-
11 The description of Europa on the bull seems like the ekphrasis of a picture. Regard-
ing such pictorial representations of Europa on Attic vase-paintings since classical times
cf. Webster (1964) 154–155.
12 This is some kind of mise-en-abyme; cf. Dällenbach (1989), regarding the definition
esp. 36.
13 Regarding the differences between Io and Europa cf. also Merriam (2001) 68–70.
nection and so observes the necessity to complete gaps of information in

order to (re-)construct the logical coherence of the text.
While this clear formal structure is present at the surface of the text,
the text contains a number of non-explicit intertextual allusions often
undermining the alleged narrative strategy of the narrator and only recog-
nizable for a reader with sufficient background knowledge. For example,
this applies to the setting of the first part of the text, which obviously
relates to Nausicaa’s dream and her encounter in Book ζ of the Odyssey.14
There, a goddess as well—here, however, Athena—sends a dream to prin-
cess Nausicaa, foreshadowing an encounter with a potential marriage or
sexual partner. Yet in the Odyssey nothing more follows than proleptic
allusions, which certainly is foreshadowed by the activation of Athena, a
virgin. Replacing Athena by Aphrodite, Moschus turns this setting into an
erotic one from the beginning.
For the dream itself, there is a pre-text not pertaining to the genre
which becomes clear for the reader through the wording of the relevant
passages. It is Atossa’s dream in Aeschylus’ Persae (vv. 181–199). In the
passage, Asia and Europe are personified as two women whom Atossa’s
son, the Persian great king Xerxes, wants to subjugate. In analogy to this,
Europa dreams of two women fighting for her; one of the two is called
Asia, whereas the opposite continent has to be left unnamed, of course.
Making use of synonyms, Aeschylus imitates the wording semantically
rather exactly in the epyllion:
Aesch. Pers. 181 & 188–189: Mosch. Eur. 8–9:

ἐδοξάτην μοι δύο γυναῖκ’ εὐείμονε, ὠίσατ’ ἠπείρους δοιὰς περὶ εἷο μάχεσθαι,
. . . ᾿Ασίδα τ’ ἀντιπέρην τε· φυὴν δ’ ἔχον οἷα
τούτω στάσιν τιν,’ ὡς ἐγὼ ’δόκουν ὁρᾶν, γυναῖκες.
τεύχειν ἐν ἀλλήλῃσι.
I dreamed that two women in fair vesture She dreamt that two lands near and
. . . far strove with one another for the
the twain to my fancy, seemed to provoke possession of her. Their guise was the
each other to a mutual feud.15 guise of women.16
Chart 2 Europa and Aeschylus’ Persae
14 Cf. Merriam (2001) 54–56.

15 Translation by Smyth (1973) 123, 125.
16 Translations of Moschus by Edmonds (21928) 429.
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But the dark context of Aeschylus is turned erotic here, too, because Europa
feels attracted to the unnamed woman even sexually. Regarding the form, the
change of narrative mode and narrative voice is particularly striking: while
Aeschylus makes Atossa speak directly in his tragedy, of course, in Moschus’
text the extradiegetic narrator narrates Europa’s dream. A reader familiar with
Aeschylus realizes a clear discrepancy between the evoked dark pre-text and
the erotic plot of the epyllion itself: something is not right here. The fact that
the primary level of the plot and the pre-texts, which the educated reader
thinks of, run counter to each other becomes clear already at this point.
The motif of the ekphrasis of the basket as such is inappropiate in sev-
eral ways: the ekphrasis of the shield in Book Σ of the Iliad is relevant,
i.e. the description of a weapon whose ekphrasis presentation strongly
contrasts with the extradiegetic plot.17 Here, the weapon is turned into
something erotic because Europa uses the basket for the roses she has
picked—that is, the flowers of love (vv. 69–71). On the other hand, the
symbolism of love does not properly fit Io’s tragic destiny depicted on the
basket itself—at least from the heroine’s perspective.
Similar incongruences can be found in the scene of the girls picking
flowers (vv. 65–71). It alludes both through the setting as well as the kinds
of flowers mentioned (violets, narcissi, hyacinths, crocuses, roses) to the
beginning of the Homeric hymn to Demeter (Hymn. Hom. Cer. 1–21). There,
the violent abduction of Persephone by Zeus’ brother Hades is described,
with Persephone picking the same flowers as Europa. So this again is a
typical specimen of a Mädchentragödie. But Moschus has not retained
anything of the violence and seriousness of the pre-text. Here, everything
has been turned into loveliness and eroticism. There is another almost word-
for-word allusion to the Demeter hymn as early as in Europa’s dream:
Hymn. Hom. Cer. 19–20: Mosch. Eur. 13–15 (dream):

ἁρπάξας δ’ ἀέκουσαν ἐπὶ χρυσέοισιν ὄχοισιν ἡ δ’ ἑτέρη κρατερῇσι βιωομένη παλάμῃσιν
ἦγ’ ὀλοφυρομένην. εἴρυεν οὐκ ἀέκουσαν.
Seizing her by force, he [Hades] began to But the outland woman laid violent
drive her off on his golden chariot, with hands upon her and haled her away;
her wailing and screaming.18 nor went she altogether unwilling.19
Chart 3 Europa and the Homeric hymn to Demeter
17 Regarding the form of the ekphrasis and the connections of the motif with the
Homeric description of the shield cf. Manakidou (1993) 174–186.
18 Translation by West (2003a) 33.
Through these parallel yet contrasting passages, the reader understands

the discrepancy between the narrative pattern of a girl raped by a god
and Moschus’ account of Europa: Europa behaves completely different
from what somebody who is familiar with the usual representation of rape
myths would expect, whereas little Persephone acts within the framework
of mythical conventions. She also cries, as one should expect from a psy-
chological point of view, for her mother Demeter, who herself desper-
ately seeks her lost daughter. There is no hint of such a family tragedy in
Moschus’ text. The lovely atmosphere remains untainted at first.
With great pleasure, the narrator describes the lovely girls in the
meadow full of flowers, the erotic thrill of the moment when sassy Europa
and the bull, which smells of ambrosia, get closer to each other. All this
culminates in Europa’s kissing the bull, which is already producing a
lot of saliva—to the reader a clear signal of Zeus’ sexual desire. Europa,
however, who in her dream already felt a homosexual desire unusual in
ancient literature, does not reject the lecherous bull at all.
This reminds the reader of a similar story—the love relationship
between Europa’s daughter-in-law Pasiphaë and a real bull, which even
leads to sexual intercourse of woman and animal. Through the descrip-
tion of the cheerful crowd of sea deities as spectators, the abduction of
Europa and her ride across the sea seems like an idyllic painting, too.
In her speech (vv. 135–152), Europa herself displays a completely differ-
ent reaction than Persephone: she does not have any fear of the conse-
quences of her abduction, but is only worried that her robe might get wet
(vv. 127–128).20 Only after complicated reflection upon the potential
nature of the obviously divine bull, she utters a short regret that she has
left her father’s house and has followed the bull.
1.4 The Incompetent Narrator21

The incongruences and oppositions found in the text are based on the
narrator’s idiosyncratic narrative mode. Moschus uses an incompetent

21 The concept of the “incompetent” narrator follows Wayne Booth’s concept of the
“unreliable” narrator; cf. Booth (1961) 60–70. “Incompetent” does not necessarily mean
that the narrator presents the narration as such illogically or incorrectly (like in Booth),
but rather refers to his seemingly absent-minded narrative mode and his lack of judge-
ment; this is typical especially of the homodiegetic narrators in the novels of Petronius and
Apuleius. To a certain extent, Booth’s concept fits for the narrator of Ovid’s Fasti, who is
not able to supply reliable information on cult and etymology; sometimes his stories even
contradict each other (e.g. the inconsistent and contradictory character of Romulus). Cf.
also Martinez/Scheffel (2009) 101–103, who talk about a “theoretically unreliable narrator”
in this context (in contrast to a “mimetically unreliable narrator”).
480 peter kuhlmann
narrator to ironize the myth. Based on the narrative mode, it is possible

to determine a clear profile of this narrator, and consequently also a pro-
file of the narratee, with whom the real or at least intended reader of the
epyllion can be compared in order to approach the question of the inten-
tion of the text.
The narrator characterizes his taking pleasure in lush descriptions with
a striking tendency to be redundant. He is particularly interested in the
narrated action and the characters involved—especially in Europa. This
he shows with the many ornating and positive adjectives: Europa’s dream
is “sweet” (v. 1 γλυκὺν . . . ὄνειρον), the virgin’s sleep is “honey-sweet,” and
the whole scene is delightful. This, however, in the eyes of the real reader
does not go well with the evoked dream of Atossa from Aeschylus’ Persae.
The narrator also describes Europa’s female companions, whom she “was
wont to play with, whether there were dancing afoot . . . or the cropping
of odorous lily-flowers in the mead,” with superfluous adjectives: they are
“the maidens she delighted in” and even “of high degree” (28–29: φίλας δ’
ἐπεδίζεθ’ ἑταίρας / ἥλικας οἰέτεας θυμήρεας εὐπατερείας). Even the basket
is regarded as wonderful by the narrator as is repeated three times in a
pleonastic manner: “an admirable thing, a great marvel, a great work of
Hephaestus.” But here the reader may become suspicious because only
6½ out of 26 verses of the description of the basket (only one fourth) deal
with the story of Io, which starts no earlier than after eight lines. The nar-
rator seems to find the seemingly unimportant things that go with it more
important than this story: there are even five lines for the description of
the decoration on the rim (the transformation of Io’s watcher Argus into
a peacock), and four verses for the detailed genealogy of Europa; all the
rest he uses for the meticulously precise depiction of the material, the
description of which is linked linguistically so much to the Io plot that it
in places disturbs the reception process. Io’s lot is obviously only a minor
matter for the narrator; he does not realize that her experiences might
have something to do with the rest of the narration.
In the middle of the text, the narrator wants to describe the beauty of
the Zeus bull (80sqq.): in this context, he also mentions the reason for his
transformation: the form of an animal was taken on “to escape the jeal-
ous Hera’s wrath and beguile the maiden’s gentle heart” (77–78).22 The
narrator’s obvious sympathetic standpoint is continued in the forced apol-
ogetic description of this wonderful Zeus bull ex negativo: the Â�narrator

thoroughly reports in ten verses that the bull is not a usual piece of cattle
from a stable, and not a bull that would have to pull a plough or that
ploughs through the fields, nor one that is put under a yoke (ὑποδμηθεὶς)
and pulls heavy wagons—as though the narrator had to defend the bull
against such criticism. This was indeed necessary, as the satirical and
humoristic depictions particularly of this one of Zeus’ roles show, e.g. in
Moschus’ epigram 4 (v. 8), in Meleager, Lucian (dial. mar. 15; philopatr. 4),23
or Nonnus (Dion. 1.325–346): there, the Zeus bull is warned to be careful
not to be put under a yoke by a farmer by mistake and used for work in
the fields. The Greek expression οὐδὲ . . . ὑποδμηθεὶς (“nor draweth in har-
ness the laden wagon,” v. 83) must seem weird to a native speaker anyway
because the narrator calls Zeus’ ἀνωίστοισιν ὑποδμηθεὶς βελέεσσι / Κύπριδος
(“brought low of a sudden shaft of the Cyprian”) only eight verses earlier.
It has to be added that the form ὑποδμηθεῖσα in all other Greek literature
is always used as the feminine participle and even as a technical term for
heroines raped by a god.24
Generally speaking, the narrator takes a sympathetic-naive position—
regarding both Europa and avid Zeus in love. When narrating, the gar-
rulous narrator time and again is amazed himself at all the beauty of
the things narrated, especially of minor details. The most striking facts,
namely a girl’s love for a bull and her kissing the animal on the wet mouth,
for example, is presented as totally natural in an affectionate way.
Consequently, such a narrator addresses a narratee who (a) regards
this kind of presentation of a myth with the extraordinary love between
a bull and a girl as normal and who (b) does not notice nor know the
discrepancy between the narrated text surface and the connotations (Io,
Persephone etc.) based on the intertextual allusions—a discrepancy that
is in a similar manner also typical of the epic parody Batrachomyomachia
with its elevated style of narrative contrasting with a grotesquely unepic
story.
Obviously, there is a discrepancy between the narratee and the
intended reader, who can be assumed in late Hellenistic times and for
whom the pre-texts mentioned above are inevitably connoted or evoked.
This leads to a different impression of the text and its contents than the
one suggested by the narrator: the way of narrating is altogether ironical.
23 By the way, Lucian refers to Europa—obviously following Moschus’ description—as

a πορνίδιον (“whore”).
24 Hymn. Hom. 17.4; Hes. Theog. 327; 374; 962; Scut. 53; fr. 23a.35; fr. 25.18; fr. 64.16;
fr.Â€177.6; fr.Â€195.53; Nicand. fr. 108.2; Parthen. EP 34.2.
482 peter kuhlmann
In this context, Europa’s function as a narrative character is particularly

interesting. Although she seems grotesque in her behavior and as naive as
the narrator the entire time, she sees through the god’s deception when
talking to Zeus and describes the whole action correctly as an adynaton
(vv. 141–145). So the judgement of a character is at least in part more trust-
worthy than the narrator’s. It is important to note that this peculiar nar-
rative mode is different from the one in the archaic-classical (long) epic.
There, the extradiegetic narrator is a reliable and competent authority,
whereas some characters can produce wrong or problematic interpreta-
tions of the action.25 Another function of the intradiegetic narrator in
Homer is to report events which are located chronologically before the
main plot. This can be observed in particular in Odysseus’ apologues in
the Odyssey.
Thus extradiegetic narration and insets give complementary informa-
tion concerning the plot. Here, the ekphrasis has a similar function, yet
without the narrator’s knowledge. The characters’ speech, however, is
used for the interpretation and also the ironizing of the main plot.26
This is also the case in Catullus c. 64: There—in the narrator’s point of
view—the blanket (52–264) has a decorative function, although it mir-
rors the narration itself; the characters’ speech in the form of a song of
the Parcae (323–381), which as a whole is grotesque, however, serves as a
means of interpretation of the action and the narrator’s judgement from
a different perspective.27
2. Ovid’s Metamorphoses
The myth of Europa is also taken up by Ovid in his Metamorphoses: there,

the short passage about the rape of Europa forms a special inset in itself,
which could also be taken out of the context as a single poem. Ovid does
not elaborate on the prehistory of the characters’ increasing attraction to
one another from Europa’s perspective, which is already presented in detail
by Moschus, but confines himself to a condensed presentation. Instead, a
25 In the Iliad these would be e.g. Thersites, Agamemnon, Paris, etc.; in the Odyssey
Penelope, Polyphemus or the suitor Antinoos.
26 Gutzwiller (1981) 66 talks about the “humorous quality” of the description. On the
“polyphony” of frame narrative and insets in general see Goldhill (1986).
27 Cf. Bartels (2004) 56–59.
great narrative closeness to Jupiter can be found here, whose transforma-

tion, beauty, and frame of mind are the main focus of the Â�passage.
All in all, one would be quite right to call the Metamorphoses a series
of many single epyllion-like narratives. Moreover, the whole work as such
could be called an epyllion in some respect because, although the Meta-
morphoses formally are an epic, they as a whole have characteristics usu-
ally typical of an epyllion, e.g. the presentation of long periods of time in
a small space, the uneven narrative mode, the garrulous narrator and the
narrator’s closeness to his characters.28
In the context of the Europa passage, the Ovidian narrator even seems
to be absent-minded.29 He is not capable of reasonably connecting this
narration to the preceding and the following passages. The thematic tran-
sitions in the Metamorphoses are strikingly abrupt anyway, yet the myth
of Europa seems to be particularly isolated even within the context of
what is usual here. The narrator tries to start the passage with Mercury,
who wants to leave Athens after the punishment of Cecrops’ daughter
Aglaulus and surprisingly is called by Jupiter. Without telling him the rea-
son, Jupiter commands him to drive the royal herd of cattle to the beach
in Tyre. At least the narrator mentions Jupiter’s being in love (2.836: nec
causam fassus amoris, “not revealing his love affair as the real reason”),30
but this piece of information at first remains valueless. Europa’s name is
not mentioned anywhere in the passage anyway. The real reader can real-
ize which girl Jupiter has fallen in love with only gradually through the
place names and the development of the well-known narrative pattern.
The end of the Europa passage is connected by the narrator as the tran-
sition to the Cadmus plot: Abruptly, the piece of information follows that
“the maiden’s father . . . bids his son, Cadmus, go and search for the lost
girl” (3.3–4 pater . . . Cadmo perquirere raptam / imperat). Here, the reader
does have to know the genealogical context in order to be able to under-
stand this transition. Cadmus’ experiences follow, while Europa does not
play any further role nor is she mentioned again. But the myth reappears
again much later in the context of Arachne competing with Minerva in
the craft of weaving (6.98–107). The narrator describes the woven picture,
which depicts the rape of Europa by Jupiter, in the form of ekphrasis.
28 Cf. Bartels (2004) 216–219.

29 Regarding the differentiation of extradiegetic narrator and real author in Ovid’s
Metamorphoses cf. Rosati (2002) 273–275 and 282–283; Wheeler (1999) 73–74. In contrast,
Solodow (1988) 38–39 identifies the narrator’s voice with the voice of the author Ovid.
30 Translations of Ovid by Miller (1994) 119.
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Changing the medium from narration to ekphrasis of a picture obviously

corresponds to the description of the basket in Moschus. Describing a
series of seduction stories of the pattern of the Mädchentragödie in her
weaving, Arachne annoys Minerva: an inset that—like Europa’s basket—
helps the reader interpret the text indepedently from the narrator. The
Ovidian narrator becomes indignant about Arachne’s supposedly impu-
dent description the same way Minerva does. He calls the descriptions
caelestia crimina (“heavenly crimes,” 6.131), the presentation of which
would have to be punished rightly by Minerva. Yet the narrator seems
to have forgotten at this point that he himself talked about this myth in
even more detail himself.31 Arachne, however, as the producer of a textus
(“fabric; text”), parallels the real author himself.32 The theme of her textus,
the erotic escapades of a god, correspond to the plot of the Metamorpho-
ses to a large extent.
The Europa narration seems to remain without function within the
overall narration; in the logic of the narration it is as redundant within
the framework of the Metamorphoses as are the many short insets and
details within Moschus’ epyllion. The narrative flow is only associative
here: in connection with Mercury, the narrator remembers Jupiter, who
himself is in love with Europa, and this reminds the narrator of the stories
of Cadmus and other descendants of Agenor. Even more than in Moschus,
the narrative mode in Ovid confuses the reader. Its real function as an
element for the interpretation of the erotic escapades of the gods and for
the narrator’s (un)reliability does not become clear until later in a seem-
ingly completely different context (Book 6), namely in the Arachne inset.
This shows that passages in Ovid that seem to be disconnected regarding
the contents offer valuable hints for the clarification of various narrating
instances of the entire text on a meta-level.
Even in the more detailed Europa narration in Books 2 and 3, the Ovid-
ian narrator proves himself to be confusing or even unreliable. At the
beginning of the narration proper, for example, he invents—contrary to
the literary tradition—Agenor’s herd of cattle, which Mercury is told to
drive to the beach and which is without function on the surface of the
text. The reader can only guess what function the cattle could have. At first
sight they just seem to be a simple means of keeping Mercury occupied—
he has to be sent to Tyre for whatever reason so that the narrator can
31 Cf. Kuhlmann (2007) 326–327.

32 Cf. Feeney (1991) 191–194; Rosati (2002) 296–301; Eigler (2005) 118–119 and 121.
move from Aglaulus to Europa. But then the connection is rather absurd.
Another reason could be Jupiter’s vanity, who—after turning himself into
a bull—wants to stand out against the other royal cattle. For the reader,
there is space left for speculation in the text. But this invention of the
narrator is implausible because a herd of cattle on the loose, particularly
bulls, would be a mortal danger for a group of young girls like Europa in
real life, which the narrator also mentions indirectly in v. 859.33 Taking
this fantastic narrative seriously, one would have to assume that Europa
would hardly have approached the beach, and therefore Jupiter would not
have been able to abduct her across the sea so easily.
Another point worthy of mention is the narrator’s remark non bene con-
veniunt nec in una sede morantur / maiestas et amor (“majesty and love do
not go well together, nor tarry long in the same dwelling-place,” 2.846–847).
Uttering this opinion, the narrator obviously wants to explain why Jupiter
has turned himself into a bull and does not approach Europa as the father
of gods. This explanation is the narrator’s invention because in earlier ver-
sions Jupiter transforms himself just because he wants to deceive his wife
Juno (and Europa). This the narrator even admits himself indirectly at the
beginning of the next Book: iamque deus posita fallacis imagine tauri (“and
now the god, having put off disguise of the bull, . . .” 3.1). In the Arachne
piece of weaving, however, the “correct” interpretation in the sense of the
traditional myth is presented explicitly because there—contradictory to
the narrator in Book 2—it says that “Europa [was] cheated by the dis-
guise of the bull” (elusam . . . imagine tauri / Europam, 6.103–104). So the
narrator’s interpretation based on the opposition of majesty and being
in love in Book 2 does not make any sense, especially because the bull
is described as particularly majestic within the herd of cattle. After all, a
bull in love with a girl is doubtlessly even more grotesque than a majestic
god who is in love.
3. Nonnus’ Dionysiaca
Nonnus, an epic poet of late classical antiquity, also deals with the myth of
Europa in his gigantic epic Dionysiaca. The structure and narrative mode
of the text share many similarities with Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Â�Different
33 Quod tam formosus, quod proelia nulla minetur. “<Agenor’s daughter looked at him in
wondering admiration> because he was so beautiful and friendly.”—Sc.: which is unusual
for bulls.
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from Ovid’s epic, however, Nonnus’ work seems to have an overall topic
which binds together the whole text, namely Dionysus’ campaign against
the Indians. Yet the structure disintegrates into many loosely connected
plotlines and epyllion-like passages, the logical coherence of which is
often difficult for the reader to perceive.34 At the beginning of the text,
the special narrative mode is mirrored in the character of Proteus, whose
volatile changeability is compared directly to the narration by the narra-
tor (1.14–15):
στήσατέ μοι Πρωτῆα πολύτροπον, ὄφρα φανείη
ποικίλον εἶδος ἔχων, ὅτι ποικίλον ὕμνον ἀράσσω.
Bring me Proteus of many turns, that he may appear
in all the diversity of shapes, since I twang my harp to a diversity of
songs.35
This god’s irrational unforeseeability and unlimited changeability indeed
correspond to the narrative mode of the entire epic, in which topics and
passages change and “transform” in a way incomprehensible for the reader
and even more obviously than in Ovid. Further narrative characteristics
also known from the Metamorphoses like the eroticizing of the plot, the
narrator’s closeness to characters, incongruences in the narrative mode,
or the garrulous narrator are congruent with the characteristics of the
epyllion.
The myth of Europa comes up relatively early in the text and fills a large
part of the first Book. The narratively separated inset, however, is divided
into two parts. The kind of transition to this passage reminds the reader
of the Ovidian abruptness of connection. Originally, the narrator wants to
“begin with the long search and travels of Cadmus” (1.45), but right in the
next verse he suddenly continues with Zeus’ being in love. The fact that
the object of his affection is Europa is mentioned by the narrator not ear-
lier than six verses later. The Europa plot is continued until the ride across
the sea (1.136), then suddenly changes back to Cadmus and from there
to a completely different—obviously simultaneous—plot: in the land of
the Arimers, Typhon had stolen Zeus lightnings while Zeus was making
love to Pluto. Cadmus wanders this region by chance, which causes the
narrator to start this third plotline. He reports in great detail how Typhon
plots an uprising against Zeus and thus messes up the whole cosmos. Yet
34 For a general discussion of this loose narrative coherence cf. Abel-Wilmanns (1977).
35 Translations of Nonnus’ Dionysiaca by Rouse (1940) 3.
this plotline is suddenly interrupted by the short mentioning of the fact

that Cadmus is still searching (1.321), and then abruptly moves on to the
couple Zeus/Europa arriving in Crete in the meantime. Surprisingly for
the reader, the two obviously are not yet aware of the cosmic catastrophe
caused by Typhon. The Europa plot goes on until the Zeus bull is turned
into a constellation (1.361), and then the plotlines Cadmus-Typhon-Zeus
are brought together. The narrator acts awkwardly insofar as he does not
mention anywhere whom Cadmus is seeking and what relationship there
is between Cadmus and Europa—the reader has to work out all this for
himself. After the inset, Europa is not mentioned any more—like in Ovid.
Like in the Metamorphoses, it is almost impossible to embody this passage
functionally into the whole work: on the one hand it is one of many seduc-
tion stories mentioned in the work, and it is the first specimen within
this catalogue of girls with others (Persephone, Semele, etc.) following; in
the logic of the narration, on the other hand, it gives Cadmus the reason
for wandering around, which leads to the accidental encounter with Zeus
(1.365), whom he can help get the lightnings back from Typhon. So one
action does not follow logically from another like in Homer, but chance
and coincidence prevail.
Focusing thematically, Nonnus like Ovid avoids too many redundant
repetitions of aspects of the pre-texts. Although he takes up some motifs
introduced mainly by Moschus and Achilles Tatius, the focus is on expli-
cating aspects his predecessors mention only in passing or not at all. In
contrast to Ovid and to a greater extent than Moschus, Nonnus works
with insets in the form of characters’ speeches overwhelming the extradi-
egetic plot.36 The abduction, which is sufficiently known from Moschus
and Ovid, is narrated briefly in ten verses. Afterwards, the narrator reports
in detail the reactions of the divine spectators, who are mentioned also in
Moschus, and who—unlike in earlier versions—are watching the couple’s
ride across the sea in amazement (1.60–190).
It is new that Athena is present, too, whom the narrator explicitly calls
a “maiden” and says that “shame purpled the maiden cheek” (1.83–85),
whereas Boreas uses his abilities as a wind (god) “and in secret jealousy,
whistled on the pair of unripe breasts” (1.71). These reactions underscore
the eroticizing of the plot and make the narration somewhat voyeuristic.
This voyeuristic element typical of Nonnus reappears at the end of the
36 Regarding a similar method in Ovid’s Metamorphoses and the resulting competition

of narrating instances cf. Barchiesi (2002).
488 peter kuhlmann
passage when Europa is deflowered, which the narrator—unlike in the

other texts—describes with pleasure and in great detail (1.345–351).37
While the narrator himself presents the description he narrates as if it
were the most natural thing in the world, and obviously rejoices together
with Boreas and Zeus at the successful abduction and Europa’s erotic
charisma, another spectator mentioned by the narrator himself is even
more astonished than the divine audience: a Greek seaman, who happens
to pass by, describes the event again from his human point of view in
a character’s speech (1.93–124).38 Here, Nonnus falls back on the motif
of the adynata already mentioned in Moschus’ Europa speech. These are
dealt with in great detail here (1.95–115). The Greek man is surprised in
particular—and with justification—that a bull falls in love with a human
girl and abducts her (1.118–119). But Europa herself, too, is surprised at
how unnaturally love-crazed the animal is (1.132), and wants to entrust
herself to the care of Boreas. But he, as the reader knows, is as much in
love as Zeus. Yet Europa also senses it, and therefore retracts her cry for
help (1.136). Finally, the narrator mentions Hera as the last spectator of the
scene and quotes her bitter-ironic reaction to her husband’s action word
for word (1.326–343). She warns him of the dangers that could harm him,
while he has the form of a bull: a farmer could abuse him for ploughing,
or a cattle thief could even steal him. These remarks are striking in the
context of the Europa narrative pattern; they make clear for the reader
that Hera sees through the transformation, i.e. Zeus’ deception has failed
at least with his wife. But according to what the narrator says in Moschus
(v. 77), one of the motives for the transformation was to conceal the seduc-
tion of Europa from Hera as well. Thus, in Nonnus the transformation
remains without function, especially because its purpose is not explained
by the narrator anywhere in the Europa passage.
Regarding the logic of the narration, however, the strangest pas-
sage is the ending of the Europa story. There, the transformation of the
“bridegroom Bull of Olympus” (1.355) into a constellation is described,
although—according to the narration—Zeus himself was the bull and
had transformed himself back for the sexual intercourse. So actually—
according to general logic—this bull no longer exists. Here, Nonnus refers
to the aforementioned versions of the myth of Europa in Aeschylus and
Acusilaus, in which myths are rationalized. There, Zeus did not transform
37 See Kuhlmann (1999) 399.

38 Cf. Kuhlmann (1999) 396–397.
himself, but used an already existing bull in order to abduct Europa with
its help. Nonnus, however, uses this version in order to create an inten-
tional incongruence in the narrator’s description. His narration not only
contains many peculiarities regarding the technique of intratextual con-
nections and the interpretation of the action, but is also logically incon-
sistent in places.
So all in all, Nonnus further develops the elements already to be found
in Moschus’ epyllion and Ovid’s Metamorphoses, like the abandonment of
a stringent narrative mode in favor of an opposition of insets and extradi-
egetic narration. The beginning of the mutual erotic attraction of Zeus
and Europa is no longer the focus. Rather, the narration centers on the
eroticizing of the plot and the reflecting upon its monstrosity from vari-
ous points of view. Thus the various voices result in a multiperspectivity
of the interpretation of the action, which makes the reader realize how
grotesque the plot itself is. Based on this, several narratees of the different
diegetic levels can be postulated: the narrator addresses a voyeuristic nar-
ratee who is not surprised at the fantastic atmosphere and the lack of logic
of the narration, but enjoys the erotic thrill of the description. The char-
acters’ speeches actually spoken into the void39 partially address the real
reader of the work itself because they at least reflect upon the monstrosity
and comment on it. That is why in Nonnus, the characters’ speeches could
easily be removed from the overall context without changing the course of
the action. They are not part of the action, but stand aside from it. Nobody
responds to the characters’ speeches, and they are obviously not even per-
ceived by the other characters. Thus, even the individual Europa passage
disintegrates into further disconnected elements. This, too, is rather dif-
ferent from the narrative mode of the traditional epic (Homer), where
characters’ speech and extradiegetic action are closely interrelated.
4. Conclusion
It can be concluded that the myth of Europa in the surviving detailed

descriptions is always presented contrary to the traditional narrative
scheme about a girl raped and impregnated by a god against her will.
Obviously, the character, Europa’s curiosity and her unusual love of ani-
mals attracted the classical authors and prompted them to produce Â�epyllia
39 On this see Krafft (1975); Kuhlmann (1999) 398.

490 peter kuhlmann
or epyllion-like insets. In spite of the different genres and epochs in which

the subject is dealt with, there are both intertextual allusions on the level
of motifs and a narratological intertextuality; that is, typical narratological
similarities can be found, which are also regarded as typical characteris-
tics of the narrative mode of Hellenistic epyllia such as Theocritus’ Hylas
(Id. 13) with its naive narrator or the Heracliscus (Id. 24) with the Â�narrator’s
inadequate preference for unimportant details:40 the various authors allot
their respective narrators a very striking role which can be described
very well with the concept of the “incompetent” or “unreliable” narrator.
The narrative mode is characterized by an opposition of the insufficient
knowledge and ability of the narrator on the one hand and the reader’s
deeper knowledge produced by insets on the other hand. In all cases,
the curiosity of the myth corresponds with the curiosity of the narrative
mode, which through its many logical faults and irrationalities causes the
reader to almost look for inconsistencies. Paradoxically, Nonnus’ gigantic
epic represents both qualitatively and quantitatively the climax and end
of this narrative mode, which can be traced back to the Hellenistic poet-
ics of the short epic. Generally speaking, these poetic works seem like
parodies of the omniscient narrator well-known from the epic: in all three
authors dealt with here, the narrators present themselves as omniscient,
but fail to realize that their own narration undermines this omniscience
for the reader.
40 On the ironising of the narrator in Theocritus see Morrison (2007) 268–270; on a
similar technique in Callimachus see id. 218–220.
part 6
the Middle Ages and beyond

“Epyllion” or “Short Epic” in the Latin Literature of the
Middle Ages?
Carmen Cardelle de Hartmann & Peter Stotz
1. Introduction
As the epyllion is defined through its relation to and its distinction from
the epic, it is not easy to answer the question whether there exists a group
of texts in the Latin Middle Ages that ought to be referred to as “epyl-
lia.” We cannot discuss short epic poetry without first addressing the epic
itself, but defining the epic adequately for the Latin Middle Ages poses
special problems due to the mediaeval poets’ free way of dealing with
various literary traditions. Let us begin by surveying the forms of narrative
poetry at large in the Middle Ages in order to obtain a basis for further
discussion. Subsequently we shall present some attempts to delimit epic
poetry within such a corpus, and shall thereby encounter the specific kind
of difficulties in defining genres within the mediaeval Latin literature.
Eventually, returning to the original question, we shall study when and
in what contexts a concept “epyllion” was hitherto used in the study of
mediaeval Latin literature, and whether such a designation can be useful
and adequate to the texts.
2. Narrative Poetry in Mediaeval Latin Literature
In order to get a survey of the corpus of texts including epic and short epic
poetic forms, it is best to start by using just two very general character-
istics: as regards the content we are first concerned with narrative texts;
secondly, regarding the form, they are to be written in verse. Let us remark
that it is preferable to use verse in general as criterion, not exclusively
metric hexameters, as there is also narrative poetry in the Middle Ages
in distichs or even in rhythmic (i.e. in non-quantitative) verse without
this peculiarity being accompanied with any other ones regarding lan-
guage, style, or content.1 These two criteria, however, are not yet capable
1 From the twelfth century onward, probably due to Ovidian influence, the distich starts
to gain ground in narrative poetry, cf. the observations in Schmidt (2001) 451. For biblical
poetry in rhythmic (i.e. non-quantitative) forms compare Kartschoke (1975) 229–270.
494 carmen cardelle de hartmann & peter stotz
by themselves to establish a definition of mediaeval epics; they merely

delimit a working corpus of texts out of which presumably epic genres
may be crystallised. For the classification of the texts according to crite-
ria of content we follow two summary articles by Peter Christian Jacob-
sen and Jan Ziolkowski,2 both of whom use a general concept of epics,
whereas other authors use much more strict criteria of definition.3 As we
wish to present here merely a short approximate outline, we shall men-
tion only a few groups of texts usually subsumed under the heading “epic
poetry.” For all of these cases one ought to investigate in depth whether
they indeed form coherent groups, and, if so, what texts belong to them.
We shall use their common designations, such as “beast epic” or “Bible
epic.” The precise demarcations of these groups are controversial, as is, to
some degree, even their belonging to epics in general; hence we shall refer
to “hagiographic epics” only if we intend poems that would be recognised
as epics even by the proponents of a narrow definition of epics, but to
“hagiographic poetry” if we intend texts from our entire corpus.4
If we derive our concepts of what epics are from antique literature,
we shall find the first mediaeval epics only in the twelfth/thirteenth
century: a time when epics orient themselves by antique pagan models
both regarding their form and their content.5 One of these poems, Wal-
ter of Châtillon’s (*1230/40) Alexandreis, was even able to compete with
antique epics as school text in the late Middle Ages.6 Such a complete
recourse to antique models emerges only late and was to remain rare.
But the Christian unease with the figmenta poetarum, coupled with an
unimpaired admiration for the literary achievements of antiquity and a
desire to transmit the Christian message in a literarily sophisticated form
2 Jacobsen (1986); Ziolkowski (1996).

3 Cf. below, pp. 496–503.
4 Even such a differentiation is not easy; hence most authors discussing these groups
of texts prefer to recur to the more general notions. This can be well observed for poetry
on biblical themes where a vivid discussion took place: earlier scholars denied its belong-
ing to the genre “epic” altogether; as in the famous dictum of Curtius (1948) 457: “Das
Bibelepos ist während seiner ganzen Lebenszeit—von Juvencus bis Klopstock—eine
hybride und innerlich unwahre Gattung gewesen, ein genre faux.” Authors like Herzog,
Kartschoke and Smolak have appealed against this verdict. Nonetheless, especially the
two latter scholars, also discussing mediaeval works, refer to texts where the influence of
epics is becoming more limited. They also designate the whole set of such texts as biblical
poetry (Â�Bibeldichtung).
5 Tilliette (1985) showed in his discussion of the Virgilian influence on twelfth century
epics that the poets tend to refer explicitly to Virgil as their model but nevertheless orient
themselves, with regards to language and form, more by imperial and late antique epics.
6 Colker (1978) xix–xx.
“epyllion” or “short epic” in the middle ages 495
to the Â�educated, soon gave rise to a recasting of Christian contents in

the language and style of antique epics, and to the use of antique liter-
ary strategies to convey them. The Christian epics of late antiquity were
ground-breaking.7 Among them was the allegorical poetry of Prudentius
(349 to at least 405) whose Psychomachia was specially favoured in the
entire Middle Ages. In the twelfth century such models were taken up
again. The replacement of pagan heroes with Christian ones proved espe-
cially successful: in Iuvencus’ poetic retelling of the Gospels, Christianity’s
founder Jesus Christ acquires the role of an epic hero. Other biblical themes
were also adapted poetically early on, beginning with Arator’s De actibus
apostolorum. The conviction that some biblical books had been written in
hexameters in the original text, thus prefiguring the pagan literary form,
may have encouraged such epic transposition.8 After late antiquity the
tradition of retelling biblical stories as epics becomes productive again
in the twelfth century.9 There is a very wide spectrum: texts comprising
rich exegetical material and therefore only partly narrative, such as Petrus
Riga’s († 1209) Aurora, allegorical descriptions of the history of redemption
as in Eupolemius’ (around 1100) poem, as well as epic rewritings of indi-
vidual biblical books. This last group is especially common, containing on
the one hand widely read texts like Matthew of Vendôme’s Tobias, and on
the other hand rarities like Willetrudis’ Versus de Susanna, one of the few
late mediaeval Latin works written by a woman.
There is another possibility to reoccupy the role of the epic hero within
a Christian context: a saint may assume this role. Saint Martin of Tours
(c.336[?]–397) is the first saint to be honoured in such a way; he also
inspired other new literary genres, such as the biographic dialogue with
Sulpicius Severus († after 406). Paulinus of Périgueux (fifth century) in
turn narrates his live in De vita sancti Martini libri sex, itself based on Sulp-
icius’ work. Right from the beginning hagiographic poetry has many an
affinity to biblical poetry;10 in both groups the relation to a prose model
leads to a vast variety regarding form and content. Within hagiographic
poetry there are versifications that stay so close to their narrative model
7 For late antique Christian epics cf. Thraede (1962), Kirsch (1989) and Herzog (1989)
328–340, besides Kartschoke (1975) 30–124 and Herzog (1975).
8 Cf. Vitali (2005) and Ziolkowski (2007) 189 and n. 52.
9 In Carolingian times there are mainly short metric or rhythmic verse paraphrases, cf.
Kartschoke (1975) 229–270; for biblical epics in the twelfth century, cf. Schmidt (2001). A
good survey of different forms and traditions within biblical poetry from late antiquity to
early modern times can be found in Smolak (2001).
10 Cf. Labarre (1998) 82–88; Zarini (2006) 182–183; Goullet (2008) 72–73.
that they look heterogeneous (e.g. by giving a list of miracles), whereas

others leave off narration altogether. As to be expected, such epics usu-
ally focus on one hero, but there are also some poems in which stories
about different saints follow one another, such as in Flodoard of Reims’
(893/894–966) De triumphis Christi. A genre “hagiographic epics” thus
poses similar problems of definition like biblical epics.11
Another widespread type of narrative poetry depicts historical events.
During the entire Middle Ages there are a large number of historical poems
usually concerned with contemporary or recent events; among them we
find poems that follow antique models in respect to language and style,
but also ones whose form treads new paths. Some of these are fictitious in
their content, what Jacobsen calls “romances in verse” (Versromane); among
them Waltharius (ninth? tenth? century) and Odo of Magdeburg’s Ernestus
(composed 1212/18) based on Germanic lore. But one ought to keep in mind
that such stories may be taken to be historical, i.e. as memories of long
past events; thus these texts may be reckoned to the group of historical
epics, albeit on its fringes. Definitively fictitious, on the other hand, are high
mediaeval texts based on fairy tales and fables. Here, too, we observe a wide
spectrum from poetic reworking of a fairy tale motive, like in the Asinarius
(around 1200) or in the Rapularius (beginning of the thirteenth century) to
a creative amalgamation of various themes and motifs like in the Ruodlieb
(2nd half of the eleventh century)12 or the numerous specimens of so-called
“beast epics” combining fable motifs with social satire.
Apart from these, there are also many cases with inversions to be called
parodistic in the widest sense: where the role of the hero is taken by a
lowly person, e.g. in Letaldus of Micy’s (c.950–c.1010) Within piscator, or
ones in which a trivial theme is presented in elaborate style.
3. What is an Epic Poem in Mediaeval Latin Literature?
The endeavour to bring order into this multifaceted corpus poses a variety
of problems, first among them how to define epics in general. Hitherto,
11 Hummel (2006) emphasises the epic character of hagiographic poetry. A thorough

discussion for the demarcation of hagiographic epics may be found in Kirsch (2004) vol. 1,
esp. 6–14. Cf. also below, pp. 510–511.
12 This early poem is exceptional in many respects, for instance its free transformation
of various kinds of stories around its human hero; but it was hardly acknowledged in the
Middle Ages and remained without effect. For more about poems with fairy tale and droll
story motives, see below, pp. 507–510.
there have been but few studies on the definition of the concept “epics”
that have taken into account the entire corpus. They belong to one of
two possible approaches: in the first one, a concept of epics is distilled
out of different literary traditions which is then used to differentiate true
epics from neighbouring groups within the corpus of mediaeval narrative
poetry. Schaller,13 Tyssens,14 and Martínez Pastor,15 among others, follow
such an approach. A second group of scholars starts its inquiry with the
mediaeval Latin texts and then strives to develop a concept of epics cover-
ing all narrative poetry. Of course, these scholars also need a preconcep-
tion of what epics are, but they tend to keep it very general. Ziolkowski
and Jacobsen16 belong to this group; an article by Fidel Rädle17 concerned
in general with definitions of genres in mediaeval Latin literature is also
relevant here.
Among the first group, Dieter Schaller deals especially thoroughly with
the question of defining and classifying mediaeval Latin epics; he does so
in three articles. In his first contribution he chides the common applica-
tion of a wide notion of epics in the discussion of Latin poetry in the
Middle Ages and advocates a narrow definition based on Virgil. He jus-
tifies such a basis with the function as a role model the Aeneid had in
the Middle Ages, and rejects the idea that the content of a poem should
be considered for its genre, as, according to Schaller, the content per-
tains to the history of narrative motifs only, not to the determination of
genres. He also rejects a definition of epics as heroic poetry, for Aeneas
was not always regarded as a hero in the Middle Ages. Consequently he
excludes biblical epics and hagiographic epics—defined as heroic poetry
with Christian heroes—as genres. Based on the Aeneid Schaller speci-
fies four basic characteristics for an epic: (i) uniformity of the content,
(ii)Â€“considerable amount of text, laid out amply as suited for the genre,”18
(iii) belonging to the genus mixtum, i.e. alternation between dialogue,
report, and narration, and (iv) the use of special stylistic devices (com-
parisons and similes, catalogues, excursus, lyric parentheses). Schaller is
of course aware that there exist works in the Middle Ages that combine
elements from various genres and from various models, but he considers
13 Schaller (1987); id. (1989); id. (1993).

14 Tyssens (1988).
15 Martínez Pastor (2005).
16 Cf. our n. 2 above.
17 Rädle (1997).
18 “erhebliche[r] Textumfang, Anlage in gattungsspezifischer Breite,” Schaller (1987)
96–97 (291–292).
them as degenerate.19 Among hagiographic and historical poems as well

as among biblical poetry, only those works with all four characteristics are
to be addressed as epics.
Whilst this first approach of Schaller’s aims at Virgilian epics, the system
he develops in two subsequent studies intended to classify a more varied
corpus of texts.20 He proposes a systematic order for mediaeval Latin liter-
ature based on purely formal and functional criteria. The formal criterion
he proposes is based on a classification of speech-forms taken from the
grammar of Diomedes and further handed down through the Middle Ages,
namely the differentiation between author speech, character speech, and
the already mentioned mixed forms, out of which Schaller elaborated a
further differentiated scale. The functional criterion is the form of presen-
tation. As this is often hard to elicit, Schaller further Â�specifies:
Mit Funktionsbestimmung meinen wir denjenigen Realisationsmodus, den
ein Verfasser seinem literarischen Werk als optimal (offenkundig oder—
gemäß innerer Kriterien und äußerer Testimonien—wahrscheinlich) zuge-
dacht hat.21
An entire scale of possible forms of presentation is proposed: singing—
aided by scenic means, melodically or by Sprechgesang—, recital with or
without preparatory play, reading aloud, individual reading, watching,
playing. With these two criteria, the epic would be assigned as coordi-
nates the speech-form “epic” (i.e. alteration between author and character
speech) on the one hand and “recital, reading aloud” on the other. Accord-
ing to Schaller, this is, however, only a genre abstraction with several sub-
types: the actual epic, the epyllion, and the series of epyllia (Epyllienkette).
The criteria to differentiate these three forms are not explicitly stated.22
The bifurcation into further subgenera continues: the epic on a second
level (the subgenus epic) in turn is differentiated into several species, one
of which will be the epics based on the model of the Aeneid, another repre-
sented by Ruodlieb. The author does not enumerate further instances, but
insists on the necessity to use exclusively formal and Â�functional Â�criteria.
19 Schaller (1987) 97 (292): “Die von der Aeneis abstammende Textfamilie erleidet
im Mittelalter sozusagen Degenerationserscheinungen und Einkreuzungen von anderen
GeÂ�nera. Ein interessantes Beobachtungsfeld ist z.B. die Pseudo-Gattung ‘Bibelepik’: Nur
eine Minderheit ihrer Texte sind wirklich Epen, die anderen sind teils metrische Paraphra-
sen biblischer Bücher, teils ‘ständig von exegetischen Formen durchkreuzt,’ wie Reinhart
Herzog sehr deutlich ausgeführt hat.” The reference is to Herzog (1975) lxiii.
20 Schaller (1989); id. (1993).
21 Schaller (1989) 366 (307).
22 We shall return to this specification of the epyllion below.
Only on the level of subspecies may one use criteria based on the content
of the text in order to differentiate epics into contemporary historical,
heroic, or beast epics.
Although such a classification scheme looks impressive indeed, it will
be very difficult to be put into practice. Problems start with the highest
level, viz. in the form of presentation: in many cases it is very difficult to
determine the medial forms of reception. Usually there are no testimo-
nies, and even if the author himself or another source does give hints, cau-
tion is advisable: the author may fictively stage a certain form of reception
of his text, and other sources may offer an incomplete picture spatially
and temporally bound to possibly non-representative circumstances.23
Already for the problem of the audience we are in many instances unable
to get beyond guesswork (compare e.g. the enigmatic Ruodlieb), mak-
ing the determination of the form of performance pure speculation. The
problems would multiply if one tried to follow Schaller’s classification into
all of its ramifications. It remains unclear according to what criteria he
divides his species: only one, the Virgilian epic, is considered. Now the
problem of models plays without a doubt an important role in mediaeval
Latin literature, but a stringent separation according to classical models
would only in few cases be feasible, as it is indeed common to combine
characteristics from several models; in some text groups one even orients
oneself by an entire group of model texts, and even in fields where one
model is dominant, mediaeval authors do not follow it as an exclusive and
binding norm but rather as framework for orientation.24
For our present inquiry into the definition of epics, Schaller’s contri-
butions are of importance mainly for their strict separation of a group
of “true epics” from other similar forms by criteria developed according
23 Let us recall the case of a casual reference to a performance of the Pamphilus in

Arnulf of Orléans’ Commentary on Ovid (Roy [1974] 258–260). Arnulf speaks only generally
of “watching” (cernunt), leaving the concrete form of the performance unclear. It seems
bold to postulate a performative practice from this gloss for all the texts we call “elegiac
comedies” since the nineteenth century.
24 Cf. Rädle (1997) who demonstrates in a detailed manner that different criteria and
prerequisites are necessary for different genres. Cf. also Haye (1997a) 15. Cardelle de Hart-
mann (2007) puts into practice a classification of genres according to their models where
this variety is very clearly visible: several models for monastic dialogues and for soliloquies,
entire groups of texts for question-and-answer dialogues, and even forms like the polemi-
cal dialogues which do not define themselves through models at all but rather through
aspects of their contents. Even among epics of Virgilian kind one cannot exclusively speak
of Virgilian influence, as Tilliette showed for some classicizing epics of the twelfth century
(cf. our n. 5 above).
to models from antiquity. Other authors also discuss such a differentia-

tion: another example can be found in the volume on the epic (L’épopée)
within the series Typologie des sources du Moyen Âge occidental. As the
articles of this volume present the epic poetry of the Middle Ages in its
various languages, a common definition had to be found for all the differ-
ent traditions and thus capable to form a unifying framework. Jean-Marcel
Paquette devoted himself to this task.25 As the antique tradition was not
relevant here, the defining characteristics, as might be expected, turned
out rather differently: epics are heroic poems featuring warlike conflicts
during the phases of a people’s colonisation and settling, and for this they
do not generally strive to be historic reports but fictionalise the events
within a framework of the probable. Although Madeleine Tyssens in her
article on the mediaeval Latin tradition addresses the issue of the exis-
tence of a multitude of epic forms, she ends, based on the common defi-
nition, by distinguishing “true epics” from neighbouring forms—similarly
to Schaller. Recently Marcelo Martínez Pastor tried to find a definition
of the epic fit for both vernacular mediaeval traditions and antiquity.26
For this, he starts from Paquette’s definition and extends it in order to be
able to encompass later texts following the older models. Martínez Pastor
especially emphasises the aspect of fictionalisation. This characteristic is
meant to help to distinguish epic poems from purely historic ones within
the mediaeval tradition. The author exemplifies this with the Waltharius
and the Prefatio de Almaria.
Problems may arise in case of a strict demarcation between epics and
derived forms, as one needs to start from a concept based on one literary
tradition. Mediaeval literature, however, is a hybrid of several literary tra-
ditions: the antique models, central for Schaller, are doubtless very impor-
tant in the field of epics, but the vernacular traditions have also found
their, albeit weaker, echoes. In the studies hitherto discussed, one group
of texts was neglected: the Christian epics of late antiquity. For them
too, we have to face the question whether they are still to be considered
epics at all. An approach based on antiquity will have to deny this at least
partly.27 These authors may indeed only be understood as epic writers if
we assume a wide notion of epics taking into account transformations
within the genre over time. Mediaevalists tend towards this point of view
25 Paquette (1988).
26 Martínez Pastor (2005).
27 As Schaller does. Among older studies this was the common point of view, cf. Herzog
(1975) xxxiii–xxxvi.
as they are dealing with literatures without strict normalisations. Wolf-

gang Kirsch’s discussion of late antique epics may serve as an example for
this.28 He assumes a dynamic notion of epics: different characteristics of
antique epics were used as orientation by the late antique authors; they
followed so many of them that their audience was capable to understand
their works as continuations of the epic tradition. What precisely was
accepted and what altered or left apart from this tradition depended on
the respective author.
Many very disparate traditions and influences coalesce in mediaeval
Latin literature: there are vernacular traditions, antique pagan and late
antique Christian models. The mediaeval authors deal freely with the spe-
cial characteristics of genres they find in their models: they combine them
or change them and adapt them to their new needs. It is such diachronic
change and synchronic variety that motivate a flexible concept of epics
for mediaeval Latin literature, like the ones Jacobsen or Ziolkowski use in
their surveys we encountered above. They both include all forms of narra-
tive poetry, as we have done in the first section. Although neither of them
formulates this so distinctly, the only obligatory characteristic seems to be
that the narratives need to be presented in verse; not even the hexametric
form seems to be considered a necessary prerequisite as we occasionally
find in both surveys rhythmic poems as well. As both authors’ task was to
survey a vast panorama, and a systematic classification would thus have
been hardly feasible, their approach seems adequate to their task.
Fidel Rädle observes several highly relevant points regarding epics in
an article that deals with the general problem of defining genres.29 He
points out the continuity of this genre, which can be explained mainly
by two factors. Christian epicists demonstrated how the genre could be
christianised, thus rendering it capable to adapt to the new Christian con-
text of literary production; apart from this, the epic was protected by its
use in school as both pagan (Virgil, Statius, Lucan) and Christian epicists
(Iuvencus, Sedulius, Arator) belonged to the school canon. Because of this
context of reception it was mainly the epic language and style that was
imitated. So it is the specific language that keeps the genre together despite
28 Kirsch (1979) thoroughly discusses the problem of determining and following the
changes of a genre through time. He uses the same approach in his monograph on Latin
epics of the fourth century (Kirsch [2004] vol. 1). Herzog (1975) and Kartschoke (1975) also
distance themselves from a concept of epics gained from antiquity and then extended to
be valid diachronically; thus they gain a much more differentiated appraisal of the epic
tradition.
29 Rädle (1997).
its varying topics.30 Nonetheless matters of content are also important:

in accord with the self-conception of Christian epicists, bio-bibliographic
works and mediaeval manuscript catalogues tend to present pagan and
Christian epics apart. Thus both groups were considered connected but
as susceptible to separation from each other. Apart from such a tradition-
alist point of view, we still do also find innovation: Rädle mentions the
Ysengrimus—the first beast epic (mid-twelfth century)—as an example
for a large narrative poem that does not follow the epic tradition regard-
ing its content or its style.
In contrast to our first group of authors, these latter ones opt for a flexi-
ble classification taking change into account and leaving room for derived
forms or new designs to fit in. But even behind a flexible classification,
trouble may lurk. One inevitably loses stringency by taking into account
the variance among intermediate forms, nay, the borders of a genre may
become determining and challenge the original notion defining the genre.
Biblical epics are such a case: the contours of the narration tend to get
blurred by elements of another form of dealing with biblical texts: exege-
sis. What made these texts look like epics, a consistent narration and a
typical epic style, may disappear altogether, so that we are hardly still
entitled to call them epics. Within hagiographic epic we encounter sim-
ilar problems: some of these poems assimilate all kinds of information
bestowing them a nearly encyclopaedic character, apparently for their use
in school. Sigebert of Gembloux’s (c.1028/29–1112) Passio Thebeorum31 is
such an example.
Another problem emerges from the common practice of transforming
prose texts into verse: some subsequently versified texts comprise a new
presentation of a subject, so to speak cast it into a new form in order to
satisfy a new poetic conception; in other cases they are mere paraphrase
in verse remaining very close to their model. Let us exemplify this with
two samples from Hrotsvit’s hagiographic poetry: Although the Theophilus
is based on a prose model it is still an independent poem with a consis-
tent plot around the central figure of Theophilus. The Ascensio, on the
other hand, consists of two long speeches which are connected by a barely
developed plot. It remains easily visible that it is based on a sermon and
might thus be called a versified sermon.
30 Tilliette (1985) 123 n. 11 also emphasises the role of language and style for the deter-
mination of genres.
31 Licht (2005) 95–97; in general on the connections between hagiographic poetry and
school, cf. Goullet (2008).
So there is no simple answer to the question of what mediaeval epics

are and what constitutes them as such. Indeed, such an answer cannot
be found by merely theoretical reflection; specific problems only emerge
when studying a large corpus of texts. In the case of Latin literature of
the Middle Ages any discussion must find a compromise between two
extremes: a taxonomy that neglects large parts of literary production and
a mere inventory hardly able to demarcate different groups.
4. A Genre “Epyllion” in the Latin Literature of the Middle Ages?
In the foregoing section we have pointed out the difficulties in defining

mediaeval Latin epics and indicated the coordinates within which a dis-
cussion on such genres must be situated. Thus we have gained a frame-
work to discuss whether a specific group of texts within the mediaeval
Latin literature may be described adequately by the designation “epyl-
lion.” For this we start from the corpus of texts we called narrative poetry
and will discuss the problems for each of its thematic groups. Several
considerations seem to justify such an approach: aspects of content may
not be confined to the study of narrative motifs as they play an impor-
tant role for the determination of genres for mediaeval Latin texts, indeed
there are even genres that are to be defined mainly by considerations of
their Â�content.32 The topic of a work is an indicator of what tradition the
text associates itself with, which makes it an important factor in our dis-
cussion, as formal characteristics like length, the existence of a unifying
plot, or style do not always bear much weight within the literary tradi-
tion mediaeval Latin authors mean to continue. We have seen that even
authors using a restrictive concept of epics acknowledge the existence
of groups defined according to their content, albeit they may not regard
them as epics or as subgroups within epic poetry. Among these groups
we shall probe whether a concept “epyllion” has been defined or used in
scholarship, and then we shall discuss the adequacy of such a concept.
Before tackling the discussion of the mediaeval texts, it seems advis-
able to take a look at the definition of the “epyllion” within late antique
literature, for mediaeval authors, as mentioned above, have often used
these, especially the Christian epicists, as their models. In late antiquity
the typically epic length (epische Breite) loses ground and we observe a
32 D’Angelo (1990) advocates in his reply to Schaller an approach including consider-

ations on topic, reception and the historical context of a work. Cf. also below, our n. 41.
tendency towards shorter epics.33 This is why Severin Koster argues for
a differentiation of short epics (Kleinepen) from epyllia, since these latter
ones exhibit also other features apart from their shortness, such as an
erotic topic, or a structure featuring a main story and parentheses that
differ in their topic. Koster believes that the epyllion as it was used among
Alexandrine poets was no more recognisable as a genre of its own in late
antiquity.
One specific use of a concept “epyllion” within the study of mediae-
val Latin literature has already been introduced: among Schaller’s three
subgenera epic, epyllion, and series of epyllia in his article “Das mittelÂ�
alterliche Epos.” There it is implied that he uses the unity of the plot
and the size of the text as differentiating characteristics, though he does
not express this explicitly. In another study of his, while discussing the
genus mixtum—i.e. texts that mix author speech and character speech—,
Schaller proposes a new systematic:
Naturalmente il genus mixtum racchiude tutta una serie di sottogeneri, che
si distinguono tra loro prima di tutto in base all’estensione del testo: il sot-
togenere delle forme brevi (che comprende diversi tipi [species] di poesia
narrativa, come ad esempio i canti eroici, la poesia encomiastica e la poesia
di argomento storico-contemporaneo), un sottogenere intermedio rappre-
sentato dall’epica-breve (l’epillio) ed infine le forme lunghe (serie o catene
di epilli, l’epos, il romanzo).34
Thus the entire narrative poetry is here first broadly classified according
to its length. The epyllion figures among those of intermediate length and
is no subgenus of the epic anymore, but rather contrasts with it on the
one hand and with epic poetry of even shorter length on the other. As
no examples are given, it remains unclear whether Schaller also acknowl-
edges other criteria; the question where the limits of the text size are to
be drawn is not addressed either.
Two criteria have now been used whose adequacy to differentiate
genres within narrative poetry must be further discussed: the unity of the
plot and the length of the text.
The first criterion, the unity of the plot (even in case of several strands),
differentiates the epic from the “series of epyllia.” This term is very rarely
used in mediaeval Latin philology; Schaller uses it to refer to one text only:
Hugh of Mâcon’s Gesta militum, a text Jacobsen addresses as a “collective
33 Koster (2002) 32; Kirsch (2004) vol. 1, 7.

34 Schaller (1993) 14.
poem of Ovidian stance,”35 whereas he speaks of a collective poem (Sam-

melgedicht) in the case of Aldhelm’s De virginitate.36 Ewald Könsgen and
Karoline Harthun do not address the Gesta militum as a series of epyllia
either.37 The resistance against this term in mediaeval Latin philology may
be due to the fact that its understanding tends to imply an episode-like
structure against the usual epic normal form with a unitary plot. These
criteria, however, are only valid for a concept derived from pagan epics,
whereas many narrative poems in the Middle Ages do not, or not exclu-
sively, follow such models; instead they follow much more often Christian
epicists, and it is a typical characteristic of these late antique epics in gen-
eral that episodes tend to be of greater importance.38 A strict differentia-
tion according to this criterion seems thus unpromising for all genres with
a tendency to follow late antique models, such as biblical epics, hagio-
graphic epics, or allegoric epics.
The other criterion, the criterion of length, is used to a varying degree
in scholarly debate. It is of importance for texts either in the Virgilian or
in the vernacular tradition, because of their characteristic epische Breite.
A good example for this is the Waltharius, expanding topics from Ger-
manic heroic songs but nevertheless with a palpably Virgilian influence.
Due to its shortness, it was casually called an epyllion by Peter Dronke.
Alois Wolf picks this up and points out its similarity with antique epyllia
with one major restriction:39
Vom Umfang her ist der Waltharius mit seinen 1456 Hexametern kein
Großepos. Peter Dronke bezeichnet das Werk—mehr nebenbei—als ein
Epyllion. In den Epyllien der alexandrinischen und dann der augusteischen
Zeit pflegten sich poetae docti in raffinierten kürzeren Hexameterepen, in
denen geschickt auswählend auf alte Sagenstoffe zurückgegriffen wurde,
einer sachkundigen Hörerschaft zu empfehlen. Wenn man den WalthaÂ�
rius in diese Tradition stellen dürfte, ergäbe sich für den Rang, den die
volkssprachliche mittelalterliche Heldensage einnehmen konnte, ein inter-
essanter Befund.
The last sentence seems of special importance to us, for it makes clear
that the concept “epyllion” posits the Waltharius in a certain context, thus
35 “Kollektivgedicht ovidischer Prägung,” Jacobsen (1986) 2079.

36 Jacobsen (1986) 2078.
37 Könsgen (1990) 1, 3–4 and 48–52 shows the manifold elements from various models
and genres Hugh incorporates into his work. Harthun (2005) 27–31 equally emphasises the
many references towards various genres.
38 Kirsch (1979) 40–41.
39 Dronke (1977); Wolf (1995) 316–317.
suggesting a conscious reception of antique epyllia. Epyllia like Â�Catullus’

Carmen 64 or the pseudo-Virgilian Ciris or Culex were hardly known
during the Middle Ages; they exerted no influence on mediaeval Latin
Â�writing.40 Epyllia integrated into larger poems, as Koster suspects in the
cases of the Aeneid or the Metamorphoses, were not recognisable as such
in the Middle Ages.
Historic poems need to be discussed together with the classicizing ones;
they pose a problem of demarcation. In the Middle Ages it was common
to pick up historic topics; many of these poems exhibit a marked influ-
ence of antique tradition, while others depart strongly from all antique
models; some are even rhythmical poems. A demarcation between his-
toric epics and other poems with historic content seems necessary. The
first group should also contain texts that are historic in a broader sense,
i.e. poems with antique or legendary content. There are several reasonable
suggestions for dividing criteria: their fictionalisation (Martínez Pastor) or
their language and style (Rädle, Tilliette)41 ought to determine whether
a work is to be understood as epic poetry or not. Ziolkowski proposes
that explicit reference to the epic tradition in language and style, and also
through narrative elements like the description of single combats, must
decide whether a historic poem is to belong to the epic genre,42 but he
also recommends severing a group within historical epics comprising only
one episode and of sufficient shortness. Such poems belong in the same
group as other short narrative poems on mocking or folk-tale topics:43
Space permits only fleeting mention of epyllia, narrative poems that elabo-
rate single episodes from the heroic past and resemble epics in theme, tone,
and descriptive technique. A representative epyllion on a historical topic is
the Rhythmus pisanus (291 rhythmic verses in 72 tetrastichic strophes) on
the victory of 1087 over African pirates; an epyllion on a folktale is Letald of
Micy’s De quodam piscatore quem ballena absorbuit (second half of the tenth
40 The poem De cane by Thierry de Saint-Trond († 1107) is an exception, a parodistic

planctus on the death of a dog suggesting influence from the Culex. It is, however, not laid
out as a parody but as an epigram and clearly refers to the antique tradition of dirges for
the death of animals. Cf. for this Préaux (1978).
41 Tilliette (1985) 123 n. 11. Rädle (1997) 231–232 refers not only to epics but all genres
“im fiktionalen Bereich.” In contrast, the affiliation for texts concerned with realia (such
as technical or pragmatic texts) is determined by their content.
42 “The epoch of Charlemagne and his inheritors was rich in hexameter compositions
that employed epic language and conventions”; “[the Gesta Berengarii] achieves its own
validity within epic tradition through classical allusions, similes, and descriptions of single
combats” (Ziolkowski [1996] 549).
43 Ziolkowski (1996) 551.
century). A related genre is mock epic, which burlesques epic by treating a

trivial topic in epic style.
We face two questions here: first we need to determine whether such short
poems in epic form but of short length ought to be considered a separate
group within epic poetry. Only then can we tackle the question whether
folk-tale or mocking poetry may also be counted among it and whether
“epyllion” would be an adequate name for this group. It seems to us that
the first question is clearly to be answered in the negative, as these shorter
epics do not exhibit any other common characteristics except their short-
ness separating them from other, longer epics. Their shortness seems to
be accidental; it does not constitute a unity among these texts as a group
to be separated from epics.44 Typically Schaller, who uses text size as a
characteristic on a higher level, classifies the Waltharius without further
discussion among the subspecies of Virgilian epics. Here flexibility ought
to be preferred against systematic rigidity, thus these poems are rather to
be considered as a kind of marginal group within the group of epic poetry.
If we wish to emphasise their conspicuous shortness, a denomination like
historical short epics (historische Kleinepen or even kleinepische Gedichte)
seems more suitable, as it stresses their marginal character without sepa-
rating what belongs together.
The differences between historical short epics and folk-tale or mock
poems are profound enough to justify their separation into two groups.
The former’s content is based on a more or less fictionalised episode from
the history of an ethnic group; this is also true for legendary contents
which, as we have hinted at, may have been understood as historical; folk-
tale and mock epics on the other hand belong to the genre of fiction or, in
case of anecdote-like stories, they are told for their didactic value in one’s
personal life, not as part of the collective social memory of a people. So,
while the short epic poems may be considered a marginal form of epics,
folk-tale and mock poems pose a hitherto unresolved problem of clas-
sification, which is reflected in their erratic classification. The Asinarius,
for example, a poem about a folk-tale theme, is casually called a “folk-
tale epyllion” by Benedikt Konrad Vollmann in a review;45 its editor Karl
Langosch, however, calls this kind of poems “folk-tale epics” containing
44 Tilliette (1985) 123–124, also denies explicitly in his study of the epics of the twelfth
century that shortness be taken as a characteristic for an exclusion from the epic genre.
45 Vollmann (2008) 112 (“Märchenepyllion”).
“beast, mock, and folk-tale poems.”46 Inasmuch as other authors attempt

a classification of such texts, they tend to connect them to the so-called
elegiac comedies, poems in elegiac distichs containing both narrative and
dialogue elements whose content involves amorous entanglements with
a happy ending.47 There is one important difference between this mock
poetry and the Within piscator referred to by Ziolkowski: the latter refers
explicitly to the epic tradition; it is neither a versified folk-tale nor a mock
poem but much rather an epic parody, thus belonging to a group that is
undoubtedly small but of great importance for our present discussion.
Epic parodies like the Within piscator, the Altercatio nani et leporis, or
De Lombardo et lumaca display characteristic plots, scenes and stylistic
devices from epics, explicitly referring to known characters and authors
from antique epics. The main characters produce the comic effect: instead
of heroes we find animals, fairy tale characters, and simple or even ludi-
crous people. The determination of their genre depends on one further
question, viz. whether parody is to be considered a style within a genre
(Schreibweise) or a genre in itself.48 Among mediaeval Latin scholars the
opinion dominates that the parodistic element is a style of writing partly
prevalent in sections of larger texts, partly characterising entire texts.49
The varied parodistic texts from the Latin Middle Ages do indeed hardly
exhibit similarities among themselves that would justify their treatment
as one genre “parody.” Rather they have to be classified with the different
genres they parody. Their parodistic technique itself gains its wit from this
46 Langosch (1956) 361–362. He calls the Asinarius “Verserzählung,” “Versnovelle” or sim-

ply “Dichtung” (Langosch [1978]). Worstbrock (1989) 1000 calls the mock poem Rapularius
“Verserzählung,” Vollmann (1999) 80 characterises the Unibos as “Schwankmärenkette.”
47 Giovini (2006) 67–68 remains in his characterisation of the Asinarius within the
sphere of “commedia elegiaca” and fairy tales. Similarly Birgit Gansweidt (1995) speaks in
case of this poem about “einer den Elegienkomödien nahestehenden Verserzählung.”
48 Kuester (32004) 558 observes: “Während die traditionelle Definition die P[arodie]
eher als Gattung sieht, ist P[arodie] für die Vertreter des intertextuellen Ansatzes eine
Schreibweise.” We shall not enter this discussion further as the differentiation is largely
dependent on the epoch in question, presenting itself differently for modernity and antiq-
uity in respect to the Middle Ages. A good summary can be found in Müller (1994) 31–44.
49 Cf. Rädle (1993), Haye (1997b) and, specifically for epics, Tilliette (2000). Although
Bayless (1996) 1–10 does not discuss the problem of the genre explicitly, she considers
parodies of literary genres (not of concrete texts) as a form of “social parody.” Repeatedly
she refers to several parodistic subgroups getting their names from the genre they parody:
“mock epics,” “parodistic lyrical poetry” (both p. 7), “biblical parody,” “mock saints’ lives,”
“liturgical parody” (all p. 9). Günter Bernt’s article “Parodie” is in the same line. Lehmann
(21963) does not discuss the question but classifies the texts according to their content
and their tone as “kritisierende, streitende und triumphierende” and “heitere, erheiternde,
unterhaltende Parodie.”
very intertextual confrontation towards the genre they parody.50 It thus

joins the parodies to the parodied genre and at the same time severs them
as a special subgroup from their genres. Among the texts we discussed,
their relationship towards the epic is obvious. These epic parodies are
short, but, in contrast to the historic epics, this shortness is here not acci-
dental but a characteristic trait of parodistic writing:
Da Parodien einen erheblichen Konstruktionsaufwand erfordern, handelt
es sich bei ihnen in der Regel um kurze Texte, in denen man zahlreiche
Merkmale der jeweils reflektierten Gattung auf engstem Raum konzentriert
findet.51
Both their shortness and their playful handling of the epic tradition
recalls Alexandrian epics. The editor of Within piscator, Ferruccio Bertini,
emphasises this similarity. Although he uses differing and general appel-
lations for this text such as poema, poemetto, componimento poetico, or
pezzo pseudoepico, at the end he says:
Ci sono tutti gli elementi, io credo, per poter definire Letaldo un ‘Calli-
maco del X secolo’ e per assimilare il Within piscator a un epillio del genere
dell’Ecale.52
Nota bene: Bertini does not postulate a direct reception of Callimachus
but only means to stress the parallels between the two authors, especially
in the relationship of their texts to epic poetry. Ziolkowski also addresses
the Within piscator as an epyllion although the other epic parodies are for
him “mock epics.” In the case of epic parody, the name “epyllion” was care-
fully chosen by these scholars and is indeed justifiable. Only one objec-
tion against it may be raised, but it is a serious one: the word “epyllion”
evokes a connection to the antique tradition which is clearly not given.
The authors of these epic parodies consciously refer to the antique epic
tradition and not to the antique epyllion they did not know of. Tilliette,
while discussing the elements of parody in the Latin epics of the Middle
Ages, calls these poems “poèmes heroï-comiques”; a notion that arose in
the eighteenth century mainly among French but occasionally also Ger-
man literary scholars denoting parodistic epics of all epochs.53
50 Parodies of single texts are rare in the Latin literature of the Middle Ages.
51 Haye (1997b) 291. On the shortness as a characteristic trait of parodies, cf. also Gen-
ette (1982) 48–58.
52 Bertini (1995) xvii (cf. there n. 1).
53 This name is thus also in use for works of other epochs, cf. Genette (1982) 179–192;
Wünsch (1999). Tilliette (2000) 58 uses the name “epyllion” for the Ram poem by Sedulius
Scottus but he merely means to stress the shortness of the text by this.
Not all parodies refer unambiguously to one genre. Here we observe

again a common mediaeval trait of writing: an author may combine char-
acteristics of several models or literary traditions, thus creating a work that
eludes classification. An example for this is the poem by Sedulius Scottus
in which he describes the death of a ram. This poem has variously been
classified as a beast fairy tale, a beast story, an epicedium, a mock epic nar-
rative containing planctus and epitaphium, and as an epyllion. Ziolkowski,
while summarising the discussion on the poem’s genre, concludes:
From each new consideration of the poem, a new name for its genre has
resulted. Paradoxically, the lack of consensus about the genre of ‘The Ram’
pays the highest conceivable compliment to its originality. Sedulius tapped
so many poetic resources and emulated or simulated so many types of
poetry that ‘The Ram’ defies quick pigeonholing . . .
‘The Ram’ is all that it has been called—a parody, a mock-epic, an epyl-
lion, and more—but above all, it is the highly individual creation of Sedulius
Scottus.54
Such a mixture of various characteristics may remain an exception or, in
case it is emulated by other authors, it may establish a new literary form.
This happens in the High Middle Ages with texts that combine fable and
epic as a means to create socio-critical satires: the beast epics. Among
them we find a poem whose structure is reminiscent of Catullus’ epyllion
(c. 64): the Ecbasis captivi, one of the oldest representatives in this group,
telling of the flight of a calf, its capture by the wolf and its rescue by a
variegated band of animals. Within this framework story there is another
one: the story of the lion’s court day. Despite this similarity to the best
known epyllion of Latin literature, its two stories are usually severed as
“interior” and “exterior” fable (Innenfabel and Außenfabel ). Due to the
double meaning of the word fabula, as plot and as story with animals as
main characters, these names are both succinct and appropriate as both
meanings fit the Ecbasis captivi well.
As allegoric epic, biblical and hagiographic poetry all arose out of late
antique Christian epics; they may in conclusion be discussed together
here. Especially hagiographic poems are often short; nevertheless, the
name “epyllion” was hitherto hardly used for them. Wolfgang Kirsch in his
study on hagiographic epics emphasises that the size of a poem is a relative
quantity: according to the scale of older epics the hagiographic ones rarely
exceed one book, but such a short size, he continues, is not conspicuous
54 Ziolkowski (1993) 70; 79.

in the context of early mediaeval literature. He rejects the unity of the plot
as a criterion of whether or not a poem ought to be counted among epics,
as the content itself may force the authors to relate it in an episode-like
manner.55 Among Schaller’s criteria—explicitly referred to—he acknowl-
edges the alternation between author speech and character speech, and
the use of special stylistic devices; apart from these he stresses the use of
hexameters and identifies special traits of language based on epic models
as demarcating criteria. The existence of a prose model does not matter
for this author, as he believes paraphrasing to be a technical device and
not a genre characteristic.56
Kirsch is conscious of the difficulties of demarcating hagiographic epics;
he emphasises the keenness to experiment among mediaeval authors,
which leads to the adaption of traits of other genres creating a large
marginal area for the genre of hagiographic epics. As we clearly see, the
discussion here is centred on some characteristics stemming from epic
tradition. Size and unity of the plot do not, however, figure among these,
as hagiographic texts tend to be very variable in their size and to exhibit
an episodic way of recounting dictated by their prose models. Among
the works in this group some devices are used that ought to be called
parodistic from a technical point of view—subtle style for base content, a
simple man’s heroic deeds—, but not from a point of view of their sense:
here there is no playing or criticising, rather the saint’s hidden grandeur
is emphasised, the ennobling of the humble to heroism.57
5. Summary
We have argued for a wide understanding of the concept epic, includ-

ing contemporary topics and poetic forms from late antique Christianity,
55 Zarini (2006) 179–180 diverges, using the length of the Vita Martini by Paulinus of
Périgueux as the first criterion that makes it an epic. In contrast, he opines, Paulinus of
Nola’s poems on Felix ought to be considered epyllia due to their shortness. Although this
article only discusses works by these two authors, it is still a good example to show that
the word “epyllion” is often used to denote simply a short epic without further reflection
on the problem of genres. Examples for this are legion; a listing would hardly be profitable
as the concept is in these cases neither defined nor questioned.
56 Goullet (2005) also regards the réécriture more as a way of writing than a genre
characteristic. The techniques of paraphrasing in late antiquity have been exhaustively
discussed, cf. esp. Herzog (1975) 52–154; Kartschoke (1975) 78–120; Roberts (1985) 37–59;
Labarre (1998) 71–88.
57 Cf. for this Rädle (1993) 174–176.
as well as others emerging only in the Middle Ages. The demarcation of

these groups remains an unresolved issue that needs further discussion;
this is why we have to pose the question whether a concept “epyllion” can
be of use at all. In general we have seen that such a concept is but rarely
defined in the scholarly discussions of mediaeval Latin literature; mostly
it is just casually employed in order to characterise an epic poem of short
size (and without a disposition in books). But precisely the short size is all
but irrelevant in the definition of the epic in the Middle Ages, as on the
one hand the mediaeval texts tend to be modelled on late antique epics
where the epic length is irrelevant, and on the other hand no significant
differences within groups of texts are perceptible between shorter and
longer texts. Therefore the use of the texts’ length as a strict defining crite-
rion would be forced onto the texts. Indeed, it seems in general ill-advised
in the Middle Ages to postulate necessary and exclusive characteristics for
genres: mediaeval authors tend to interact rather freely with their models
and literary traditions, and we ourselves ought to describe them with a
flexible classification in turn. When wishing to speak of short epic poems,
a denomination like “short epic” (Kurzepik) stressing the texts’ primary
affiliation with the epic genre seems preferable. Similarly the episodical
character which gave rise to the category “series of epyllia” in contrast
to the epic of antiquity does not play a major role in our corpus. Short-
ness seems to be constitutive in only one group of the texts we took into
account, viz. the parodistic epic. Both their shortness and their parodis-
tic nature justify the appellation “epyllion,” which, in fact, is occasionally
used for these texts. Nevertheless one significant argument speaks against
the use of this notion in mediaeval literature: it suggests reception and
a conscious reprise of the antique epyllion, which was unknown in the
Middle Ages. The topic is far from being a trifle as continuity and innova-
tion are closely interwoven in mediaeval Latin literature; thus scrutinizing
which literary traditions were continued and which were rejected is nec-
essary for understanding the history of literature and the interpretation
of the individual texts.
A Short Corollarium
Now, one might of course extend the question, hereby leaving the name
and concept “epyllion” fully aside, and inquire where and to what extent
dactylic verse was used in the mediaeval Latin literature to convey short
narratives with antique-pagan, especially mythological, topics: texts
that might at best—purely from their external characteristics, without

Â�insinuating any kind of genetic continuity—be compatible with the bun-
dle of criteria used to hold this genre’s precarious existence together. As
the adoption of antique literature and its subsequent productive further
adaption pervades poetic creativity in the Middle Ages (especially so in
the High Middle Ages) like a basso continuo, one might be tempted to
expect a high yield from such an inquiry. Still within the multifaceted
spectrum of literary forms, only few specimens can be ascertained that
would fit here without coercion and without reservation. Let us discuss
a few examples.
Most such texts belong to the High Middle Ages, an epoch where an
especially thorough and productive reception of the literary heritage of
pagan antiquity was taking place, but we may already adduce a relevant
example dating back to the tenth century: the anonymous Gesta Apollonii,
a poem in 792 leonine hexameters recounting the first half of the Apol-
lonius romance. In imitation of the scheme of the competition between
poets, the narration is partitioned formally between two characters, Saxo
and Strabo, but this happens in a rather mechanical manner without
expressing two different points of view.58
In the twelfth century mainly in the region of the Loire in France, a
period of intense and lively reception of antiquity flourished. Among the
best known of its poets figures Hugh Primas of Orléans (from 1093/94 to
c.1160). He revives the story of Orpheus and Eurydice in one of his poems
of which 52 artfully rimed hexameters have survived. The second half of
the preserved text comprises a long speech of Orpheus to Pluto trying to
convince him to release Eurydice as both of them were due to be back in
the netherworld anyway; an ample suasoria.59
The anonymous poem incipit Carmine qui gaudes et in usu carminis
audes deals with the same narrative in thirty distichs. The main theme
here is the power of Orpheus’ song against the sombre forces of the neth-
erworld, listed individually. They are, as it were, transformed and Orpheus
is able to regain Eurydice. This unambitious poem belonging to school
literature is rather to be addressed as a kind of reflection than an actual
narrative.60
58 Schaller/Könsgen (1977/2005) no. 1487/14268; edited by Dümmler (1884). It is unclear

whether originally the entire narrative had been put into verse or not; at least some verses
seem to be missing at the end of the known text.
59 Walther (21969) no. 13493; Meyer (1970) 45–48, no. 3.
60 Bulst (1975) 11–12 (cf. 24).
A narrative complex often dealt with by authors of the High and Late
Middle Ages is the Tale of Troy.61 Voluminous Latin epics like Joseph
Iscanus’ (= Joseph of Exeter’s, † after 1193) Ylias or Albert of Stade’s
(† prob. after 1265) Troilus, remain out of consideration. But there are
some poems of moderate size giving expression to a particular aspect of
this legend. Let us start with Simon Aurea Capra’s (mid-twelfth-century)
Ylias, a short depiction of the Trojan War in distichs followed by the
Aeneas narrative so to speak as a second book. Three or even four dif-
ferent versions of the text are in existence, the last and most voluminous
comprising 994 verses.62 This schoolmaster-like pedagogic poem is an
example of an approach we meet often in the Middle Ages: an antique
theme finds resonance in a manageably sized poem as a kind of compact
imparting of knowledge; shortness is here part of the agenda and occa-
sionally the poets are indeed very proud of it.63
Somewhat earlier (c.1100/1130) we find the influential artistic elegy
Pergama flere volo Grecis fato data solo. Therein not only the events are
recounted—from a Trojan point of view—but in the face of the misery of
the town, a mournful retrospective of its former splendour is developed,
and one character, Hecuba, bewails its fate.64
Of a similar character and indeed influenced by this latter text is the
elegiac Troy epitome Viribus, arte, minis Danaum clara (sic?) Troia ruinis,
a poem in distichs presenting in its 124 verses both the Trojan and the
Aeneas theme. This poem was written by Petrus Sanctonensis (Petrus of
Saintes) possibly around AD 1140.65
Equally in elegiac metre, though not elegiac in tone, is Fervet amore
Paris, also summarising the Trojan and the Aeneid theme: mythological
information is here presented in a very concise, virtually epigrammatic
style. One could even call it an example of mnemonic poetry. This text
with many a borrowing from the two previously discussed ones was writ-
ten around 1150/60 apparently by Petrus Riga (c.1130–1209), canonicus at
Reims and famous for his Aurora, a Bible paraphrase in verse.66
61 A short survey with further bibliographical references: Wollin (2004) 393–395.
62 Manitius (1931) 645–646; see above all: Stohlmann (1976).
63 Cf. Curtius (1948) 479–485, especially 484 on short adaptations of antique themes in
the twelfth century.
64 Walther (21969) no. 13985; Carmina Burana no. 101, ed. Vollmann (1987) 370–379 (see
also 1080–1081); cf. Wollin (2004) 395–396.
65 Walther (21969) no. 20582; Manitius (1931) 647; Wollin (2004) 395.
66 Walther (21969) no. 6462; Carmina Burana no. 102, ed. Vollmann (1987) 378–387 (see
also 1081–1082); fundamental: Wollin (2004), including a new edition of two versions of
the text in parallel.
We may further compare two more poems by the already mentioned

Hugh Primas. One of them, incipit Urbs erat illustris, quam belli clade
bilustris, relates a plaint from a contemporary’s point of view on Troy’s
fall, by contrasting the former glory with the “present” wretched state.
Lack of piety and of manners are said to be the reasons for the downfall.
The poem hints that one character (possibly Ulysses) utters this plaint at
a banquet, as Aeneas related the Tale of Troy at a banquet in Carthage
(Aeneid Books 2 and 3).67
In the other of these two poems of Hugh’s, Post rabiem rixe redeunte
bilustris Ulixe, “Ulixes” and T(e)iresias face each other. In the tenth year of
his Odyssey, the hero asks the seer at Thebes whether he will be granted
to return home and how his family fares. The poet knew this motive from
Horace’s Sermones 2.5. Like in the introductory verses there, here the com-
pletely impecunious hero is worried how to get the riches needed to suc-
cour his harried wife. While Horace uses his allusion to this episode as
an introduction to his giving ironic instructions on legacy hunting, Hugh
moulds this theme on a serious level where the Ulixes character repre-
sents the self-styling author asking for remuneration, or indeed begging
for it.68
A mediaeval poet might also take a fully developed antique Latin
account of an episode within the Trojan War as a starting point for imi-
tation. So Ovid’s copious depiction of the argument between Ajax and
Ulysses over the dead Achilles’ arms by a long speech of the two contes-
tants each69 twice allured a mediaeval poet to a similar creation (probably
in the twelfth century): one of them remains rather close to the Ovidian
model though he shortens it significantly, the other one disengages fur-
ther from his model while interlacing sundry considerations of his own.70
The retrospect to Ovid is close to ubiquitous in the High Middle Ages,
the aetas Ovidiana. Thus there are repeated attempts of new adaptations
of the story of Pyramus and Thisbe. We cannot go into this topic more
deeply here; let us just observe that first we encounter freer adaptations,
whereas later texts seek again a rapprochement to the antique author.71
67 Walther (21969) no. 19715; Meyer (1970) 61–63, no. 9. Meyer surmises that this poem,
together with poem 10 (right afterwards), formed a larger poetic complex on Troy, though
it is unclear whether it was ever completed.
68 Walther (21969) no. 14338; Meyer (1970) 64–70, no. 10 (see also 101–104); cf. Gwara
(1992).
69 Ov. Met. 12.604–628 and 13.1–398.
70 Walther (21969) no. 9560/20217; edited by Schmidt (1964); cf. Walther (21984) 91–93
and 266–267.
71 For all details see Smolak (1992).
But not only the author of the Metamorphoses but also the one of the
Ars amatoria was an inspiration: a first-person narrative with the title De
nuncio sagaci (also Ovidius puellarum) about an amorous adventure has
survived in a fragmentary form (377 hexameters). Some three quarters of
it are character speeches or dialogues; it seems to have been composed in
the twelfth century in France.72
In the cross-talk between Ajax and Ulysses referred to above, we have
already met an example of the richly developed genre of debate poetry
where differing points of view are expressed with a lively exchange
between the speakers. There are, however, only few texts in this genre
that deal with antique mythological topics, but there are some narrations
based on fictitious situations of conflict, like in the controversiae on law-
court themes in ancient Rome. The Versus de geminis languentibus, incipit
Roma duos habuit, versify a pseudo-Quintilian declamation in 76 hexam-
eters. Identical twins fall ill, and the doctors are helpless, so they advise to
kill one of the two in order to find the cause of the illness in his dissection
and save the other one. The father agrees, and the surviving boy is cured,
but the mother takes her husband to court.73
The poem Mathematicus (“The Astrologer”) or Patricida harks back to
another declamatio. A famous writer, Bernard Silvestris († prob. after 1159)
displays a tragic story in 854 verses (distichs): parents receive a prophecy
that their future son will kill his father. The child is to be killed, but the
mother has it nurtured in secret. Because of his military prowess against
the Carthaginians the king of Rome consigns him eventually the govern-
mental power. After his parents disclose themselves to him, he decides
to anticipate his fate by committing suicide. A deliberation in the Senate
then ensues; the conclusion remains unclear.74
During the High Middle Ages the notions comedia and tragedia were
known although no clear conception of their scenic nature was available.
Thus in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries a major number of comediae
or droll stories in verse (elegiac distichs) were created, often comprising
large portions of character speech but of a generally narrative nature—
one of them, the De nuncio sagaci was mentioned above. Narrative trage-
diae on the other hand, are much rarer. Apart from the aforementioned
Mathematicus, the narrative in verse De Affra et Flavio may be booked
72 Walther (21969) no. 18787; Manitius (1931) 1031–1032; Edition: Lieberz (1980).
73 Walther (21969) no. 16848; edition: Werner (21905) 55–58, no. 137. Ps.-Quint. Decl. 8.
74 Walther (21969) no. 17506; Manitius (1931) 861–863; editions: d’Alessandro (1994) and
Prelog/Heim/Kießlich (1993). Ps.-Quint. Decl. 4.
here: Affra’s husband brings her to court for alleged adultery during his
absence. She is banned to an island together with their little son; she kills
him and eats him there. When she returns, she sues her husband, who is
found guilty, but in the end the woman incriminates herself and seeks
death.75
This story’s cruelty is possibly even exceeded by the narrative of the
Due lotrices, incipit Quasdam turma ducum firmas obsederat arces. In 126
hexameters the poem recounts a siege of a castle with sixty men and
two washerwomen, each of whom serves half of them—also sexually—,
within. As the group arrangement is violated, a bloodbath ensues. This
nasty piece still deserves our attention as it was constructed by the author
of one of the most important poetics of the High Middle Ages, John of Gar-
land (prob. c.1195–shortly after 1272), in order to give a concrete example
for the notion tragedia according to the meagre knowledge then available
for this empty space within the system of genres.76
Thus, there are some texts that could be described with the questionable
concept “epyllion” if necessary and if one takes into account some merely
external criteria. Nonetheless, most of the many and variegated creations
that arose from a productive poetic adaptation of antique mythology and
poetry, many of them of high quality, would not fit into such a category.
What riches of personal experience, evocative reflections, creative visuali-
sation, and experimenting with new and trend-setting forms is contained
in the thousands of texts that will not fit such a mould! Besides, this result
confirms the rule of thumb, ever and again proving well-founded, that
on the one hand many a topic from pagan Roman antiquity is reused in
a fruitful manner, and, on the other hand, a broad spectrum of ancient
literary forms is imitated—but hardly ever both together.
Bibliography: Primary Texts
Bertini (1994): Ferruccio Bertini (ed.), Tragedie latine del XII e XIII secolo, Genoa.
—— (1995): id. (ed., tr., comm.), Letaldo di Micy. Within piscator, Florence.
Bonvicino (1994): Raffaella Bonvicino (ed., tr., comm.), ‘Due Lotrices’ di Giovanni di Garlan-
dia, in: Bertini (1994) 271–327.
Bulst (1975): Walther Bulst (ed., comm.), Carmina Leodiensia, Heidelberg.
Colker (1978): Marvin L. Colker (ed.), Galteri de Castellione Alexandreis, Padua.
d’Alessandro (1994): Teresa d’Alessandro (ed., tr., comm.), Mathematicus sive Patricida di
Bernardo Silvestre, in: Bertini (1994) 7–159.
75 Walther (21969) no. 3176; Manitius (1931) 1023–1024; edition: Landi (1994).
76 Edition: Bonvicino (1994).
Dümmler (1884): Ernst Dümmler (ed.), “Gesta Apollonii,” in: Poetae Latini aevi Carolini,
vol. 2, Berlin, 483–506 [reprint: Munich 1978].
Könsgen (1990): Ewald Könsgen (ed.), Die Gesta militum des Hugo von Mâcon. Ein bisher
unbekanntes Werk der Erzählliteratur des Hochmittelalters, 2 vols., Leiden et al.
Landi (1994): Federica Landi (ed., tr., comm.), De Affra et Flavio, in: Bertini (1994) 161–269.
Langosch (1956): Karl Langosch (ed., tr.), Waltharius. Ruodlieb. Märchenepen. Lateinische
Epik des Mittelalters mit deutschen Versen, Basel/Stuttgart.
Lieberz (1980): Gregor Lieberz (ed., tr., comm.), Ovidius puellarum (“De nuncio sagaci” ),
Frankfurt a.M. / Bern / Cirencester.
Meyer (1970): Wilhelm Meyer (ed.), Die Oxforder Gedichte des Primas (des magisters Hugo
von Orléans), Darmstadt.
Prelog/Heim/Kießlich (1993): Jan Prelog / Manfred Heim / Michael Kießlich (eds., trs.),
Bernardus Silvestris. Mathematicus, St. Ottilien.
Schmidt (1964): Paul Gerhard Schmidt (ed.), “ ‘Causa Aiacis et Ulixis I–II’. Zwei ovidianiÂ�
sche Streitgedichte des Mittelalters,” in: Mittellateinisches Jahrbuch 1, 100–132.
Silagi (1999): Gabriel Silagi (ed.), “Willetrudis versus de Susanna: eine unbeachtete Frauen-
dichtung aus dem 13. Jahrhundert,” in: Aevum 73, 371–384.
Vollmann (1987): Benedikt Konrad Vollmann (ed., tr., comm.), Carmina Burana. Texte und
Übersetzungen, Frankfurt a.M.
Werner (21905): Jakob Werner (ed.), Beiträge zur Kunde der lateinischen Literatur des Mit-
telalters aus Handschriften gesammelt, Aarau.
Short Mythological Epic in Neo-Latin Literature*
Martin Korenjak
This article falls into two parts. First, I will try to give an overview of Neo-
Latin texts that could be classified as epyllia as the term is commonly
understood: short mythological hexameter narratives that either consti-
tute a poem of their own or a clearly defined part of a longer poem.1 After
that, I will ask whether it makes sense to speak of the epyllion as a genre
with respect to Neo-Latin literature. Since Neo-Latin poetry is as poorly
known as it is abundantly preserved, my comments cannot be but selec-
tive and provisional.
1. Short Mythological Epic in Neo-Latin Literature
1.1. Preconditions
At least in two respects, Neo-Latin literature provided favourable condi-
tions for the composition of short mythological epics. On the one hand,
the epic genre in general was very popular and flourished in many dif-
ferent varieties: encomiastic, biblical, hagiographic, burlesque, didactic
epics, and so on were written in huge quantities.2
On the other hand, the would-be author of a short mythological epic
had at his disposal a vast array of models. The better part of the pertinent
texts from antiquity known to us today already circulated in early modern
* My heartfelt thanks go to Florian Schaffenrath as well as to the organizers of and

participants in the enjoyable epyllion conference at Zurich. This article has profited a lot
from their criticisms and suggestions. Gerald Bechtle and Stefan Tilg had the kindness to
check my English.
1 On brevity, mythological content, and the hexameter as constitutive criteria of the
epyllion see, e.g., Vessey (1970) 38; Fantuzzi (1998a) 31–32. Poems in other metres, esp.
in elegiacs, are sometimes called epyllia, too (Fantuzzi [1998a] 31), but this seems self-
contradictory to me. On the other hand, there seems no cogent reason to exclude distinct
episodes within longer poems (cf. Fantuzzi [1998a] 33). As a matter of fact, a piece such as
the story of Aristaeus in Vergil’s Georgics is often referred to as “the Aristaeus epyllion.” As
Tilg shows in his article in this companion, there exists a handful of Neo-Latin occasional
poems that call themselves epyllia, but none of them is one by modern standards.
2 Ijsewijn/Sacré (1998) 24–45 provide a first overview. Hofmann (2001) is more
detailed.
520 martin korenjak
times. A few were taken over as classics and schooltexts from antiquity
and the Middle Ages. Most of the rest could be read in printed editions
from the early sixteenth century on at the latest.3
To begin with the Greek texts: The short epic poems of Theocritus
(Id. 13, 18, 22, 24–26) were commonly accessible since their editio princeps,
a 1480 Accursiana. Musaeus’ Hero and Leander was very popular since it
first came out in 1494; not only did it go through many more editions,
it could also be read in a number of Latin and vernacular translations.
Europa by Moschus was first printed in a 1495 Theocritus Aldina; it was
also available in Latin since 1565. The pseudo-Hesiodean Aspis was often
printed, if seldom translated, together with the rest of Hesiod’s œuvre
since the latter first came out in an Aldina in 1495/96. Triphiodorus’ Tak-
ing of Ilios first appeared, together with Quintus Smyrnaeus’ Posthomerica
and Colluthus’ Rape of Helen, in an Aldina in 1504/05, and saw half a dozen
more editions until the early seventeenth century. Colluthus’ short epic
was even more popular and was several times translated into Latin during
the sixteenth century.
As to Roman literature, everybody knew Catullus’ Carmen 64 and the
story of Aristaeus at the end of the Georgics (Georg. 4.315–558) as a mat-
ter of course. The short mythological inserts contained in most long epics
must have been well known, too. This is true for the story of Cacus in the
Aeneid (Aen. 8.185–275), the narratives of Antaeus and Medusa in Lucan’s
Bellum Civile (Luc. 4.593–655, 9.621–699), the story of Hypsipyle in Statius’
Thebaid (Theb. 5.49–498), a similar episode as well as a song by Orpheus
about Io and the Bosporus in Valerius Flaccus (Val. Flac. 2.82–310, 4.344–
421), and a number of comparable stories in Silius’ Punica.4 It also holds
good a fortiori for the some 250 mythological episodes that make up
Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Less famous examples were not difficult to access
either. For example, the Ciris could be read together with the rest of the
Appendix Vergiliana since 1471, and Ausonius’ Amor cruciatus (op. 19) was
often reprinted together with his other works since 1472.
There was, however, one important factor that militated against the
short mythological epic, namely, the comparative unpopularity of myth
3 The following overview is based on Egger/Landfester (2007). Among the short mytho-
logical epics that became known only after the sixteenth century are Reposianus’ Con-
cubitus Martis et Veneris (edited first in the Anthologia Latina in 1759, but manuscripts
circulated at an earlier date, cf. Zuccarelli [1972] 85–86), the Orestis tragoedia (first edition
1858), Dracontius’ Romulea 2, 8 and 10 (1871 and 1873) and the Aegritudo Perdiccae (1904).
4 Cf., e.g., Sil. Pun. 7.162–211 (Bacchus bestows the gift of wine upon Falernus), 8.44–201
(the story of Dido’s sister Anna), 13.30–81 (the story of the Palladium).
short mythological epic in neo-latin literature 521
as an epic subject in general. In the eyes of Christian authors and readers,

myth had lost much of its dignity, and it therefore seemed questionable
whether it was still an apt topic for one of the highest literary genres. For
this reason, panegyrical, biblical and hagiographical epics became more
frequent than mythological ones.5
As a result, short mythological epics account only for a tiny fraction of
the Neo-Latin poetry produced in early modern times. For example, the
some 60,000 printed pages of the POEMATA collection within the com-
prehensive internet corpus CAMENA apparently do not contain a single
instance in spite of CAMENA’s professed effort to display the whole wealth
of genres in Neo-Latin literature.6
The pertinent material that can be found elsewhere falls into three
groups, each of which will now be presented with a number of represen-
tatives: mythological episodes in didactic epics; mythological episodes in
long narrative epics; and self-contained poems.
1.2. Mythological Episodes in Didactic Epics

Didactic epic belongs to the best-explored genres of Neo-Latin literature.7
The role played by mythological episodes in many of its several hundred
representatives has repeatedly attracted scholarly interest.8 For this rea-
son, I can limit myself to a selective summary of the results of previous
research.
Short mythological epics within didactic poems mainly followed two
models: the story of Aristaeus in Vergil’s Georgics, the most important
archetype of the didactic genre, on the one hand, and the aetiological
myth of transformation in Ovid’s Metamorphoses on the other. Both could
meaningfully be adapted in a didactic context: the former in order to
trace cultural achievements back to their inventor, the latter to explain
striking features of nature. The didactic poet was not bound to retell an
5 See Ijsewijn/Sacré (1998) 26–31; Hofmann (2001) 137–139, 143–173.

6 Cf. <http://www.uni-mannheim.de/mateo/camenahtdocs/camenapoem.html> (accessed
June 17, 2012). Since CAMENA focuses on the German speaking countries, this gap could
also indicate that short mythological epics were more or less popular at different times and
places, as was the case with other Neo-Latin genres, too (cf., e.g., Ludwig [1982] 155 on didactic
epic).
7 Ludwig (1982) is a seminal study. Haskell (2003) explores the later stages of the genre.
For further literature, see also Ijsewijn/Sacré (1998) 38–45 and Hofmann (2003) 343–345.
8 Cf. recently the detailed account of Hofmann (2003); for an estimate of the number of
didactic epics known so far see there at 350. Haskell (2003) also provides much material of
interest: see her index s.v. “Ovid” and “Vergil—Aristaeus epyllion recast.”
522 martin korenjak
ancient myth, but could also invent a new one attuned to the content of
his poem.9
A good example of a mythological episode in a didactic poem that
closely imitates Vergil is provided by the end of the second and originally
last Book of Girolamo Fracastoro’s Syphilis, first published at Verona in 1530
(Syph. 2.281–423).10 It tells the story of the Syrian hunter Ilceus who was
struck with syphilis by Diana and Apollo because he had killed a sacred
stag but managed to propitiate the gods with a sacrifice on the advice of
the nymphs Callirhoe and Lipare. Thereupon, he found a quicksilver foun-
tain in the bowels of the earth and was cured of his illness. The traces of
the Vergilian model are obvious: an exotic, oriental setting, a hero living
on the borders of civilization, guilt, divine wrath, sickness, helpful god-
desses, sacrifice, catabasis, salvation, and last but not least the placement
of the story at the original end of the work—all this is taken over from
Vergil. Yet Fracastoro also brings in a number of conspicuous variations;
for example, Aristaeus’ mother Cyrene is “split” into two nymphs, neither
of whom is Ilceus’ mother; contrariwise, Ilceus himself combines features
of Aristaeus (guilt), his bees (sickness), and Orpheus (catabasis).
As a paradigm of an Ovidian short epic one may cite an invention of
the French Jesuit René Rapin. In his Hortorum libri IV (Paris 1665), Rapin
explains the origin of the tulip as follows (Hort. 1.301–342): beautiful
Tulipa, daughter of Proteus and a naiad from the river Timavus, once fled
from the advances of lecherous Vertumnus and finally was changed into
a tulip.11
In many cases, however, Vergil and Ovid were imitated with greater
freedom. In the course of the long history of the didactic epic in modern
times—such poems were written till well into the twentieth century12—
their parameters were varied in the most different ways. Quite often,
mythological episodes were inserted serially. This was the case, for exam-
ple, in many poems on astronomy where every constellation could get its
own καταστερισμός.13 Also, in Rapin’s Hortorum libri IV, the Tulipa story
is only one of some forty metamorphoses that are partly conceived in
9 On newly invented myths in Neo-Latin literature in general see, e.g., Ijsewijn/Sacré
(1990) 20.
10 Important modern editions are Eatough (1984), with helpful commentary, and
Wöhrle (1988); on the poem’s history of composition, see there at 21 and 16 respectively.
On the Ilceus narrative, cf. also Hofmann (2003) 357–358.
11 Cf. Haskell (2003) 27; Hofmann (2003) 364.
12 See Ijsewijn/Sacré (1998) 38, 346.
13 See Hofmann (2003) 355–356, esp. 355 n. 59.
Ovidian manner, partly even simply taken over from Ovid.14 Many of
them, however, do not encompass more than a couple of verses.
More elaborate mythological narrations are contained, for example, in
the eight books of Nautica by Nicolò Partenio Giannettasio (Naples 1685).15
Giannettasio tells three quite long stories of Vergilian inspiration that are,
moreover, connected to each other:16 in his third Book (Naut. 3.352–475),
he relates how Flavio Gioia from Amalfi17 received the first compass as a
gift from his mother, the sea nymph Beronia who had got it herself from
Proteus in person. In the finale of the fourth Book, that is, of the first
half of the work (Naut. 4.808–1051), the frustrated sailor Nisus is sent to
Glaucus by his mother, the nymph Beroe. Glaucus teaches him how to
tackle three problems of navigation: the different currents of the Mediter-
ranean, the declination of the compass needle, and inaccurate sea charts.
Towards the end of the last Book (Naut. 8.633–1065), we are presented
with a Columbus narrative:18 on Teneriffa, the discoverer climbs the Pico
del Teide, whence his mother, the muse Urania, takes him on a celes-
tial trip in order to inform him about the location and the characteristics
of America. It is easy to see that these three pieces follow each other in
ascending order of length and that they constitute three chapters, so to
speak, of the same story: the first and second provide important prerequi-
sites for the discovery of America adumbrated in the third.19
Marco Girolamo Vida follows an approach that is converse to this
“serialisation” of mythical episodes in his De bombyce libri II (“Two books
14 See Ludwig (1982) 163–164; Haskell (2003) 26–27; Hofmann (2003) 363–366; Mon-
real (2004). Given such inflationary use, it makes sense that “narrative insert” and “meta-
morphosis story” could almost be treated as synonyms. For example, Francesco Eulalio
Savastano SJ promises to sweeten his dry, scientific subject matter with fabulas et meta-
morphoses in the preface to his Botanicorum seu institutionum rei herbariae libri IV (Naples
1712; cited after Ludwig [1982] 169).
15 Cf. lastly Schindler (2001).
16 Schindler (2001) 157–158; Hofmann (2003) 367–369.
17 An unhistorical character who owes his existence to a misunderstanding (Frugoni
[2003] 156–157).
18 This has been a favourite of scholarship: see the bibliography in Schindler (2001)
145–146 n. 1.
19 In the first and the last story, Giannettasio tells about (pseudo-)historical heroes and
events, but he at least locates them in a mythical environment. In other Neo-Latin didac-
tic epics, imitations of the Aristaeus narrative could even be filled with purely historical,
but also with Christian contents (Hofmann [2003] 383–387). The former may have been
facilitated by the then common euhemeristic approach to myth that saw it as history in
disguise (cf. Hofmann [2003] 389–390 on a euhemeristic interpretation of Proteus in a
eighteenth-century didactic epic: Proteus as a brillant actor), the latter by the belief in a
Vergilius Christianus.
524 martin korenjak
on the silkworm,” Rome 1527),20 where he splits a continuous narration

about the invention of silk manufacture in two:21 at the end of the first
Book (Bomb. 1.395–430) he narrates how Saturnus, fleeing into the woods
from Jupiter, discovered silkworms there. After Venus had helped him in
a love affair, he presented them to her as a gift of gratitude. In Book Two
(Bomb. 2.211–257) it is told how the goddess let her children, the Erotes,
play with the caterpillars, which soon led to the latters’ death. Venus
thereupon descended to the netherworld and convinced Pluto to resur-
rect the caterpillars as butterflies. With this remarkable story, Vida ele-
gantly combines Vergilian (death of insects, catabasis) and Ovidian (love,
metamorphosis) traditions of mythological narrative.22
In his brilliant Scacchia ludus (Rome 1527, together with De bombyce),23
the same author goes even further in his play with the role of the myth-
ological episode in didactic epic: the latter is now downright devoured
by the former.24 The poem’s didactic content, the game of chess and its
rules, is presented en passant within a narrative about the wedding of
Oceanus and Tellus (one remembers the frame of Catullus’ Carmen 64):
in the course of the festivities, Oceanus showed the hitherto unknown
game to the invited gods and explained its rules; then Apollo and Mercury
played an exhibition match in front of an eagerly participating audience.
But with Scacchia ludus, we have already crossed the border to the self-
contained short epic. Let us first have a look at mythological episodes
inserted in long narrative epics.
1.3. Mythological Episodes in Long Narrative Epics

Not every kind of long epic provided a favourable environment for such
episodes. Within a Christian epic, a mythological narrative could easily
20 For further editions (the latest so far from 1893), translations, and secondary litera-
ture see di Cesare (1974) 17–86, 99–120, 281–312. Translations from Latin are my own.
21 Cf. lastly Hofmann (2003) 359–363.
22 In addition, Vida creates a purely Ovidian narrative to mark the closure of De bom-
byce: Serius, king of the Chinese, brought silk industry to Italy by donating silk dresses and
silkworm eggs to his beloved, the nymph Phaetusa; finally, he was transformed into the
Serio, an affluent of the Po (Bomb. 2.387–438). This story is not really split in two, but at
least prepared by an invocation of the nymphae Seriades, the daughters of Serius, in the
proem (Bomb. 1.4–6). In a sense, it thus frames the whole poem.
23 Important modern editions include di Cesare (1975) and Hoffmann/Ludwig (1979)
(with excellent introduction). For older editions and secondary literature, see di Cesare
(1974) 121–166, 281–312.
24 The idea is imitated in an eighteenth-century poem on musicology; cf. Hofmann
(2003) 382–383.
seem out of place.25 In a mythological epic, it would not provide much

variation. Thus, Christian and mythological epics usually do without
mythological inserts. By contrast, the latter are not rare in historical and
panegyrical epics.26
Since Vergil’s story of Aristaeus and Ovid’s Metamorphoses were the
inspiration for mythological inserts in the didactic epic, one might expect
something like a combination of the Cacus narrative in Aeneid 8 and the
Metamorphoses in the present case. In effect, however, there are as good
as no traces of the Aeneid ’s and its ancient successors’ mythological epi-
sodes. Ovid enjoys unrestricted predominance.27
There seem to be two reasons for this. While the first is obvious—Cacus
is much less prominent in the Aeneid than Aristaeus in the Georgics—, the
second is less apparent, but possibly more important: immensely popular
as they were in early modern times, Ovid’s Metamorphoses did not find any
adequate generic successors. The highly complex structure of this giant
epic, composed as it is of some 250 artfully interwoven episodes, appar-
ently deterred even the most ambitious epicists from a serious attempt at
imitating it.28 Under such conditions, the idea must have suggested itself
to make good for this neglect by picking out single stories while bypass-
ing the problem of the overall composition.29 In doing so, one could also
attractively contrast the Vergilian diction and often laboured heroism of
one’s epic as a whole with the Ovidian language as well as the erotic and
fantastic content of the inserted episodes.
Tito Vespasiano Strozzi’s Borsias provides us with a good example of
such an Ovidian insert.30 This ambitious but unfinished epic about Borso
25 Jacopo Sannazaro introduced the river god Iordanes and made him deliver a proph-
ecy of Proteus at the end of his De partu virginis (Part. virg. 3.281–504; cf. Hofmann [2001]
164–165). But he was soon criticized for doing so, and his first translator Giovanni Giolito
de’ Ferrari simply replaced Proteus with Isaiah (Prandi [2001] 53–57).
26 On these epic sub-genres, see Hofmann (2001) 146–161.
27 The story of Aristaeus was sometimes imitated within long epics, too (Hofmann
[2001] 135), but this was mostly limited to the adoption of a few characteristic elements,
as in Sannazaro’s De partu virginis (see my n. 25 above).
28 For a handful of imitations on a smaller scale in early eighteenth-century poetry of
the Habsburg monarchy see Hofmann (2001) 135 and 154–155. A case apart is Girolamo
Giuseppe Milio’s Hercules Benacensis (Brescia 1575), a poem that explains the geography of
the Lake Garda area by means of a number of metamorphoses that have taken place there
during a visit of the eponymous hero or were narrated to him. This text only comprises 678
verses and thus belongs to the many varieties of the self-contained short mythological epic
to be discussed below. Cf. Elwert (1971) 167–171; Hofmann (2003) 372.
29 The same advantage applies if single episodes of the Metamorphoses are developed
into full-scale epics; on such cases, see Hofmann (2001) 143.
30 See Ludwig (1977), esp. 302–306.
526 martin korenjak
d’Este (1413–1471), composed in several steps between 1460 and 1505, con-
tains in its fifth Book (Bors. 5.439–508) a story about the metamorphosis
of a certain Cedrea into a Little Egret. Within the epic, this narrative is
addressed to Giovanni Pontano; he learns about Cedrea’s fate from the
charming nymph Glaucia he meets somewhere in the woods near the
little village of Codrea during a jaunt to the surroundings of Ferrara.
The goddess of the respective grove is the nymph Cedrea, daughter of the
skilled farmer and gardener Phytales. When her father wanted her to marry,
she joined the company of Diana instead and soon became her dearest com-
panion. While she took a bath, the river god Sandalus, a son of Eridanus,
tried to rape her. She sent a desperate prayer to Diana and was changed into
a Little Egret such as are still frequent in the area.
The Ovidian inspiration of this little piece is obvious from the outset. Plot
and characters are mainly taken over from the story of Apollo and Daphne
(Met. 1.452–567), but also from those of Syrinx (Met. 1.689–712) and of Cal-
listo (Met. 2.401–530). The metamorphosis itself is an ornithogony, one
of the most common types of transformation in Ovid’s epic. There are
also many verbal echoes, mainly from the aforementioned episodes. But
Strozzi skilfully adapts his borrowings from Ovid to the local circum-
stances: Cedrea is said to have lent her name to nearby Codrea (Bors.
5.476–477, cf. also 5.387–388). Sandalus, son of Eridanus, represents the
Sandalo, one of the river channels in the Po delta, where the Little Egret
still breeds today.
The pattern exemplified by the Borsias did not change materially in
the course of the next centuries. A case in point is the Columbus of Uber-
tino Carrara SJ (Rome 1715).31 Although all three mythological narratives
in this twelve-book discoverer epic are longer and more complex than
Strozzi’s story about Cedrea, they resemble it in their thoroughly Ovid-
ian layout. In Book Two (Columb. 2.302–578), Theromantis, a priestess of
Fortuna at the Fortunate Isles, tells Columbus’ sailors the story, involving
several transformations, of Bacchus and Eutychie who finally became For-
tuna. In Book Three (Columb. 3.123–210), the divinity of a locus amoenus
on the Canary Islands recounts to Columbus the metamorphosis of the
nymph Canaria into a sycamore tree and the creation of the canary. The
tenth Book (Columb. 10.784–962) contains a story told by the beautiful
cannibal Vasilinda to Columbus’ son Fernandus in order to explain the
31 Latest edition: Schaffenrath (2006). On the epic’s mythological inserts, see Hofmann
(1995).
enmity between her own people, worshippers of Nox, and the Cubans,
devotees of Phoebus: the latter once loved Nox, but his love turned into
bitter hatred when she despised him.
1.4. Self-Contained Short Mythological Epics

As a self-contained text, the short mythological epic is still rarer than
within longer poems, but it is much more versatile in terms of content
and form. Tragedy is found alongside broad humour, erotism, and edifi-
cation; Ovid provides a point of reference together with Catullus, Vergil,
and others. A handful of examples may adumbrate the many possibilities
of this variety of epic.
Maffeo Vegio’s Astyanax, composed around 1430, is among the earli-
est short mythological epics of the Renaissance. In 318 verses, the work
recounts the assassination of its little eponymous hero, exacted by
Agamemnon and organized by Ulysses, and closes with the cruel victors’
departure.32 As far as we know, the subject was never treated in epic
form before. That is why Vegio mostly follows a dramatic source, Seneca’s
Troades, as far as the plot is concerned. This model makes itself strongly
felt in other respects, too: more than two-thirds of the text are in direct
speech, and Vegio clearly strives for as much tragic pathos as possible.
The speeches of Andromache (Astyan. 181–188, 192–224, 261–309) and the
figure of Astyanax himself, who moves even the Greeks to tears with his
mixture of childish and heroic traits (Astyan. 221–235, 243–250), are also
designed to this end. A number of details that are partly prefigured in
Seneca but nevertheless remind a Christian audience of the Passion of
Christ can be seen in this light, too: Astyanax is hidden in his father’s
grave (Astyan. 138, cf. Troad. 483–488), his death is depicted as a vol-
untary self-sacrifice (Astyan. 163–165, 248–250, cf., e.g., Troad. 365–370,
1102–1103), and Andromache laments her dead son in the style of a Mater
Dolorosa (Astyan. 253–309).33 The diction, however, is predominantly Ver-
gilian. What is more, we also get two similes after models from the Aeneid
(Astyan. 150–154 < Aen. 9.59–64; Astyan. 228–234 < Aen. 12.749–757), and
there is a scene in heaven where Venus asks Jupiter in vain to have mercy
32 Putnam (2004) xxiii–xxviii, 42–65.

33 In adding such Christian overtones to the story, Vegio may have been inspired by the
widespread image of Seneca as sympathizing with Christianity or even Christian himself,
an idea that had already led to the late antique correspondence between him and St. Paul
and was nourished by this forgery in turn.
528 martin korenjak
on Astyanax (Astyan. 82–121). This of course evokes the more consensual

conversation between the same two gods at the beginning of the Aeneid
(Aen. 1.223–296), and Jupiter even consoles Venus with a reference to
Aeneas (Astyan. 113–121)—which makes the Astyanax appear as a kind of
little brother to the Aeneid, as it were, or even as a second, freer Aeneid
supplement coming after the famous 13th Book Vegio had composed two
years earlier.
Completely different from the Astyanax are the 609 hexameters of
Melchior Barlaeus’ De raptu Ganymedis liber, published at Antwerp in
1563 and dedicated to the patrician Jan Fleming.34 Its title covers only
the last part of a plot that differs in many respects from what we know
from ancient sources and is essentially taken from Boccaccio’s Genealogie
deorum gentilium 6.4 and 9.2.35
Having called upon the nymphs of Nemea36 (1–31), Barlaeus begins to tell
how Apollo invited the gods to a dinner party in honour of his stepmother
Juno (32–75). At this occasion, Jupiter complained to Venus that Juno had
not slept with him in a long time (76–105). Venus promised to help and
deliberated the matter first with Amor and then with Apollo (106–227). The
latter recommended lettuce as a remedy against Juno’s frigidity and straight-
away offered her some for dessert. It worked: Juno slept with Jupiter and
nine months later gave birth to Hebe, whom Jupiter appointed cupbearer
of the gods (228–308). At a feast in Egypt, however, Hebe slipped and fell
so unfortunately that all the gods got a look at her private parts (309–378).
Angrily, Jupiter removed her from office. He first wanted to banish her from
Olympus, too, but Apollo appeased him. Thus, Hebe was allowed to elect a
husband from the gods and chose Hercules (379–420). At her place, Jupiter
made his eagle rape beautiful Ganymede whom the gods enthusiastically
acclaimed as their new cupbearer (421–609).
This has of course nothing to do with tragic pathos. The poem could
rather be described as a burlesque of the gods.37 In the edition, it is indeed
accompanied by paraphrases in Latin elegiacs of Lucian’s Â�thematically
34 See Katona (2002).

35 Thus, the poem’s affiliation with the late antique “rape epic” tradition (Claudianus’
De raptu Proserpinae, Colluthus’ Rape of Helen, Dracontius’ De raptu Helenae [Romulea 8];
cf. Katona [2002] 215) is rather ostensive than real. Boccaccio’s work is accessible, e.g., in
Branca (1998).
36 The Nemean nymphs are connected to Hebe and her successor Ganymede via Her-
cules, husband of Hebe and slayer of the Nemean Lion. See also my n. 49 below.
37 However, burlesque epic or parody of epic strictly speaking, a series of -machiae in
the wake of the pseudo-Homeric Batrachomyomachia (Ijsewijn/Sacré [1998] 32–33; Hof-
mann [2001] 145–146), is something different. It constitutes an own, independent tradition
within Neo-Latin epic.
related Dialogues of the Gods 8 (Zeus and Hera) and 10 (Zeus and Gany-
mede), and Barlaeus calls attention to this in his dedicatory letter to Flem-
ing (§9). Throughout De raptu Ganymedis, the gods appear as gluttonous,
vain, coward and stupid; Jupiter and Venus in particular cut a sorry fig-
ure. Only two characters come across as likable—rational, level-headed
Apollo and Ganymede himself. In the latter case, this comes as no sur-
prise, since Barlaeus compares Fleming to the Trojan youth in §7 of the
dedicatory letter.
The 264 verses of the Narcissus, sive amoris iuvenilis et praecipue philau-
tiae brevis atque moralis descriptio (“Narcissus or short description from
an ethical viewpoint of juvenile love, especially self-love”) published by
John Clapham at London in 1591 and dedicated to his mentor, the Earl of
Southampton, belong to yet another category.38
Spring has come to the Fortunate Isles. Narcissus, son of Prosperitas and
Superbia (sic!), advances to the palace of Amor (1–66). There, he is received
by Pigrities and led on to Amor himself, who pierces him with an arrow (67–
96). Having him thus enslaved, he gives him an erotodidactic speech that
unexpectedly ends up with a somber prophecy about Narcissus’ self-love
and its dire consequences. Then, he sprinkles him with the water of Lethe
to the effect that Narcissus does not know himself anymore (97–149). The
youth mounts the fierce horse Libido that carries him away and brings him
down at the bank of the river Philautia (150–165). Seeing his reflection in the
river, he addresses it, and since Echo answers from a nearby mountain, he
believes in leading a true conversation (166–208). He falls more and more
in love with himself and finally drowns himself in the river out of despair
(209–244). Venus transforms him into a narcissus (245–264).
Quite obviously, this piece takes its cue from Ovid’s metamorphosis of
Narcissus (Met. 3.339–510), but at least as obviously, it departs from this
model in important ways. Its first two thirds, abounding in transparent
moral allegories, have no counterpart in Ovid, and Amor’s concluding
remarks connect them in quite a superficial way to the last, more Ovidian
part. Even there, Echo is degraded to a natural phenomenon, and Narcis-
sus drowns himself instead of simply dying on the edge. Finally, Venus is
38 See Martindale/Burrow (1992). The poem probably helped to motivate Shakespeare

to write Venus and Adonis (London 1593). It is in any case a Latin counterpart to it and
to a number of other short mythological epics in English composed towards the end of
the sixteenth-century (Thomas Lodge, Glaucus and Scylla, 1589; Shakespeare, The Rape
of Lucrece, 1594; Christopher Marlowe, Hero and Leander, 1598). Another Neo-Latin short
epic, John Dickenson’s Deorum consessus, was also published at London in 1591 (Ijsewijn/
Sacré [1998] 31; Hofmann [2001] 145).
530 martin korenjak
introduced to motivate his transformation. With these changes, Clapham

stands in the tradition of late medieval moralizing interpretations of the
Metamorphoses as exemplified by the Ovide moralisé.39 In his hands,
Ovid’s story becomes a warning of the dangers of riches, pride, laziness
and sexuality, but above all, as already signalled by the title, of self-love.
My last example, the 619 verses of the anonymous Sarca, can by con-
trast be called a typically humanistic product. Composed probably around
1530 and wrongly ascribed to Pietro Bembo, Sarca is quite a complex and
sophisticated short epic and a good representative of the then flourishing
poetry about Lake Garda and its surroundings.40
After an invocation of the Muses (1–19), it is first narrated how Sarca, the god
of the main feeder river of today’s Lake Garda, fell in love with the nymph
Garda (20–66). He tried in vain to rape her (67–121), then decided to ask
her father Benacus—apparently the personification of another feeder river,
though it is not clear of which—for her hand (122–150). Benacus granted
Sarca’s wish and the marriage was celebrated in the latter’s palace grotto
(151–196). A brief description of bridal bed and chamber follows, includ-
ing their decoration (197–233). Alongside many other guests (234–323), the
prophetess Manto had followed the invitation (324–342). After the feast and
the recitation of marriage songs (343–395), she raised (396–404) and deliv-
ered a long prophecy: The union stands under a lucky star (405–429). From
it, Lake Garda and his effluent, the Mincio, will arise (430–467). The latter
will in turn beget a great poet—easily recognizable as Vergil—together with
the nymph Maia (468–504). The poet’s life and works are described at some
length (505–613). After that, prophecy and poem close with a short address
to the bridal couple (614–619).
Again, this poem is in at least two respects a case apart compared with
the aforementioned pieces: Firstly, the author of Sarca is not content to
paraphrase or adapt an ancient myth. He rather creates a myth of his own
that explains how the geography of the Garda region came into being and,
in the latter’s name, lays claim to the greatness and the prestige of Vergil.
In doing so, he differs from all the other authors of self-contained short
mythological epics, but resembles those of didactic and long epics. Sec-
ondly, he ably combines two ancient literary models pertinent in terms
of genre:41 a god pursues a nymph, their union gives rise to a lake and a
39 Edited by de Boer (1915–1936); see also Jung (1994) with selected earlier literature.
40 Modern editions: Pighi/Ziegler (1974); Schönberger (1994). Pighi/Ziegler discuss the
question of authorship at 51–65, but Schönberger ignores their work and continues to
ascribe the poem to Bembo. For another poem on Lake Garda, see my n. 28 above.
41 Klecker (1994) 179–185 complements the following remarks by an acute analysis of
the poem’s references to models from Renaissance poetry, esp. Pontano and Poliziano.
river—this sounds like a story from the Metamorphoses. But it is elabo-

rated in a way reminiscent of the Roman poet who is most strongly associ-
ated with Lake Garda because of his poem on Sirmio (Carmen 31). Sarca is
unmistakably modelled on Catullus’ Carmen 64, even if its emphases are
placed differently:42 the events leading to the marriage correspond to Cat.
c. 64.1–30 where Peleus and Thetis meet and fall in love. The description
of the marriage matches Cat. c. 64.31–302, although its summary ecphrasis
of the bridal chamber compares neither in length nor importance to the
depiction, pivotal to Catullus’ poem, of the Ariadne myth on the cover
of Peleus’ and Thetis’ bridal bed. Finally, Manto’s prophecy about Vergil,
the descendant of the bridal pair, is inspired by the song of the Fates that
foretells the birth of Peleus’ and Thetis’ son Achilles (Cat. c. 64.303–381).
2. The Neo-Latin Epyllion?
Does it make sense to bring texts such as these together under the generic
label “epyllion”? Is “epyllion” a useful generic concept as far as Neo-Latin
literature is concerned? I do not think so.
The reason for this negative attitude is not the fact that early modern
literary criticism never shows any signs of awareness of such a genre and
that there is some positive evidence to show that it is unaware of it.43 As
Glenn Most once remarked, we should not feel bound by the limits of
contemporary criticism in this respect—otherwise we would have to deny
the existence of genres such as didactic epic or novel in antiquity.44 Nor
am I motivated by my conviction that we would be better off without the
epyllion in antiquity, too.45 Even provided I am right in this respect, if a
term is devoid of meaning for a given time and place, this does not mean
that it cannot make sense for any other era.
My objection to postulating a genre of epyllion in Neo-Latin literature
is rather that such a genre simply would not help us to come to terms
with its alleged exponents. To explain this crucial point somewhat more
42 The following observations are taken from Kofler (2006).

43 Julius Caesar Scaliger in his Poetices libri VII (modern edition: Deitz/Vogt-Spira
[1994–2008]), for one, was not afraid of postulating genres such as oaristys (“intimate con-
versation,” Poet. 3.101), apobaterion (“leavetaking poem,” Poet. 3.106) or inferiae (“poems on
occasion of a sacrifice to the dead,” Poet. 3.121), but did not venture to proclaim a genre
of epyllion. In comparing Musaeus to Homer (Poet. 5.2), he rather presumes that both
authors use the same genre.
44 Most (1981) 111.
45 See esp. Allen (1940).
532 martin korenjak
precisely: the concept of epyllion would help us understand the texts to

which it is applied if they not only fulfilled the criteria inherent in its very
definition—brevity, hexametric form, mythological content—but would
also be subject to a number of pertinent generic expectations. If this were
the case, the way a certain poem would deal with these expectations could
indeed tell us something important about it. To make this clear by way
of an example from ancient literature, it is not implicit in the concept of
long narrative epic that its exponents must contain a divine apparatus,
but there exists a generic expectation that they should. Lucan’s Bellum
Civile, by contrast, has none—which is generally and rightly deemed one
of its most telling characteristics.
Now, there are no such generic expectations that could meaningfully
be tied to a concept of epyllion in early modern times. This is true for all
three kinds of texts considered above—mythological episodes in didactic
epics, mythological episodes in long narrative epics, self-contained myth-
ological epics—, if for different reasons. As to the first two categories, to
label them epyllia would be too general. They both form part of longer
texts belonging to other, well-defined genres and within them look back
to quite specific models, namely the story of Aristaeus in Vergil’s Georgics
and the transformation story of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Such expectations
as they face are always bound up with these models. A short mythological
narrative that follows the fourth Book of the Georgics, for example, will
in most cases contain a problem to be solved and involve a prophecy. An
Ovidian insert will probably comprise not only a transformation but also
some eroticism. Why should we look for “epyllic” traits in these narratives
to the detriment of such specific and telling features?
The self-contained specimens should not be called epyllia for the oppo-
site reason. We have found them most different from one other in terms
of subject, disposition, narrative technique and attitude, style and so on—
from Vegio’s faithfully Senecan story line to the freely invented myth of
Sarca, from Vida’s artfully constructed chess poem to the clumsy struc-
ture of Clapham’s Narcissus, and from the tragic pathos of the Astyanax
to Barlaeus’ burlesque of the gods. Such expectations as all of them are
exposed to and such common traits as they develop in response are too
general to add up to a generic label. Broadly speaking, they simply reflect
the conscience of not being long epic—something true not only of short
mythological epic, but of other lesser forms of epic as well: bucolic, didac-
tic, burlesque, short hagiographic or biblical epic, and so on. A brief look
at some pertinent traits will confirm this.
For example, short mythological epics avoid titles of the type most
common for their long counterparts, that is, “proper name + -ias/-(e)is”
(Christias, Rhaeteis etc.; cf. Ilias and Aeneis). Instead, they prefer titles in
the simple nominative, as most of the examples discussed above. Besides,
the de + abl. form also occurs (De raptu Ganymedis liber). But eclogues,
didactic, short biblical, and burlesque epics are entitled in the same way.46
Another trait one may be tempted to call typically “epyllic” is the way
short mythological epics begin: while a long epic almost invariably starts
with an invocation of the Muses or, if it treats a religious topic, with a
prayer to God, Christ, the Virgin Mary, or a saint, this is not the rule with
short mythological epics.47 Their authors in most cases avoid invoking
such weighty, omniscient authorities. They rather like to jump in medias
res 48 or otherwise prefer to address minor deities such as nymphs.49 But
this, too, has parallels in other minor forms of epic: to go in medias res
is the rule in bucolic, for example, while Vida’s De bombyce invokes the
same nymphs, the Seriades, as his Scacchia ludus.50
One might also contend that short mythological epics avoid truly heroic
action. This is indeed true of all our examples discussed (although Vegio’s
Astyanax has a kind of heroism of his own). Conversely, whoever chose a
heroic myth as his subject preferred to treat it in a long epic—something
best demonstrated by an apparent exception, the only 1008 verses of Vegio’s
poem about the expedition of the Argonauts, the Vellus Aureum:51 Vegio
gives them no less than four books, which at least keeps up the appearance
of a full-scale heroic epic. But, again, do other forms of short epic such as
bucolic or burlesque epic abound in heroic feats? This, too, is no criterion
to mark off an alleged genre of epyllion from other short epics.
46 See the titles cited in Ijsewijn/Sacré (1998) 32–33, 38–42, and 62–64. For short bibli-
cal epic, see, e.g., Pietro Apollonio Collazio’s De duello Davidis et Goliae (c.1470/75, modern
edition: Manetti/Baldinotti/Cevolani [1992]).
47 However, Vegio in his Astyanax and the author of the Sarca do invoke the Muses.
48 Good examples are Clapham’s Narcissus or the Xenophontis Hercules of a certain
Daniel Asaricus (Gdansk c.1585).
49 Vida asks the Seriades, the daughters of the Serio river, to tell him about the first chess
match (Scacch. 5). The nymphs of Nemea are supposed to inform Barlaeus and his readers
about Hebe and Ganymede (Ganym. 1–31). Cf. Strozzi’s Borsias, where we hear a naiad recite
a short epic in person. Ancient precedents include Plat. Phdr. 238d, where Socrates thinks
himself “possessed by the nymphs,” Vergil’s call upon Arethusa at Ecl. 10.1, and Colluthus’
inauguration of the Rape of Helen with the nymphs of Troy (Rapt. Helen. 1–17).
50 See n. 22 above and cf. Hoffmann/Ludwig (1979) 6–8.
51 See Putnam (2004) xxviii–xxxvi, 66–129.
534 martin korenjak
Playfulness may appear as another promising aspect, especially as a

similar point is sometimes made regarding the ancient epyllion.52 Indeed,
authors of short mythological epics tended to be less serious about their
poems than authors of long epics. They could characterize them as mere
play, light reading, and the like.53 Yet this is just another characteristic
short mythological epic shared with bucolic, often regarded as a kind of
play since Vergil,54 and of course with burlesque epic.
A last point concerns the fact that short mythological epics were often
deemed a fitting genre for poetic newcomers. Most of the examples dis-
cussed above were written by young men who first tried their hand at
the epic genre.55 This is highlighted by the fact that some of them turned
to weightier forms of epic later in their career.56 Young poets even liked
to call attention to the smallness of their first epic essays and to promise
greater things for the future.57 However, this idea is by no means exclu-
52 Cf., e.g., Fantuzzi (1998a) 32 (“mit scherzhafter Leichtigkeit”).

53 Cf. Vida Scacch. 1–2: Ludimus effigiem belli simulataque veris / proelia, buxo acies fictas
et ludicra regna. (“I playfully describe a mere image of war, combats that imitate true ones,
battle rows made of boxwood and kingdoms for entertainment.”) Barlaeus characterizes
the Ganymedes as light reading in §10 and §19 of his dedicatory epistle to Fleming. Despite
its moralizing tendency, the Narcissus is called an ingenii levis atque otiosi indicium (“indi-
cation of a frivolous and idle mind”) in Clapham’s Epistola to the Earl of Southampton.
54 Cf. the programmatic use of ludere (“to play”) in Verg. Ecl. 1.10 and 6.1.
55 Vegio (1407–1458) wrote the Astyanax at twenty-three. Barlaeus (1540–c.1580) com-
posed the Ganymedes at about the same age. Clapham’s (1566–c.1620) Narcissus is the
work of a twenty-five-year-old. In addition, one could name, e.g., Tito Vespasiano Strozzi
(1425–1505) who wrote a short aetiological epic Lucilla nympha Rechanensis at eighteen in
1443 (modern edition: della Guardia [1916] 183–192; cf. Ludwig [1977] 16–17), and nineteen-
year-old Gianfranceso Conti (1484–1557) with his De Martis et Veneris concubitu (Pavia
1503; cf. Hofmann [2001] 144 n. 59).
56 For instance, Strozzi’s Lucilla was followed by the Borsias. Vegio almost systemati-
cally worked his way up through an epic cursus honorum. Having debuted in 1428 with a
mere appendix, the Aeneid supplement, he went on to write the Astyanax in 1430 and the
Vellus Aureum in 1431 before crowning his epic career in 1436/37 with a hagiographic poem,
the Antonias. All four works are edited by Putnam (2004).
57 Clapham underlines his youth in his Epistola by drawing a parallel between him-
self and his youthful hero: Nonnihil vereor, illustrissime Domine, ne multis ego cum Nar-
cisso meo . . . ipse etiam videar umbram affectare propriam et cum eodem prorsus insanire.
(“I am somewhat afraid, most illustrious lord, that I might seem to catch my own reflection
together with my Narcissus and to be utterly mad, just as he.”) Accordingly, he styles the
Narcissus a small, unimportant poem, speaking of it as quantulum<cum>que hoc poema.
Barlaeus calls De raptu Ganymedis one of his iuvenilibus poematiis (“little juvenile poems”)
in the dedicatory letter (§8). He has not dared yet to write a big work of many verses and
only composed a short booklet instead (§4, §6). This he pointedly opposes to the greater
things he will produce in the future, probably a religious epic (§18). Vida (c.1480–1566)
was already in his forties when he came forward with Scacchia ludus in 1527 but neverthe-
less purports in the proem (Scacch. 8) to have composed it audaci iuventa (“in his bold
youth”). This claim, which repeats a famous phrase by Vergil referring to his early work,
sively “epyllic” either. In fact, it is even more common in bucolic poetry,

deemed a typical beginner’s genre—Vergil’s poetic career led him from
the Bucolics to the Georgics and culminated in the Aeneid.58 Indeed, the
idea of a short mythological epic as one’s first poetic work is best seen as
a variation of this pattern, maybe facilitated by the possibility of substitut-
ing the pseudo-Vergilian Ciris for the Bucolics.
So while it does make sense to speak about short mythological epic as a
variety of the epic genre with respect to Neo-Latin poetry, one should not
go beyond this. To label the texts in question epyllia would be unhelpful
and confusing.
Sources
1. First editions of Neo-Latin texts not available in modern editions

Daniel Asaricus, Xenophontis Hercules, in gratiam praestanti et amabili indole adolescen-
tium, Michaelis et Martini Rosenbergiorum . . .â•›, Reinholdi Hein, . . .â•›et Ioachimi Frederi, . . .â•›,
discipulorum suorum charissimorum heroico carmine redditus a Daniele Asarico Gym-
nasii Dantiscani collega, [s.l.] [s.a.] [Gdansk c.1585].
Gianfrancesco Conti (Iohannes Franciscus Quintianus Stoa), De Martis et Veneris concu-
bitu, Pavia 1503.
John Dickenson, Deorum consessus, sive Apollinis et Minervae querela summam legentibus
voluptatem nec minorem utilitatem præbens, London 1591.
Nicolò Parthenio Giannettasio, Piscatoria et nautica, Naples 1685.
Girolamo Giuseppe Milio, Hercules Benacensis, Brescia 1575.
René Rapin SJ, Hortorum libri IV, Paris 1665.
Francesco Eulalio Savastano SJ, Botanicorum seu institutionum rei herbariae libri IV, Naples
1712.
Marco Girolamo Vida, Marci Hieronymi Vidae Cremonensis De arte poetica libri III, eius-
dem De bombyce libri II, eiusdem De ludo scacchorum liber I, eiusdem Hymni, eiusdem
Bucolica, Rome 1527.
2. Modern editions
Branca (1998): Vittore Branca (ed., tr., comm.), Tutte le opere di Giovanni Boccaccio, vols.
7+8: Genealogie deorum gentilium, Milan.
de Boer (1915–1938): Cornelis de Boer (ed.), „Ovide moralisé“. Poème du commencement du
quatorzième siècle publié d’après tous les manuscrits connus, 5 vols., Amsterdam.
della Guardia (1916): A. della Guardia (ed.), Tito Vespasiano Strozzi. Poesie latine tratte
dall’Aldina e confrontate coi codici, Modena.
the Bucolics (Georg. 4.565), would have been factually correct only in 1507, when Vida
began working at the poem (cf. di Cesare [1974] 121–122).
58 The most famous bucolic author of the modern era, Baptista Mantuanus, composed
eight of his ten eclogues at the age of eighteen and called the whole collection Adulescen-
tia (“Juvenile Works”; see Piepho [1989]). Scores of young authors of bucolic can be found
in Grant (1965) and, for the German speaking countries, in Mundt (1996) 15–52. See also
Ijsewijn/Sacré (1998) 62 on the writing of bucolic in schools.
536 martin korenjak
di Cesare (1975): Mario A. di Cesare (ed., tr.), The Game of Chess. Marco Girolamo Vida’s
Scacchia Ludus. With English Verse Translation And the Texts of the Three Earlier Versions
Edited With Introduction and Notes, Nieuwkoop.
Eatough (1984): Geoffrey Eatough (ed., tr., comm.), Fracastoro’s Syphilis. Introduction, text,
translation and notes with a computer-generated word index, Liverpool.
Hoffmann/Ludwig (1979): Walther Ludwig (ed.) / Johann Joseph Ignatius Hoffmann (tr.),
Marcus Hieronymus Vida. Schachspiel der Götter. Scacchia ludus, Zurich/Munich.
Katona (2002): Julianna Katona (ed., tr., comm.), Melchioris Barlaei de raptu Ganymedis
liber. Edition und Kommentar, Frankfurt a.M. et al.
Ludwig (1977): Walther Ludwig (ed., comm.), Die Borsias des Tito Strozzi. Ein lateinisches
Epos der Renaissance, Munich.
Manetti/Baldinotti/Cevolani (1992): Roberta Manetti (ed., tr., comm.), Pietro Apollonio Col-
lazio. De duello Davidis et Goliae. Testo critico e note a cura di R[oberta] Manetti. Saggi di
A[ndrea] Baldinotti e A[lessandra] Cevolani, Milan.
Martindale/Burrow (1992): Charles Martindale / Colin Burrow (eds., trs., comms.),
“Clapham’s Narcissus: A Pre-Text for Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis?,” in: English Lit-
erary Renaissance 22, 147–176.
Mundt (1996): Lothar Mundt (ed., tr., comm.), Simon Lemnius. Bucolica. Fünf Eklogen,
Tübingen.
Piepho (1989): Lee Piepho (ed., tr., comm.), Baptista (Spagnuoli) Mantuanus. Adulescentia.
The Eclogues of Mantuan, New York / London.
Pighi/Ziegler (1974): Giovanni Battista Pighi / Kosmas Ziegler (eds., trs.), Sarca. Poema del
XVI secolo. Testo latino e traduzione italiana con un saggio critico di Giovanni Battista
Pighi. Traduzione tedesca di Kosmas Ziegler, Arco.
Prandi (2001): Stefano Prandi (ed., comm.), Jacopo Sannazaro. De partu Virginis. Il parto
della Vergine. Volgarizzamento di Giovanni Giolito de’ Ferrari (1588) a fronte, Rome.
Putnam (2004): Michael C.J. Putnam (ed., tr.), Maffeo Vegio. Short Epics, Cambridge MA /
London.
Schaffenrath (2006): Florian Schaffenrath (ed., tr., comm.), Ubertino Carrara SJ. Columbus.
carmen epicum (1715), Berlin.
Schönberger (1994): Otto Schönberger (ed., tr., comm.), Petrus Bembus. Sarca. Pietro
Bembo. Sarca. Integra princeps editio. Einleitung, vollständiger Text, erste Übersetzung
und Anmerkungen, Würzburg.
Wöhrle (1993): Georg Wöhrle (ed., tr.), Girolamo Fracastoro. Lehrgedicht über die Syphi-
lis . . . Mit einem Beitrag von Dieter Wuttke zu Sebastian Brants Syphilis-Flugblatt von
1496, Bamberg.
Zuccarelli (1972): Ugo Zuccarelli (ed., tr., comm.), Reposiano, Concubitus Martis et Veneris.
Introduzione, testo, commento e traduzione, Naples.
Robert Burns’ Tam O’ Shanter:
a Lallans epyllion?
Ewen L. Bowie
1. Introduction
This paper will take its readers outside what is generally recognized as
the world of Greek and Latin epyllion, and some of them may decide the
expedition to the countryside around Ayr was unrewarding. But to me
its objective seems both worthwhile and relevant to our understanding
of ancient works we term epyllia. That objective is to weigh the prob-
ability of Robert Burns (1759–1796) having composed Tam O’ Shanter in
full awareness of classical epyllia, and to put forward a particular proposal
concerning which piece of Greek or Latin poetry might have been espe-
cially influential on the way he constructed Tam O’ Shanter.
It is especially appropriate that this issue should have been addressed
in what was the 250th anniversary of the birth of Burns, marked by a major
conference in Glasgow in 20091 and by an excellent new biography and
critical assessment by Robert Crawford.2 But even without this felix con
iunctio, the Scottish vernacular poetry of Burns repays attention. Despite
his early death at age 37, on July 21, 1796, Burns’ poetry has achieved
worldwide recognition, and I would guess his name and some of his lines
are rather more widely familiar than is the case for his nearest but much
longer-lived contemporary poets from a comparably small country, Swit-
zerland: Johann Gaudenz Freiherr von Salis-Seewis (born December 26,
1762, in Malans, Switzerland; died January 29, 1834) or Johann Martin
Usteri (born February 14, 1763, in Zurich; died July 29, 1827). The reasons
for Burns’ renown are not to be found in literary quality alone, though in
the view of many it is very high, especially in his love lyrics. His lionization
by the cultured Edinburgh society of the end of the 1780s and early 1790s,
a society which saw in him a simple ploughman with pure access to a
strain of rustic and vernacular thought and language, was a microcosm of
1 Cf. <http://www.gla.ac.uk/schools/critical/research/researchcentresandnetworks/robert
burnsstudies/conferencerobertburns1759–2009/> (accessed June 17, 2012).
2 Crawford (2009). See also Leask (2004).
538 ewen l. bowie
what happened posthumously, and many of his admirers in the twentieth

century were to be found in the Soviet Union and other socialist states.
Under a different banner, Scots at home and abroad and even many
who have no Scottish connections have taken pleasure in eating haggis,
drinking whisky, and performing Scottish country dances in annual com-
memoration of his birth on January 25, 1759. The availability in his cor-
pus of the “Ode to a Haggis” opened the door to this form of celebration,
and the whole package has secured for Burns a more prominent place
within the canon of Scottish poets than he perhaps deserves. In the anthol-
ogy The Northern Muse, published in 1924 by the novelist (most famously,
perhaps, of The Thirty-Nine Steps, Edinburgh, 1915) and Governor-General
of Canada, John Buchan, the number of poems by Burns, almost 60, puts
him well ahead of Dunbar (with 14), Robert Louis Stevenson and Violet
Jacob (with 6 from Songs of Angus 1913 and More songs of Angus 1918),
George Outram (with 5), and Walter Scott and Robert Fergusson (each
with 4). But anthologies are a skewed index both of popularity and of
merit: Buchan’s anthology has three poems of his own, the same number
that it includes by the great Gavin Douglas (born in Tantallon Castle, East
Lothian c.1474, died in London in September, 1522) bishop of Dunkeld
and author of a complete translation of the Aeneid of Virgil (the first into
English), the Eneados, completed in 1513.
Within Burns’ corpus, remarkably voluminous for one who died so
young, Tam O’ Shanter has always been popular (and visitors to Burns
country in Ayrshire can pay to enjoy a “Tam O’ Shanter experience”).3
John Buchan included Tam O’ Shanter uncut in contrast to his savage
mangling of James Hogg’s masterpiece Kilmeny (1813). Tam O’ Shanter’s
popularity is attributable partly to its variably paced narrative, partly to its
vividly drawn scenes, and partly to its wholesome moral stance on exces-
sive drinking, idle chatter, and dabbling in the supernatural. Like much
of Burns’ other poetry, it also seems to offer a window into a simple rural
life that has become increasingly remote for the majority of its readers. Its
condemnation of inebriation has not prevented its dramatic performance
at well-oiled Burns Suppers, the best of which known to me was by a
former pupil who would earn a tidy sum giving vigorous performances at
successive Burns Suppers in order to top up his income as an investment
consultant.
3 The Tam O’ Shanter Experience, Burns National Heritage Park, Alloway, KA7 4PQ,
Scotland.
robert burns’ tam o’ shanter: a lallans epyllion? 539
One of the curiosities of Tam O’ Shanter’s Nachleben is the speaking

name “Cutty Sark.” The comparatively young witch whose dancing among
a coven of much older witches in the orgy at Kirk Alloway catches Tam’s
lustful eye is first identified in the narrative by her wearing a “cutty sark,”
a short slip that is suggested to have been especially revealing since it was
bought for her when she was a small girl:
But Tam kend what was what fu’ brawlie,
There was ae winsome wench and walie,
That night enlisted in the core
(Lang after kend on Carrick shore;
For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish’d mony a bonnie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear),
Her cutty sark, o’ Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho’ sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.—
Ah! little kend thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi’ twa pund Scots (‘twas a’ her riches),
Wad ever grac’d a dance of witches!
We discover in 179 that she is known to her granny as Nannie—which is
shown to be her name, not a term for “granddaughter,” by 184:
But here my muse her wing maun cour;
Sic flights are far beyond her pow’r;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang
(A souple jade she was and strang),
And how Tam stood like ane bewitch’d,
And thought his very een enrich’d;
But of course Tam does not know her name, and so when over-excited by
one of her manoeuvres Tam imprudently gives voice, what he exclaims in
admiration is “Weel done, Cutty-sark!” (192).
It is from this baptismal exclamation that the name passed to the clip-
per ship, Cutty Sark. Built in Dumbarton in 1869, Cutty Sark served as a
merchant vessel (the last clipper to be built for that purpose), and then
as a training ship, until being put on public display in 1954. She is pre-
served in dry dock in Greenwich, but suffered serious damage in a fire in
2007. Her bare-breasted figurehead was, of course, a representation of the
young woman who provoked Tam to his fatal ejaculation.
540 ewen l. bowie
The next stage in the Nachleben was the decision to name a new blend
of whisky after the ship (not after the girl, as the picture on Cutty Sark
whisky labels makes clear). I quote from the Berry Bros. website:
CUTTY SARK Scots Whisky was created on 20th March 1923 when the part-
ners of wine & spirit merchants Berry Bros. discussed the launch of a new
whisky. At the time, the popularity of Scotch Whisky was beginning to grow
around the world.
Senior partner Francis Berry had a strong belief in the potential for a new
style of whisky and he insisted that only the finest malt whiskies should be
selected for the new blend and that the whisky should be naturally light
in colour. The partners had invited James McBey, a well known Scottish
Â�artist[,] to a luncheon that day to discuss the launch. It was he who sug-
gested the name and designed the label for the new whisky.4
And thus it is that Berry Bros., who had already been trading in St James
for 61 years when Burns was born, are now chiefly responsible for the
familiarity of the name Cutty Sark.
The last issue on which I shall touch (more briefly than I would wish)
before proceeding to the core of this paper is Burns’ education. Burns’
father was keen to give his children an education, and from the age of six
Burns had a stimulating and dedicated teacher in the person of John Mur-
doch, who was just 18 when he took on Robert Burns and some other boys
in Alloway in May 1765. Murdoch’s move to Dumfries in 1768 and Burns’
father’s struggles to balance his books put a temporary end to Burn’s for-
mal schooling, but it was resumed in 1772 when Murdoch returned to Ayr.
John Murdoch was a gifted teacher and kindled Burns’ interest in litera-
ture. One of his teaching techniques was to have pupils commit extensive
tracts of prose and poetry to memory, and it is certain that in his teens,
when Burns was already writing songs and poems, he already knew much
eighteenth-century English and Scottish poetry as well as prose.5 Thus
when in 1786 at the age of 27 he published in Kilmarnock a collection
entitled Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, his poetry with its strong
local linguistic and thematic colouring was not simply the production of a
simple ploughman with great literary gifts; it was the production of a man
who had been assiduously reading and extending his knowledge of others’
4 Cf. <http://www.whisky.com/brands/cutty_sark_brand.html> (accessed June 17, 2012).

5 One of Murdoch’s few textbooks when he started teaching Robert was Arthur Mas-
son’s A Collection of Prose and Verse: the poets there included Shakespeare, Milton and
Dryden (McIntyre [2009] 18). When Murdoch returned from Dumfries to Ayr in 1769 he
sent Robert and his brother a copy of Pope’s works (McIntyre [2009] 210) and began to
teach Robert French.
poetry since his early teens. As Crawford’s biography shows, already in

his early 20s (i.e. in the early 1780s) Burns was very self-conscious in his
creation of his poetic persona as that of a simple, anti-establishment poet
writing in Scots (and with certain preferred metres) while at the same
time reading and sometimes taking notes on a wide range of Scottish and
English prose and poetry.
2. Burns’ Knowledge of Greek and Latin Poetry
Burn’s reading was perhaps unlikely to have included many translations

of Greek and Latin poetry (though it would certainly have included the
work of English poets who were familiar with much classical poetry), but
it would have been hugely augmented when the Kilmarnock edition of his
poems published in 1786 brought Burns to the attention of Edinburgh con-
noisseurs of literature. In the five years between 1786 and the publication
of Tam O’ Shanter in 1791 (in a footnote to his friend Grose’s ambitious
work Antiquities of Scotland) Burns had spent much time in Edinburgh
society. He would have borrowed books from friends and patrons and
would have discussed literature of all sorts. I have made the assumption
that he would have had access, directly or through one or more friends, to
the Advocates’ Library, whose collection became the core of the National
Library of Scotland. I have not been able to test that assumption, and it
may be false even if it cannot be disproved.
On the basis of the current holdings of the National Library of Scotland,
it is clear that Burns would have had access to translations of Theocri-
tus, Catullus, and Vergil, some of them recently published. Here are some
examples:
Catullus
Ariadne forsaken a poem, translated from Catullus; printed in London for
William Griffin: Quarto edition. Also (with other Latin elegists Tibullus
and Propertius) Birmingham and Cambridge 1772.
If we think Burns’ Latin was up to reading Catullus in the original,
then there were several editions in the Advocates’ Library, starting with
the Aldine of 1515, and including Scaliger’s of 1582. Among more recent
editions were those of Giovanni Antonio Volpi (Patavium 1710); Michael
Mattaire’s edition of 1715, reprinted in London in 1776; Usher Gahagan’s
London edition of 1749; and a London edition, along with the Priapea, by
John Wilkes in 1788.
542 ewen l. bowie
Interest in Catullus in the early 1790s is also documented by John

Nott’s The poems of Caius Valerius Catullus, in English verse: with the Latin
text revised, and classical notes. Prefixed are engravings of Catullus, and
his friend Cornelius Nepos: published in two volumes in 1795 in London by
J. Johnson.6 I assume Burns had no knowledge of this impending but as
yet unpublished project.
Vergil, Eclogues, Georgics, and Aeneid

Joseph Warton’s The Works of Virgil, in Latin and English. The original Text
correctly printed from the most authentic Editions, collated for this Purpose.
The Æneid Translated By the Rev. Mr. Christopher Pitt, The Eclogues and
Georgics, with Notes on the Whole, By the Rev. Mr. Joseph Warton. With
several New Observations By Mr Holdsworth, Mr Spence, and Others. Also,
A Dissertation on the Sixth Book of the Æneid, by Mr. Warburton. On the
Shield of Æneas, by Mr. W. Whitehead. On the Character of Japis, by the late
Dr. Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester. And, Three Essays on Pastoral, Didactic,
and Epic Poetry, by the Editor. London: printed for R. Dodsley [etc.], 1753.
Warton was the author of An essay on the writings and genius of Pope, first
published in 1756 and frequently reprinted.
Appendix Vergiliana
It may be that no translation was available, but the Advocates’ Library had
Scaliger’s edition (Leiden 1573):
Pvblii Virgilii Maronis Appendix: Cum supplemento multorum antehac
nunquam excusorum Poematum veterum Poetarum; Ad Clarissimvm Virvm
Iacobum Cuiacium, Iuriscons. nostrae aetatis facilè Principem / Iosephi
Scaligeri In Eandem Appendicem Commentarij & castigationes. 1573. Lvgd-
vni : Rovillivs, 548 p., [9] leaves.
Callimachus and Theocritus

William Dodd, Select epigrams and the Coma Berenices of Callimachus.
The Encomium of Ptolemy by Theocritus, and six hymns of Orpheus [!!] To
Jupiter, Juno, Apollo, Diana, Pallas, Ceres.
6 Is this the author of On the Pisa and Asciano waters in Tuscany; with the water of Yver
dun, in Switzerland, &c. dedicated to Richard Warren, royal physician, Bristol Hot Wells
June 1, 1793? Much of this merely translates Italian work.
A copy is currently in the National Library of Scotland, as are 1786, 1791

and 1792 editions of The idyllia, epigrams, and fragments, of Theocritus,
Bion, and Moschus, with the elegies of Tyrtaeus, translated from the Greek
into English verse. To which are added, dissertations and notes. By the Rev.
Richard Polwhele. Exeter: R. Thorn. 1786 (Sold also by T. Cadell, and C.
Dilly, London; J. Fletcher, Oxford; J. Merrill, Cambridge; J. Jackson, Litch-
field, and R. Cruttwell, Bath).
Moschus
Anacréon, Sapho, Bion et Moschus: Traduction nouvelle en prose, suivie . . . de
la Veillée des fêtes de Vénus, et d’un choix de piÃ¨ces de différens auteurs. /
Par M. M*** [= Julien-Jacques Moutonnet de Clairfons] A Paphos, et se
trouve à Paris: Chez J. Fr. Bastien.
3. The Case for Influence
Tam O’ Shanter is different from the other poetry of Burns, dominated

by lyrics and songs, especially love-songs, in several ways: subject-matter,
narrative mode, tone, and lack of stanzaic form. This form was almost
universal in his other poetry, but not quite. In particular we find the move
from stanzas of equal length to units of rhymed verse of varying length in
two other works whose title also includes the generic description “tale”:
The twa dogs. A tale, a longish work already in the 1786 Kilmarnock edi-
tion; and the snappier and somewhat academically witty The vowels. A
tale (34 lines). The twa dogs. A tale—which takes dialogue form—is in fact
very different from Tam O’ Shanter, and I do not think that its existence
helps us much to understand what Burns intended to do in writing Tam O’
Shanter, if at all.
In Tam O’ Shanter, then, Burns’ departure from his preferred stanzaic
form is not unique, nor is his use of the term A Tale in his title (a title-term
he would also know from a fair number of eighteenth century English
poems). But taken together, and set alongside some other features, they
contribute something to my case. What are these other features?
(i) The opening with a gnome in a way that makes the reader complicit
with the poet
When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet,
544 ewen l. bowie
As market-days are wearing late,

An’ folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An’ getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whar sits our sulky sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam O’ Shanter.
Cf. Theocritus 13.1: οὐχ ἁμῖν τὸν ῎Ερωτα μόνοις ἔτεκ᾿, ὡς ἐδοκεῦμες. (“Not for
us alone did [some god] give birth to Desire, as we used to think.”)7
(ii) Multiple periphrastic time-markers

That same opening of Tam O’ Shanter exploits a trope found in several
classical epyllia (though not there alone in classical literature) of the mul-
tiple periphrastic time-marker. Burns’ time-marker is triple (“when . . . as
. . . while . . .”). For an elaborate triple time-marker cf. again Theocritus
13.10–13:
οὔτ᾿ εἰ μέσον ἆμαρ ὄροιτο,
οὔθ᾿ ὅποχ᾿ ἁ λεύκιππος ἀνατρέχοι ἐς Διὸς ᾿Αώς,
οὔθ᾿ ὅποκ᾿ ὁρτάλιχοι μινυροὶ ποτὶ κοῖτον ὁρῷεν.
not even if the day rose to its midst
nor when Dawn with her white horses wheeled up into the house of Zeus
nor when little chicks flew chirping to their roost.
As in Theocritus’ poem, so too in the opening of Tam O’ Shanter these
phrases do many more jobs than simply those of time-markers. It is like-
wise in Moschus, Europa 30–32:
ὅτ᾿ ἐς χόρον ἐντύνοιτο
ἢ ὅτε φαιδρύνοιτο χρόα προχοῇσιν ἀναύρων
ἢ ὁπότ᾿ ἐκ λειμῶνος ἐύπνοα λείρι᾿ ἀμέργοι.
when she was decking herself out for the choral dance
or when she was bringing lustre to her skin in the lower streams of moun-
tain torrents
or when she was plucking fragrant lilies from a meadow.
7 All translations from Greek and Latin are my own.

Other less elaborate cases are:

Theoc. 13.25–26:
ἆμος δ᾿ ἀντέλλοντι Πελειάδες, ἐσχατιαὶ δέ
ἄρνα νέον βόσκοντι . . .
but when the Pleiads are rising, and the back country
is being grazed by the newborn lamb . . .
Theoc. 24.11–12:
ἆμος δὲ στρέφεται μεσονύκτιον ἐς δύσιν ῎Αρκτος
᾿Ωρίωνα κατ᾿ αὐτόν, ὃ δ᾿ ἀμφαίνει μέγαν ὦμον.
but when the Bear swings towards its midnight setting
beside Orion himself, and he displays his mighty shoulder.
Theoc. 24.64:
ὄρνιθες τρίτον ἄρτι τὸν ἔσχατον ὄρθρον ἄειδον.
The birds were just singing the first of grey dawn for the third time.
[Theoc.] 25.85:
᾿Ηέλιος μὲν ἔπειτα ποτὶ ζόφον ἔτραπεν ἵππους
δείελον ἦμαρ ἄγων . . .
Then the Sun turned his steeds towards the darkness,
bringing the evening of the day . . .
As I shall later suggest, however, the most important intertexts may be
those in Vergil, Georgics 4. We should note, then, the periphrasis for spring
at Vergil, Georgics 4.305–307:
Hoc geritur Zephyris primum impellentibus undas,
ante novis rubeant quam prata coloribus, ante
garrula quam tignis nidum suspendat hirundo.
This is performed when the west winds are first driving on the waves,
before the meadows become red with fresh colours, before
the twittering swallow hangs her nest beneath the beams.
Or the periphrasis for midday at Vergil, Georgics 4.401–403:
Ipse ego te, medios cum sol accenderit aestus,
cum sitiunt herbae et pecori iam gratior umbra est,
in secreta senis ducam . . .
I myself shall lead you, when the sun has kindled its midday heat,
when the grasses are parched and shade is by now more pleasing to the flock,
into the old man’s haunts . . .
546 ewen l. bowie
And the longer variation presented as a periphrasis for midday at Vergil,

Georgics 4.425–429:
Iam rapidus torrens sitientis Sirius Indos
ardebat caelo et medium sol igneus orbem
hauserat, arebant herbae et cava flumina siccis
faucibus ad limum radii tepefacta coquebant,
cum Proteus . . .
Already the aggressive Dogstar was roasting the thirsty Indians
as he blazed in the sky, and the fiery sun his midmost orbit
had consumed, the grasses were dry, and the hollow rivers in their desiccated
beds were being boiled and cooked to mud by his rays,
when Proteus . . .
Note finally a little later Vergil, Georgics 4.544, repeated verbatim at 552:8
post, ubi nona suos Aurora ostenderit ortus (“later, when Aurora had dis-
played her rising for the ninth time”).
(iii) Apostrophe
(a) To a/the Main Character

We find apostrophe to Tam himself twice, first at a moment when Tam is
about to become fatefully entranced at 154–155:
Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans
A’ plump and strapping, in their teens.
The second comes at the point when the witches start pursuing Tam and his
horse Maggie; here Burns first addresses Tam, then Maggie, at 204–211:
Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou’ll get thy fairin!
In hell they’ll roast thee like a herrin!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy coming!
Kate soon will be a woefu’ woman!
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
An win the key-stane of the brig;
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
Compare the apostrophe to Polydeuces at Theoc. 22.131–132:
τὸν μὲν ἄρα κρατέων περ ἀτάσθαλον οὐδὲν ἔρεξας
ὦ πύκτη Πολύδευκες . . .
8 A further periphrastic time-marker is found at Georgics 4.51–52, but this is outside
the “epyllion” section.
upon him, however, though he was in your power, you wrought nothing
outrageous,
boxer Polydeuces . . .
A more overtly hymnic apostrophe is exploited by Catullus 64.22–29:
O nimis optato saeclorum tempore nati
heroes, salvete, deum genus! O bona matrum
progenies, salvete iter<um . . .>
Vos ego saepe meo vos carmine compellabo
teque adeo eximie taedis felicibus aucte,
Thessaliae columen Peleu, cui Iuppiter ipse,
ipse suos divum genitor concessit amores;
tene Thetis tenuit pulcherrima Nereine?
Tene suam Tethys concessit ducere neptem?
O you who were born at a mightily desirable moment in the centuries,
heroes, hail, offspring of gods! O fine mothers’
brood, again hail <. . .>
You shall I often, you shall I address with my song
and you above all, enhanced beyond others by happy marriage torches,
pillar of Thessaly, Peleus, whom Jupiter himself,
himself the father of the gods allowed to have his own love;
was it you whom Thetis, the most beautiful daughter of Nereus, embraced?
Was it you whom Tethys allowed to wed her granddaughter?
Finally there is an apostrophe to Eurydice in Vergil, Georgics 4.465–466:
Te, dulcis coniunx, te solo in litore secum,
te veniente die, te decedente canebat.
You, sweet bride, you when alone with his thoughts on the shore,
you at the coming of the day, you at its passing did he sing.
(b) Apostrophe to an Implicated Divinity

A different tone, more schetliastic than hymnic, is found in Tam O’ Â�Shanter
107–110:
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn;
Wi’ tippenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi’ usquabae we’ll face the devil!
This follows the pattern of such addresses as Catullus 64.94–98, to Cupid
and Venus:9
9 Fordyce (1961) 291 and Quinn (1970) 317 rightly note the model of Ap. Rhod. Argon.
4.445–446.
548 ewen l. bowie
Heu misere exagitans immiti corde furores,

sancte puer, curis hominum qui gaudia misces,
quaeque regis Golgos quaeque Idalium frondosum,
qualibus incensam iactastis mente puellam
fluctibus . . .10
Alas, you who desperately stir up madness with your implacable heart,
divine boy, who blend men’s joys with cares,
and you who rule over Golgi and over leafy Idalium,
with what waves did you toss the girl when her heart took fire . . .
(c) Apostrophe to an Innocent Victim

Tam O’ Shanter 34–37:
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen’d sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!
I have found no parallel for this in ancient epyllion: it recalls rather Roman
satire.
(d) Address to the Muse

A different stance is taken in references to a Muse. We have already
encountered that at Tam O’ Shanter 182–187, not at the opening of the
poem, as in epic, but in mid-poem at a point of special tension:
But here my muse her wing maun cour;
Sic flights are far beyond her pow’r;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang
(A souple jade she was and strang),
And how Tam stood like ane bewitch’d,
And thought his very een enrich’d.
We could compare Theoc. 22.115–117:
πῶς γὰρ δὴ Διὸς υἱὸς ἀδηφάγον ἄνδρα καθεῖλεν;
εἰπέ, θεά, σὺ γὰρ οἶσθα· ἐγὼ δ᾿ ἑτέρων ὑποφήτης
φθέγξομαι ὅσσ᾿ ἐθέλεις σὺ καὶ ὅππως τοι φίλον αὐτῇ.
For how indeed did the son of Zeus bring down the gluttonous man?
Tell me, goddess, for you know: but I am the interpreter of others
10 A similar thought, but without apostrophe to a god, is found in the brief σχέτλιοι οἱ
φιλέοντες of Theoc. 13.66.
and shall voice all that you wish and in the manner that is pleasing to you
yourself.
Similar, but with greater stress on the poet’s incapacity, is Catullus
64.116–117:
Sed quid ego a primo digressus carmine plura
commemorem? . . .
But why should I depart from my original song,
and recall more? . . .
But here it should be noted that Catullus does not address the Muse
directly: that means that the closest Latin parallel is Georgics 4.315: quis
deus hanc, Musae, quis nobis extudit artem? (“Which god, Muses, which
hammered out for us this craft?”).
(iv) Similes
In Tam O’ Shanter Burns is generous in his use of similes, though of course
they are ubiquitous in his love lyrics too (most famously “My love is like
a red, red rose”). I note the following:
Gathering her brows like gathering storm 11
As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure 56–57
The minutes winged their way wi’ pleasure
And sic a night he taks the road in, 72–73
As ne’er poor sinner was abroad in
Of these images it should be noted that “as bees flee hame wi’ lades o’
treasure” might reflect the phraseology of Georgics 4.167 aut onera accipi
unt venientum (“or they receive the loads of the ones who are returning”).
The most striking, however, are two groups of multiple similes:
(a) A Quadruple Simile at 60–67

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow-falls in the river,
A moment white—then melt forever;
Or like the borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow’s lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.—
Nae man can tether time or tide;
The hour approaches Tam maun ride.
550 ewen l. bowie
(b) A Triple Simile at 196–201

As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie’s11 mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When “Catch the thief !” resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi’ mony an eldritch skreech and hollow.
The first of these similes marks the crucial moment when Tam has to
abandon the ephemeral joys of the city pub and risk his dangerous jour-
ney home. Burns’ decision to code-switch from Lallans to standard English
emphasizes the conventionality of the technique, a conventionality that
his readers will presumably associate chiefly with epic. But of course simi-
les are one of the features of epic that stand out in some “epyllia”—they
stand out partly because, like speeches, they form a higher proportion
of these poems that are shrunk from epic scale. Burns’ choice of similes
which in high poetry would typically be used to figure the ephemerality of
human life as a whole, helps us to form the view the Tam’s time-limited
ordeal is to be read as a microcosm of life’s perils, just as Burns’ 227-line
poem is a microcosm of epic. I note that the description of bees in 196
has something in common with Georgics 4.67 sin autem ad pugnam exier
int . . . (“but if, on the other hand, they sally forth to battle . . .”) and that
197’s thought that grazing animals might trample beehives recalls Georgics
4.10–12:
neque oves haedique petulci
floribus insultent, aut errans buvula campo
decutiat rorem et surgentia atterat herbas.
(where) neither sheep nor frisky kids
trample the flowers, or a straying heifer
dislodge the dew and crush the springing grasses.
The second simile marks the beginning of Maggie’s heroic gallop to cross
the bridge before she and her rider Tam are caught by the witches. A
reader is surely expected to recall the earlier, quadruple simile, and to
note we are now firmly back in an ordinary human and animal world,
conveyed once more in the dialect of the rest of the poem. The bellicose
11 A hare.

robert burns’ tam o’ shanter: a lallans epyllion?
Fig. 1. A postcard of 1905 representing Tam and Meg’s escape over the bridge, courtesy the Dumfries and
Galloway Museums Service, taken from <http://burns.scran.ac.uk/database/record.php?usi=000-000-135-834-C>
551
552 ewen l. bowie
bees do not seem to relate in any way to those in the ecphrasis of Theocri-
tus 22.42 but owe more (directly or indirectly?) to the bees and wasps of
Iliad 12.167–170 and even more to the wasps of Iliad 16.259–265 to whom
the Myrmidons are compared as they ἐξεχέοντο (“poured forth”). The pas-
sage runs as follows in Pope’s translation (Il. 16.312–319):
Meanwhile the troops beneath Patroclus’ care
Invade the Trojans and commence the war.
As wasps, provoked by children in their play,
Pour from their mansions in the broad highway
In swarms the guiltless traveller engage,
Whet all their stings, and call forth all their rage:
All rise in arms, and with a gen’ral cry
Assert their waxen domes and buzzing progeny.12
In some sense, then, the wasps of Pope’s Iliad may play some part in
the pedigree of Burns’ bees, but it is important that twice Burns’ similes
exploit bees: has he a bee in his bonnet?
(v) Ecphrasis
(a) Of Objects
174–181 Nannie’s cutty sark itself:
Her cutty sark, o’ Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho’ sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.—
Ah! little kend thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi’ twa pund Scots (‘twas a’ her riches),
Wad ever grac’d a dance of witches!
With this ecphrasis compare that of Europa’s basket in Moschus, Europa
37–62 or the grandmother of ecphrases at Catullus 64.43sqq.
(b) Of Scenes
Tam in the pub, 38–51:
But to our tale: Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right;
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
12 Cited from Pope (1802).

robert burns’ tam o’ shanter: a lallans epyllion?
Fig. 2. Landseer’s illustration of the devil playing in Kirk Alloway, from Robert Burns, Tam O’Shanter and
553
Soputer Jonny, a poem; illustrated by Thomas Landseer (London 1830: Marsh and Miller), facing p. 13, taken from
<http://www.archive.org/stream/tamoshanterandso00burnuoft#page/n19/mode/2up> (accessed June 17, 2012).
554 ewen l. bowie
Wi’ reaming swats, that drank divinely;

And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony.
Tam lo’ed him like a vera brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi’ sangs an’ clatter;
And ay the ale was growing better:
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi’ favors, secret, sweet, and precious:
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.
The orgy in the Kirk 116–144 (with 116 compare below Theocritus 13.39
ἐνόησεν and Vergil, Georgics 4.367 spectabat):
And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillion brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o’ beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge;
He screw’d the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a‘ did dirl.—
Coffins stood round, like open presses,
That shaw’d the dead in their last dresses;
And by some devilish cantrip slight,
Each in its cauld hand held a light.—
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murderer’s banes in gibbet airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen’d bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
Wi’ his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi’ blude red-rusted;
Five scymitars, wi‘ murder crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled;
A knife, a father’s throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son o‘ life bereft,
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft:
Wi’ mair o’ horrible and awfu’,
Which ev’n to name wad be unlawfu’.
Theoc. 13.30–31:
ἔνθα Κιανῶν
αὔλακας εὐρύνοντι βόες τρίβοντες ἄροτρα.
where the Cians’
oxen make broad furrows as they drag their ploughs.
Theoc. 13.34–35:
λειμὼν γάρ σφιν ἔκειτο μέγα στιβάδεσσιν ὄνειαρ
ἔνθεν βούτομον ὀξὺ βαθύν τ᾿ ἐτάμοντο κύπειρον.
For they found a meadow stretching out, a mighty provider of rush-beds,
and from there they cut for themselves sharp sedge and tall-growing
galingale.
Theoc. 13.39–44:
τάχα δὲ κράναν ἐνόησεν
ἡμένῳ ἐν χώρῳ· περὶ δὲ θρύα πολλὰ πεφύκει
κυάνεόν τε χελιδόνιον χλωρόν τ᾿ ἀδίαντον
καὶ θάλλοντα σέλινα καὶ εἰλιτενὴς ἄγρωστις·
ὕδατι δ᾿ ἐν μέσσῳ Νυμφαὶ χορὸν ἀρτίζοντο,
Νύμφαι ἀκοίμητοι, δειναὶ θεαὶ ἀγροιώταις.
And soon he espied a spring
in a low-lying place, and about it many reeds were growing
and dark-blue celandine and pale green maidenhair
and luxuriant celery and marsh-colonising dog’s tooth;
and in the middle of the pool Nymphs were setting up a choral dance,
unsleeping nymphs, goddesses dreadful to country folk.
Theoc. 22.37–43:
εὗρον δ᾿ ἀέναον κρήνην ὑπὸ λισσάδι πέτρῃ
ὕδατι πεπληθυῖαν ἀκηράτῳ· αἱ δ᾿ ὑπένερθε
λάλλαι κρυστάλλῳ ἠδ᾿ ἀργύρῳ ἰνδάλλοντο
ἐκ βυθοῦ· ὑψηλαὶ δὲ πεφύκεσαν ἀγχόθι πεῦκαι
λεῦκαί τε πλάτανοί τε καὶ ἀγρόκομοι κυπάρισσοι
ἄνθεά τ᾿ εὐώδη, λασίαις φίλα ἔργα μελίσσαις,
ὅσσ᾿ ἔαρος λήγοντος ἐπιβρύει ἂν λειμῶνας.
And they found an ever-flowing spring beneath a beetling rock
abundant with unpolluted water; and the pebbles
had the appearance of ice and silver, down
in its depths; and high there grew nearby pines
and white plane trees and cypresses, watchers over the fields,
and flowers with sweet fragrance, workplaces dear to shaggy bees—
all the things that burgeon forth across meadows as spring nears its end.
556 ewen l. bowie
[Theoc.] 25.223–226:
ἤτοι ὁ μὲν σήραγγα προδείελος ἔστιχεν εἰς ἥν
βεβρωκὼς κρειῶν τε καὶ αἵματος, ἀμφὶ δὲ χαίτας
αὐχμηρὰς πεπάλακτο φόνῳ χαροπόν τε πρόσωπον
στήθεά τέ, γλώσσῃ δὲ περιλιχμᾶτο γένειον.
Indeed it had gone into its lair before evening
gorged with flesh and blood; and about its tangled mane
it was spattered with blood, and about its fierce face
and chest, and with its tongue it kept licking around its chin.
[Theoc.] 25.242–246:
θὴρ ἄμοτος, μακρὴν δὲ περ᾿ ἰγνύῃσιν ἔλιξε
κέρκον, ἄφαρ δὲ μάχης ἐμνήσατο· πᾶς δέ οἱ αὐχήν
θυμοῦ ἐνεπλήσθη, πύρσαι δ᾿ ἔφριξαν ἔθειραι
σκυζομένῳ, κύρτη δὲ ῥάχις γένετ᾿ ἠύτε τόξον
παντόθεν εἰλυθέντος ὑπὸ λαγόνας τε καὶ ἰξύν.
the dauntless beast, and it wound its long tail around
its flanks, and immediately gave thought to battle; and its whole neck
was filled with spirit, and its ruddy mane bristled
as it showed its anger, and its lower spine curved like a bow
as it compressed itself from all quarters into its rear-legs and waist.
Vergil, Georgics 4.334–347, the Nymphs:
Eam circum Milesia vellera Nymphae
carpebant hyali saturo fucata colore,
Drymoque Xanthoque Ligeaque Phyllodoceque,
caesariem effusae nitidam per candida colla,
Cydippeque et flava Lycorias, altera virgo,
altera tum primos Lucinae experta labores,
Clioque et Beroe soror, Oceanitides ambae,
atque Ephyre atque Opis et Asia Deiopea
et tandem positis velox Arethusa sagittis.
Inter quas curam Clymene narrabat inanem
Volcani, Martisque dolos et dulcia furta,
aque Chao densos divum numerabat amores.
Around her the Nymphs were spinning Milesian fleeces,
dyed with a rich shade of glass-green,
Drymo and Xantho and Ligea and Phyllodoce,
their gleaming locks tumbling over their white necks,
and Cydippe and blonde Lycorias, one a virgin,
the other just then having first experienced the labour of Lucina,
and Clio and her sister Beroe, both daughters of Ocean,
yes, and Ephyre and Opis and Asian Deiopea,
and swift Arethusa, who at last had set aside her arrows.
In their company Clymene was telling the story of the fruitless stratagem
of Vulcan, and the trickery and sweet cheatings of Mars,
and from the time of Chaos she recounted the recurrent seductions of the
gods.
Vergil, Georgics 4.366–373, the rivers (with focalization through the view-
ing Aristaeus at 366–367):
Omnia sub magna labentia flumina terra
spectabat diversa locis, Phasimque Lycumque,
et caput unde altus primum se erumpit Enipeus,
unde pater Tiberinus et unde Aniena fluenta
saxosusque sonans Hypanis Mysusque Caicus
et gemina auratus taurino cornua vultu
Eridanus, quo non alius per pinguia culta
in mare pupureum violentior effluit amnis.
Beneath the mighty earth he beheld all the rivers
flowing in their different places, the Phasis and the Lycus,
and the headwaters from which deep Enipeus first bursts forth,
from which father Tiber and from which the streams of the Anio,
and the rocky, thundering Hypanis, and Mysian Caicus,
and, his twin horns gilded on his taurine head,
the Po, than which no other river flows out more violently
through rich farmlands into the dark-red sea.
Vergil, Georgics 4.418–421:
Est specus ingens
exesi latere in montis, quo plurima vento
cogitur inque sinus scindit sese unda reductos,
deprensis olim statio tutissima nautis.
There is a huge cave
in the side of mountain that has been eaten away—into this many a wave
is driven by the wind and divides itself into receding coves,
long a very secure anchorage for storm-trapped sailors.
(vi) Digression
There was ae winsome wench and walie,
That night enlisted in the core
(Lang after kend on Carrick shore;
For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish’d mony a bonnie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear),
558 ewen l. bowie
(vii) Mock(?) heroization
Tam’s heroic determination at 83–84 is undermined by 85–86 (see imme-
diately below under “a storm”). A degree of mock-heroization is found
in Moschus’ description of Europa’s voyage on the jovial bull, in Vergil’s
account of Aristaeus’ appeal to Cyrene at Georgics 4.320–332 (reworking
that of Achilles to Thetis in Iliad 1) and famously in Vergil’s account of
bees at war, Georgics 4.67–85.
(viii) A storm
The wind blew as ‘twad blawn its last;
The rattling show’rs rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow’d;
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed:
That night, a child might understand,
The deil had business on his hand.
Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam skelpit on thro’ dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet;
Whiles crooning o’er some auld Scots sonnet;
Whiles glow’ring round wi’ prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares:
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.—
By this time he was cross the ford,
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor’d;
And past the birks and meikie stane,
Whare drunken Charlie brak’s neck-bane;
And thro’ the whins, and by the cairn,
Whare hunters fand the murder’d bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Whare Mungo’s mither hang’d hersel.—
Before him Doon pours all his floods;
The doubling storm roars thro’ the woods;
The lightnings flash from pole to pole;
Near and more near the thunders roll:
When, glimmering thro’ the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem’d in a bleeze.
Cf. Theoc. 22.8–16.
(ix)
(a) Magic and Other Manifestations of the Supernatural

Magic is central to Tam O’ Shanter from the mention of warlocks in Jean’s
prophecy at 29–32 to the end of the poem:
She prophesy’d that late or soon,
Thou would be found deep drown’d in Doon;
Or catch’d wi’ warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway’s auld haunted kirk.
Magic and other manifestations of the supernatural play various roles in
classical “epyllia”:
At Theoc. 22.210–211 Zeus combusts Idas:
ἀλλὰ Ζεὺς ἐπάμυνε, χερῶν δέ οἱ ἔκβαλε τυκτήν
μάρμαρον, αὐτὸν δὲ φλογέῳ συνέφλεξε κεραυνῷ.
But Zeus came to his aid, and dashed from his hands the fashioned
marble, and combusted the warrior himself with his fiery thunderbolt.
At [Theoc.] 23.59–60 the heartless lover punished:
τῷ δ᾿ ἐφύπερθεν
ἅλατο καὶ τὤγαλμα κακὸν δ᾿ ἔκτεινεν ἔφαβον.
But on top of him
leapt the cult-statue too, and slew the evil youth.
Vergil, Georgics 4.487: namque hanc dederat Proserpina legem (“for such
was the law that Proserpina had laid down”).
(b) Spirits
In some sense the closest parallel to the witches and warlocks of Tam O’
Shanter are the umbrae of Vergil, Georgics 4.471–472:
At cantu commotae Erebi de sedibus imis
umbrae ibant tenues simulacraque luce carentum.
But, roused by his singing from the lowest depths of Erebus,
there came insubstantial shades and apparitions of those denied the light.
But these constitute simply a passive, spectating audience, and a closer
analogy to the potentially homicidal witches and warlocks of Kirk Alloway
are the Bacchants of Theocritus 26, fatal to Pentheus, or those who tear
Orpheus limb from limb at Georgics 4.520–522:
560 ewen l. bowie
Spretae Ciconum quo munere matres

inter sacra deum nocturnique orgia Bacchi
discerptum latos iuvenem sparsere per agros.
The mothers of the Thracian Cicones felt rejected by this devotion
and amid the rituals of the gods and the night-time mysteries of Bacchus
tore the youth apart and scattered him far and wide across the Â�countryside.
4. Conclusions
Where should this perhaps overgenerous compilation of variously rele-

vant data lead us? Does it support my hunch that Burns might have been
writing Tam O’ Shanter in awareness or even mimesis of Greek and Latin
“epyllion”? That might be the conclusion of a hasty detective. But a Poirot,
to evoke a figure from another small country, or a Sherlock Holmes, the
creation of the Edinburgh-born writer Conan Doyle, would see problems:
dogs that do not bark in the night or dogs that give the wrong bark.
The first clue that initially led me to follow a different track is the bee-
simile (196–197): as we saw, there is nothing like this in extant epyllion, but
something quite close in Homer’s Iliad. Next, a point that I have so far passed
over: the praise of Ayr at the end of the prooemiastic passage, 14–17:
This truth fand honest Tam O’ Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter
(Auld Ayr wham ne’er a town surpasses
For honest men and bonny lasses).
I have noticed nothing like this in epyllion either. But it does evoke epic,
where lands and cities are given praise and evocative epithets. In the
Iliad Troy is “high-gated” (ὑψίπυλος, 16.698, 21.544), “well-battlemented”
(ἐύπυργος, 7.71), “well-walled” (ἐϋτείχεος, 1.129, 8.141 etc.) or “broad-laned”
(εὐρυάγεια, 2.141, 9.28). Closer, however, are the occasions where Achaea
or Hellas are called “of fair women” (καλλιγύναικα, 2.683, 3.75, 3.258, 9.447),
particularly in the line which picks out the horses of Argos and the women
of Achaea, ῎Αργος ἐς ἱππόβοτον καὶ ᾿Αχαιΐδα καλλιγύναικα (3.75, 3.258), ren-
dered by Pope as
Thus may the Greeks review their native shore,
Much famed for generous steeds, for beauty more. (Pope, Il. 3.108–109)
So shall the Greeks review their native shore,
Much famed for generous steeds, for beauty more. (Pope, Il. 3.228–229)13
13 Cited from Pope (1802).

So I began to think I was pursuing a mirage: my witches and warlocks

were perhaps figments of the imagination, or at least their “epyllion” pedi-
gree was. The range of features that seemed to point to “epyllion” might all
be argued to point equally to epic itself—and this is no surprise, because
it is from epic that the writers of short ancient hexameter poems derived
these features, features which in the shorter compass of the “epyllion” (as
earlier remarked) stand out more emphatically than in the long narra-
tive of epic. Burns too, familiar with the Aeneids of Douglas and Dryden,
and with the Iliad and Odyssey of Pope, might to some extent at least be
working under the influence of these poems to the creation of miniature
and, to some extent, mock epic: he need not be receiving these features
via “epyllion.” His story-pattern could be summarized thus: “a hero goes
to a dangerous city—leaves it on a perilous journey home—is tempted
by an attractive younger female who is really a deadly witch—eventually
(but only just) gets safely home to his wedded wife.” It is a familiar pat-
tern, but one that we know in classical literature not from “epyllion” but
from the Odyssey.
But one important datum came to my attention only at a late stage in
my research. I discovered in the biography by Robert Crawford (published
late spring 2009) a detail not found in earlier works that I had consulted
(e.g. McIntyre [2009]): around May 1788 Mrs Frances Dunlop, a friend and
patron, lent Burns a copy of Dryden’s translation of Vergil’s Georgics, and
he wrote to her saying that he thought of emulating them.14 That chimes
with the large number of features noted above as finding a parallel in the
Aristaeus episode of Georgics 4. Tam’s journey that brings him into con-
tact with the fascinating but terrifying supernatural world and that nearly
has him drawn for ever into it is partly a happy-ending version of Orpheus’
journey to the underworld, partly an eldritch version of Aristaeus’ visit
to the awesome realm of his mother the water nymph Cyrene. Orpheus’
σπαραγμός by Bacchants is the fate Tam narrowly escaped. The two uses
of bee-similes in this short narrative may be conjectured to reflect Burns’
reading of the Aristaeus episode in the context of Georgics 4 as a whole.
We do not, then, have evidence of Burns finding his way independently
from epic to something very like “epyllion” (in his case infused with an ele-
ment of folk-tale). Therefore it cannot be claimed, as I initially Â�suspected,
14 Crawford (2009) 297. Mrs Frances Anna Wallace Dunlop, descendant of William Wal-
lace, was a local aristocratic widow who had been in regular contact with Burns since she
wrote to him around November 1786. Their exchanges are frequently cited in McIntyre
(2009) and Crawford (2009).
562 ewen l. bowie
that we have a comparative datum which strengthens the case for seeing
a similar phenomenon in antiquity, i.e., not the creation of a genre “epyl-
lion,” whose first example was followed and developed by others, but a
number of poets and poems that in different ways play with the minia-
turization of hexameter epic.
My provisional conclusion, then, is that Burns was familiar with and
engaged by the epyllion section of Vergil’s fourth Georgics, and that this is
the most important single formative influence on Tam O’ Shanter. But we
must always bear in mind the bard’s wide reading, discussed very briefly
near the beginning of this paper. He knew Pope’s Odyssey and Dryden’s
Aeneid, and might well have had some details of either or both of these in
his mind when moving from the καταβάσεις of Aristaeus and Orpheus to
Tam’s gazing upon the infernal world transported into Kirk Alloway. This
voyeuristic sequence has recalled Apuleius to some scholars. But Tam is
very different from the ingénu Lucius, all too keen to try magic for himself,
and I have discovered no evidence at all of Burns’ direct familiarity with
Apuleius’ Golden Ass. Nor, as has been suggested to me, does the French
tradition of mock epic in the seventeenth century or Pope’s Dunciad (a
much longer work than Tam O’ Shanter, published in three books in 1728)
or Rape of the Lock (which reached 794 lines in the revised edition of 1714)
seem to be poetry with which Burns engaged. These two poems do not
figure among the works of Pope to which he refers in correspondence,
nor does the name of Boileau or his title Le Lutrin. The recent study of
mock epic by Robertson (2009) has nothing to say about Tam O’ Shan
ter—rightly, since the gap between trivial subject-matter and elevated
expression which is so constant a feature of the Rape of the Lock and is
repeatedly flagged up by Pope is far greater than anything found in Tam
O’ Shanter.
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General index
Names, keywords and technical terms that appear very frequently were not indexed
(e.g. “epyllion,” “Hesiod,” “Homer,” “Homeric hymns,” “Virgil,” etc.). Also, specific works
and passages that can be found via the Index Locorum are, as a rule, not to be found
in the General Index. The majority of Greek names is latinised (e.g. “Heracles,” not
“Herakles”).
Abdera, Abderos, Abderites: 157–158 Aeolic: 151; 303–304+n.61; 429 n.91

Abydos: 414–415+n.21; 429; 434 n.121; 436; Aeolic basis: 119
439+n.144 Aeolus: 315
Academic school: 225–226 Aeschines: 449 n.16
Achaea: 186 n.29; 560 Aeschylus
Achaean(s): 98; 278; 296; 371; 380–381; Prometheus Bound: 340–342; 344; 348;
386; 388–399; 401–404 474–475; 488–489
Achilles: 186 n.29; 194 n.46; 238 n.50; 255; Aesop
283–305; 325 n.67; 327; 371; 380; 387; Fables: 16
394–401; 420 n.44; 436; 440 n.152; 515; Aetiology, aetiological: 114; 128; 132; 190;
531; 558 217; 278; 314; 320; 323; 383; 414; 418;
Achilles’ shield: 129 n.71; 183 n.19; 185; 474; 521; 534 n.55
188; 194 n.46; 195; 402 n.96; 459; 478 Agamemnon: 83 n.2; 159; 180 n.11; 234;
Peleus’ son: 285; 288; 291–292; 296 297; 388; 396 n.85; 399; 401–404; 407;
n.36; 371 482 n.25; 527
Quarrel between Achilles and Quarrel between Agamemnon and
Agamemnon: 159 Achilles: 159
Quarrel between Achilles and Agathias: 462–463+n.80
Odysseus: 88; 120; 131 Agenor: 337 n.21; 347 n.64; 484; 485 n.33
Wrath/Anger of Achilles: 35–36; Agias: 380 n.32; 392 n.76; 402
291–292; 371; 397; 399+n.89; Agido: 128
403+n.98; 407; 436 n.132 Aglaulus: 483–485
Achilles Tatius Ajax
Leucippe and Clitophon: 412; 416–427; Ajax the Greater (Telamonian Ajax):
431 n.105; 487 396+n.84; 398; 515–516
Acontius: 91 n.31; 317 n.30 Ajax the Lesser (Locrian/Oilean Ajax):
Actaeon: 328–329 394; 402
Acusilaus: 475; 488–489 Akraiphia
Adonis: 19; 289; 313 n.10; 358; 363; 414; Ptoïa: 182; 183 n.21
416; 419–420 Soteria: 182; 183 n.21
adynaton: 482; 488 Albert of Stade
Aeacus (Aiakos): 397; 400 Troilus: 514
Aegean: 95 Alcaeus (Alkaios): 163
Aegean Islands: 167 n.88 Alcaeus Messanius: 387
Aegeus: 237 Alcathous: 406
Aelius Theon: 406 n.104 Alcibiades: 440 n.152
aemulatio: 138; 431; 435 Alcinous (Alkinoos): 121–123; 128; 388–389
→ see also: Imitation, imitatio Alcman
Aeneas: 141; 145; 377; 466 n.99; 497; Louvre-Partheneion: 128
514–515; 528; 542 Alcmene: 121–123; 128; 178; 191–195; 202;
Aeneidae: 141 n.16 205; 207–208; 216 n.24; 250; 388–389
598 general index
Aldhelm Antiocheia on the Pyramos: 183

De virginitate: 505 Antiope: 86
Aldina → Manutius, Aldus: Bibliotheca Antiphus: 402+n.95
Aldina Antoninus Liberalis: 316 n.25
Alexander (Paris) → Paris (mythical Antwerp: 528
figure) Aphidnae: 234
Alexander Aetolus: 149 n.3; 201 n.2; Aphrodisias: 431 n.105
324–325; 327 Aphrodite: 91–98; 102; 104–109; 111–148; 157;
Alexander the Great: 245–249; 259 168–169; 181; 192; 216; 289 n.26; 313; 318;
Alexandria: 182; 249; 260; 385 n.53; 413 377; 414; 416+n.22; 419–420; 422–423 n.51;
Library at Alexandria: 190; 382 426; 429; 431 n.105; 441–444; 456–457;
Musaion at Alexandria: 177 473; 477
Odeon: 190 Festival in honour of Aphrodite: 414;
Alexandrianism, Alexandrian: xiii; 40 416; 419–420; 423
n.24; 46; 58–62+n.33; 67–68+n.69; 71; → see also: Cnidos: Cnidian Aphrodite
75; 115; 177; 189; 266–267; 319; 327 n.73; / Cyprus: Kypris (Aphrodite) /
333–334; 345–346+n.59; 379–380+n.30; Demodocus: The songs of Demodocus
383–385+n.53+55; 464; 468–469; 475; (Odyssey 8) / Paphos / Venus
504–505; 509 Apollo(n): 44; 83 n.2; 91; 96–97; 99–100;
Alexandrian footnote: 278; 320 114; 117; 119; 121; 126; 134; 151; 153; 157; 159;
Allegory, allegorisation, allegorical: 34; 99 162–167; 169; 173–174; 189; 196–197; 217;
n.56; 100; 107; 121; 413 n.12; 495; 505; 510; 222; 226; 235; 239; 242; 247; 251; 290; 314
529 n.19; 323; 327–328; 351; 356; 401 n.94;
Allegoric epic: 505; 510 456–457
Alliteration: 235 Apollo at Pagasae: 44; 196
Alpheus: 463 Apollo Derenios: 157
Amazons: 185 Loxias: 174 n.115
Ambrosia: 137–138; 246–247; 474; 479 Lycean Apollo: 235
Amelesagoras: 233 Pythian Apollo: 162; 167 n.85+88
Amphitryon: 178; 191 n.41; 192–195; 205–208; Apollonius of Rhodes: 324–325
250–253 Argonautica: xii–xiii; 4; 153; 155 n.29;
Amycus: 214; 255 185; 240; 249; 254–257; 260; 316 n.29;
Anacreon: 163; 543 324–325; 331; 361; 366; 384+n.51; 450
Anagnorisis: 237 Lesbou Ktisis (Parthenius, EP 21): 324
Anastasius I: 413; 448; 470 n.65; 325 n.66; 327
Anaurus: 197 Quarrel between Apollonius of Rhodes
Anchises: 94–95; 104–105; 137; 139–143; and Callimachus: 56; 63; 223; 240 n.53
145–147; 377 Apollonius of Tyana: 93
Andromenides: 227; 234–236 Apologoi (Odyssey 9–12): 85; 123–124; 130
Ansbach: 20 n.58 n.74; 482
Antaeus: 363; 520 Apostrophe: 342; 345; 347–348; 546–548
Antheus: 327–329 Self-apostrophe: 341; 348; 352
Anthia (character in Xenophon’s Anthia Appendix Vergiliana: 57; 520; 542
and Habrocomes): 419 n.42; 438 n.141; → see also: Ps.-Vergil
440 n.152+155; 442 Apriate: 317 n.31; 321 n.49; 323–324
Anthippe: 317 n.31 Apuleius
→ see also: Parthenius of Nicaea: Metamorphoses: 243; 479 n.21; 562
Anthippe Arachne: 367; 483–485
Anthologia Latina: 520 n.3 Arator: 501
Anthropomorphism: 169 De actibus apostolorum: 495
Anthropophagism: 323 Aratus
Antilochus: 389–390 Phaenomena: 153; 361
Antimachus: 183; 224 n.12; 232 n.34 Arcadia: 16
Lyde: 227; 231 n.28; 241; 322+n.54; 331 → see also: Bucolic, bucolic poetry,
Antinoos: 482 n.25 bucolic setting / Pastoral
general index 599
Archaic, Archaic age/epoch/period: ix; xv; Asclepiades: 231 n.28; 241

31; 41–46; 91; 94–95; 104; 114; 116; 135–136; Asia (continent), Asia Minor: 116; 167 n.88;
139 n.11; 145; 147–148; 150–151; 154–155; 338; 375; 448 n.11; 474; 477; 556
158; 166–173+n.96; 176; 179; 181; 184; 187; Asia (personified): 473; 477
189; 191; 194; 216; 248–249; 251; 255; 283; Astarte: 423 n.51
298; 382; 391; 397 n.87; 433; 454; 474–475; Astyanax: 393 n.80; 402; 527–528; 530
482 Athena: 88; 142; 143 n.18; 188 n.33; 196 n.50;
Archaic ideal: 139 n.11 197; 235; 239; 290; 314 n.19; 385–386;
Archias of Corinth: 328 393–394; 398; 402–403; 455–456; 477;
Archilochus: 183; 256 487
New Archilochus: 256 → see also: Minerva
Arctinus of Miletus: 117; 374; 380–381; Athens: 117; 123; 180; 183; 233; 239; 428 n.86;
391–392; 400 483
→ see also: Epic Cycle, cyclic poems Athenian expedition against Sicily
Ares: 44; 89; 95–96; 102; 104 n.71; 105–108; (415–413 BC): 439 n.145
111–134; 137–140; 143; 145–146; 168; 181; 188 Athetesis: 84–85 n.5; 98+n.52; 115; 146 n.23
n.33; 191 n.41; 195–196; 216; 299; 420 Atossa: 477–478; 480
→ see also: Demodocus: The songs of Atthidography: 233
Demodocus (Odyssey 8) / Mars → see also: Philochorus
Arethusa: 463; 533 n.49; 556–557 Atticus (Titus Pomponius Atticus): 334 n.9
Argo: 58; 212; 214; 218 n.30; 253; 361–362 Augeas: 20; 215; 262; 264–265; 270–276
Argonaut(s): 58; 153; 174–175; 212–214; 218 Augean stables: 215; 259; 264; 275
n.30; 317 n.31; 336 n.15; 533 Augustus: 20; 62
→ see also: Apollonius of Rhodes: Augustan age: 221; 224 n.9; 225; 230; 240;
Argonautica 334; 505
Argos, Argive(s): 88; 180; 213; 239 n.52; 250; Augustan poets/poetry: 63 n.39; 70–71;
278; 353; 385–386; 399; 401 n.94; 560 336; 362 n.24
Argus (Io’s guardian): 337+n.25; 340; 343– Aulis: 285; 396 n.84
344; 350–351; 480 Ausonius
Ariadne: 12–13; 59–61; 65; 69; 73; 79 n.146; Amor cruciatus: 520
108; 218; 232–233+n.33; 349–350; 531; 541 Ayr, Ayrshire: 537–538; 540; 560
→ see also: Catullus: Carmen 64
Aristaeus, Aristaeus epyllion: 71; 73; 76; Babrias
100 n.61; 355–356; 359; 363; 365–366; Fables: 16
519–525; 532; 557–558; 561–562 Bacchus: 520 n.4; 526; 560
Aristarchus: 84–85 n. 5; 111; 125–126; 403 → see also: Dionysus
n.97; 473 Bacchylides: 67; 279
Aristeia: 141; 180 n.11; 188 n.33; 255 Barlaeus, Melchior
Aristophanes: 29; 112; 405 De raptu Ganymedis liber: 528–529;
Acharnians: 96 n.45 532–534+n.49+53+55+57
Birds: 259 Baroque: 3; 14; 468 n.104
Frogs: 255; 259 Basle: 5+n.7; 16
Aristophanes of Byzantium: 178; 185; 187; Bebrycians: 255
189–190 Bedeutungspotential: 460
Aristotle, Aristotelian: 123 n.47; 130 n.74; Bellerophon(tes): 105; 235
228; 237; 274; 385 n.55; 457 n.53 Bembo, Pietro
Arsinoe II: 182–183+n.15; 248–249+n.10 Sarca: 530–531
Arsinoe III: 182 n.15 Berenice: 11 n.28
Artemis: 142; 143 n.18; 161; 165; 185; 347; → see also: Callimachus: Victoria
419 n.42; 423; 437 n.137; 440 n.152+155; Berenices, Coma Berenices
442–443; 456 n.44 Bergen: 21 n.63
→ see also: Diana Berlin: 41–42; 45
Asaricus, Daniel State Library: 41–42
Xenophontis Hercules: 533 n.48 Bernard Silvestris: 516
600 general index
Beroe (nymph): 523; 556 Byzantine empire/emperor(s): 448; 458;

Beronia (nymph): 523 470
Bessarion, Basilios: 15 Byzantine novel: 411–412+n.6; 432–433
Bible Byzantine scholars: 6; 303; 316
Old Testament: 34 → see also: Anastasius I / Aristophanes
→ see also: Epos, epic: Bible epic of Byzantium / Constantinople /
Biedermeier: 39 n.18 Homer of Byzantium
Bilingualism: 376
Bion of Smyrna: 5; 10; 17–19; 41; 75; 149 n.3; Cadmus: 483–484; 486–487
201; 283–305; 543 Caesar: 8 n.17; 62
Epitaph for Adonis: 289 Calchas: 323; 402–404
Epithalamium of Achilles and Deidameia: Callierges, Zacharias: 6; 260–261+n.7; 264;
149 n.3; 201; 283–305 282
Bithynia: 312+n.9 Calligone (character in Achilles Tatius’
Blindness, blind Leucippe and Clitophon): 442
Blinding (of the Cyclops): 215; 292 n.31 Callimachus
Blind singer (Homer): 90; 161–162+n.63; Aetia: xii; 56 n.7; 66 n.65; 225; 252; 256;
455 277–278; 322 n.54; 352 n.83; 382; 384
Boccaccio, Giovanni n.48
Genealogie deorum gentilium: 528 Hecale: xii–xiii; 23; 42; 55–56;
Bodmer, Johann Jakob: 21; 23–24 63–67+n.73; 75; 100; 149 n.3; 173; 181;
Boeotia, Boeotian(s): 179 n.8; 182–183; 186 201; 218; 221–244; 256–257; 270 n.38;
n.29; 233–234; 375 310; 379; 384; 466 n.94; 470 n.115; 509
Boiskos of Cyzicus: 173–174 Victoria Berenices, Coma Berenices: 66
Bologna: 12 n.36 n.65; 223 n.9; 255; 266 n.25;
Bonini, Eufrosyno: 261 277–279+n.54; 352 n.83; 542
Boreas: 418 n.35; 487–488 Quarrel between Callimachus and
Bosporus: 336 n.15; 337 n.24; 338 n.29; 343 Apollonius of Rhodes: 56; 63; 223;
n.47; 353; 520 240 n.53
Bourgeois (morality, setting): 113–114; 126; Callirhoe (character in Chariton’s
133 Callirhoe): 412; 419 n.42; 438 n.141; 439–441
Boxing: 121–122; 161; 255; 546–547 Callirhoe (nymph): 522
Briseis: 399+n.89; 406–407 Calvus
Brockhaus, Friedrich Arnold: 38 Io: 59–60; 69; 72; 79 n.147; 309 n.3; 310;
Buchan, John: 538 333–353
Bucolic, bucolic poetry, bucolic setting: → see also: Io
6–11+n.9; 16–20; 39; 64; 245; 253; 255; Calypso: 180 n.11; 393
269; 283–305; 311; 346–347; 349–350; Camerarius, Joachim: 7 n.15; 282
364–365; 463; 532–533; 535–536 Canaria (nymph): 526
Bucolic diaeresis: 231 n.28; 437 n.134 Canary Islands: 526
→ see also: Pastoral Capodivacca, Paulo: 261
Burlesque: 114–116; 118; 120–121; 124; 126–127; carmen perpetuum: 364 n.28; 365
133; 507; 519; 528+n.37; 532–534 Carolingian times: 495 n.9
Burns, Robert Carrara, Ubertino
Ode to a Haggis: 538 Columbus: 526–527
Tam O’Shanter: xi; 537–562 Casaubon, Isaac: 9–10
Burns Supper: 538 Cassandra: 373 n.8; 382; 386; 389 n.63; 394;
Cutty Sark: 539–540; 552 402; 407 n.107
Busiris: 245 n.1 Castor: 9; 11 n.28; 172+n.103; 214; 255
Byblis: 315 n.23; 317; 320–321; 325–326; 364 Catabasis: 522; 524; 562
Byzantium Catalogue poetry: 85–87+n.16; 167; 185;
Byzantine age/epoch/period: 222 n.2; 469 210–211; 222; 250–251; 312; 321–322+n.54;
Byzantine ekphrasis: 449 n.19; 324–325; 329–330; 344; 360; 419; 476;
458–460+n.55+56 487; 497
general index 601
Catalogue of ships (Iliad 2): 399 Chryses: 83 n.2

Catalogue of women (Hesiod): 85; 87 Cicada: 186–187; 227
n.16; 105; 191; 337 n.22; 349; 474 Cicero: 56; 68; 330 n.76; 334
Caterpillars: 524 Cimon: 287 n.16
Cato (Publius Valerius Cato) Cinematography: 211 n.19
Diana: 335 Cinna
Dictynna: 60; 335+n.14 Smyrna/Zmyrna: 46 n.38; 59–60; 61 n.33;
Catullus: 541–542 65; 68–69+n.80; 72; 232+n.34; 309–310;
Carmen 8: 342 n.42 312–313; 315 n.23; 324 n.62; 335; 363
Carmen 31: 531 Clapham, John: 534 n.54+57
Carmen 35: 68 n.78; 335 Narcissus: 529–530; 532; 533 n.48; 534
Carmen 63 (Attis): 60 n.55
Carmen 64: 5; 11–15; 21–22; 31; 43; 45; Claudianus
55–79; 100; 144; 175; 181; 218; 232 n.33; De raptu Proserpinae: 528 n.35
257; 309 n.3; 310; 334; 349–350; 358; Cleite: 317 n.31; 323
366; 378; 473; 482; 506; 510; 520; 524; Cleoboea: 317 n.31; 327; 329 n.75
531 Clinias (character in Achilles Tatius’
Carmen 65: 60 Leucippe and Clitophon): 424–426
Carmen 68: 60 Clitophon (character in Achilles Tatius’
Carmen 95: 68 n.78; 232; 313 Leucippe and Clitophon): 416 n.26;
Carmina maiora (61–68): 78 419–427; 439; 442+n.116; 444–446
Caunus: 316 n.29; 317; 320; 325–326 Clusters: 453; 455 n.37; 456 n.49
Cebren: 310–311 Clymene: 556–557
Cecrops: 65 n.59; 241; 483 Clymenus: 323
Centaurs: 246–249 Clytemnestra (Klytaim(n)estra): 131; 402
Cephalus: 76; 355 n.2 Cnidos
Ceres: 542 Cnidian Aphrodite: 109
→ see also: Demeter → see also: Aphrodite
Chaereas (character in Chariton’s Code
Callirhoe): 419 n.42; 420 n.44; Code of ethics: 132
439–441+n.151+156 Code-switching: 550
Chaeremon: 224 n.13 Epic code: 450
Chaos: 364; 557 Pagan code: 398 n.88
→ see also: Cosmos Codex, codices: 15; 318 n.37; 428
Charicleia (character in Heliodorus’ Codex Palatinus Graecus: 316 n.25
Aethiopica): 420 n.42; 437 n.137; 440 Codex Patavinus: 261–262
n.151+152; 442–443; 445–446 Colchis: 214; 253
Charis, Charites: 8 n.17; 98; 175; 421; 431 Collective
n.105; 440 Collective memory: 507
Chariteisia: 181–182 Collective poem: 355; 357; 362;
→ see also: Graces 504–505
Charlemagne: 506 n.42 Colluthus
Chauvinism: 298 Abduction of Helen: xiv; 5; 15; 17–18; 42;
Chios: 117; 161–162+n.63; 225; 316 n.29 44; 56; 383 n.45; 385; 393; 413; 465;
Chiron: 284 n.4; 301 n.52 470; 520; 528 n.35
Choniates, Michael: 222 n.2; 241 n.57; 243 Colophon: 402
Christianity: 413+n.12; 430 n.102; 495–497; Columbus: 523; 526
500–505; 510–512; 521; 523 n.19; 524–525; Comaetho: 320
527+n.33 Constantine: 449; 454; 457 n.52
→ see also: Bible / Epos, epic: Bible Constantinople: xv; 385 n.53; 448–449; 454;
epic 457; 470–471
Christmas: 34 Corinna: 108
Christodorus of Coptos: xv; 447–471 Corinth: 183; 186 n.29; 328
Chryseis: 399 n.89; 407 Gulf of Corinth: 186 n.29
602 general index
Cornificius Dedication, dedicatory: 7; 34; 155–158;

Glaucus: 335 160–164; 167; 170–171; 173–175; 312 n.7;
Coronis: 239 313–314; 334; 528–529; 534 n.53+57
Corradi, Sebastiano: 12–13+n.36 Deianira: 252
Corydon: 341+n.42; 347–348 Deidameia: 201; 283–305
Corythos: 324 n.64; 325 Deiphobus: 88–89; 392; 404; 455 n.37; 467
Cosmos: 142; 171; 364; 486 delectatio: 344 n.51
→ see also: Chaos Delos, Delian: 161–162+n.62; 165–168
Court singer → Hofsänger Homeric Hymn to Apollo, Delian part:
Crates of Mallum: 227 121; 151; 166–168+n.84+92; 191–192 n.41
Creophylus of Samos: 44 Delphi: 93–94 n.41; 121 n.44; 166–167; 183
Crete, Cretan: 169; 233; 336; 338; 346; 348; n.18; 191 n.41; 401; 420 n.42; 437 n.137;
349 n.76; 487 442
Crinagoras: 230–232; 238 n.51; 242–243 Soteria: 183 n.18
Croesus (Kroisos): 329 → see also: Pythia, Pythian
Cross-dressing, transvestism: 283–287; 298; Demeter: 91; 102; 159–160; 169; 174; 217;
300–302; 305 478–479
Crusius, Balthasar → see also: Ceres
Ἐπύλλιον ἑκατοντάστιχον: 34 Demetrius
Cult, cultic: 124; 125 n.55; 157; 161 n.61; 165; On Style: 226
186 n.27; 217–218; 243; 479 n.21 Democracy: 239
Cult hymn/song: 119; 141; 143; 147; 151; 154 Democritus: 429–430; 466 n.99
n.26; 155–169 Demodocus
Cult image/statue/stone: 93–94; 559 The songs of Demodocus (Odyssey 8):
Cult place (sanctuary): 161 n.61; 164–170 xv; 83–109; 111–134; 137–141; 143;
Cultural heritage: 245; 452; 455 145–147; 168; 181; 216; 218–219;
Cupid: 547–548 392–393
→ see also: Eros Demosthenes: 231
Curse tablets: 127–128 Diana: 522; 526; 542
Cyclops (Polyphemus): 7; 85; 87; 180 n.11; → see also: Artemis
215; 218; 279; 288; 292–295; 298; 311 n.5; Dickenson, John
341; 348; 402+n.95; 482 n.25 Deorum consessus: 529 n.38
Cycnus (Kyknos) (Ares’ son): 44; 178–179; Dictys Cretensis: 15
186; 191; 195–197; 216 Digression, digressive, digressive element:
Cycnus (Kyknos) (Poseidon’s son): 396 xiv; 65+n.59; 70; 72–73; 75–76; 79; 113–115;
n.84 117; 133; 146; 149 n.5; 178; 186; 188–193;
Cydippe: 91 n.31; 312 n.8; 317 n.30; 556 196–197; 319; 321; 325; 329; 333; 351; 358;
Cydnus: 320+n.46 417; 464–465; 467; 558
Cynaethus of Chios: 162 n.63 Diminutive: ix; xi; 10 n.26; 58; 63–64; 78;
Cyprus: 95; 137–138; 313 n.10; 481 112; 233 n.35
Kypris (Aphrodite): 95; 327; 416; 419–421; Dio Chrysostom
427 n.78; 440; 443 Oration 61: 407
→ see also: Aphrodite Diodorus of Elea: 316 n.29
Cyrene (nymph): 522; 558; 561 Diodorus Siculus: 15
Cyrus (Kyros): 329 Diomedes (Greek hero): 188 n.33; 287; 402
Diomedes (Latin grammarian): 498
Dactyls (mythical creatures): 127–128+n.69 Dionysius of Halicarnassus: 14 n.42;
Daphne: 314 n.19; 351; 526 231–232; 353
Daphnis (character in Longus’ Daphnis Dionysius Periegetes: 318 n.38; 405
and Chloe): 438 n.140; 439 n.146+148 Dionysus: 83–84; 108; 115; 214–215; 255; 347
Daphnis (Sicilian shepherd): 289 n.26; 295; n.62; 425 n.58; 435+n.128; 459; 486
298 n.40 → see also: Bacchus
Dares Phrygius: 15 Dioscuri → Castor / Polydeuces, Pollux
Dithyramb: 221; 292 n.31
general index 603
docta puella: 340 Epic Cycle, cyclic poems: xiii; 100 n.62; 117;
Dolopes: 285 n.7 120; 165; 180; 226; 284–286+n.10; 373–374;
Donatus: 313 n.15 379–383+n.32+33; 391 n.73; 392–393; 396
Douglas, Gavin: 538; 561 n.84; 399 n.89; 408–409
Dracontius Aethiopis: 117; 373; 380 n.32; 381 n.35; 396
Romulea: 56; 520 n.3; 528 n.35 Cypria: 117; 151; 284–286; 373; 379; 380
Dryden, John: 540 n.5; 561–562 n.33; 385 n.55; 393; 399; 403–404+n.99
Du-Stil: 168 n.91; 172 Little Iliad (Ilias parva): 89; 117; 137;
→ see also: Er-Stil 285–286; 298 n.40; 373; 379; 380 n.33;
391 n.74; 393–397
Ebner, Hieronymus: 7 Nostoi (Returns): 117; 392 n.76; 402–403
Ecphrasis/Ekphrasis, ecphrastic/ekphrastic: Sack of Troy (Iliupersis): 88–90+n.26; 117;
xv; 65–66; 76 n.129; 84; 113–114; 144; 149 373; 380; 381 n.35; 391+n.74; 393–394
n.5; 169; 178; 185; 188–197; 206; 217–218; → see also: Triphiodorus: Capture of
321; 333; 336–338; 342–345; 417; 421; 423; Troy (Iliupersis)
447–471; 475–476; 478; 482–484; 531; 552 Telegony: 117; 373
Edinburgh: 537–538; 541; 560 → see also: Epos, epic
effet de réel: 453 epicedium: 8 n.17; 150; 318; 510
Egypt, Egyptian: 85; 245; 249; 251; 337–338; Epicharmus: 251
344; 352; 371 n.4; 372; 375–378; 385; 402; Epichoric: 112
413; 430 n.101; 435; 448; 474; 528 Epideixis: 100
Eidothea: 85 Epidia: 77 n.140
Einzellied: 46 n.41; 112 n.8; 113 Epigram, epigrammatic, epigrammatic
Elagabal: 431 n.105 style: xiii; 12; 17; 29; 78; 175; 223 n.8;
Elegy, elegiac, elegiac couplet/distich/ 226+n.19; 229–232; 241; 269 n.36; 313
metre: xi n.14; 8 n.17; 17; 29–30; 34; 42; n.14; 321 n.53; 335 n.11; 384 n.48; 387;
55+n.3; 67; 78 n.141; 105; 149 n.3; 155; 171; 412 n.5; 450; 455 n.51; 459; 461–463; 465;
175; 201; 221; 227; 248; 256–257; 292; 297 470+n.117; 481; 506 n.40; 514; 542–543
n.36; 300 n.48; 309–331; 334; 364; 417 Saint Polyeuktos Epigram (Anth. Pal.
n.28; 445 n.175; 446; 462+n.76; 463 n.80; 1.10): 459
465+n.91+92; 470; 508; 514; 516; 519 n.1; Epiphany: 93; 108; 160; 416; 440 n.152
528 Epische Breite: 503–505
Elegiac comedy: 499 n.23; 508 Epistle, epistolary: 38; 60; 229; 297 n.37; 312
Roman love elegy: 297 n.36; 312; 322; 324 n.6; 534 n.53+57
Elektryon: 192 epithalamium: 13–14; 21–22; 150; 283; 304;
Eleusis: 217; 429–430+n.101 318
Eleusinian mysteries: 169 → see also: Bion of Smyrna:
Eleuther: 233–234 Epithalamium of Achilles and
Elis: 296 Deidameia / Catullus: Carmen 64 /
Emesa: 431 n.105 Theocritus, Ps.-Theocritus, Corpus
Empedocles: 132; 183 Theocriteum: Idyll 18 (Epithalamium
Encomium, encomiastic: 6–9+n.17; 18–20; of Helen and Menelaus)
34; 92; 142–143; 150; 166–167; 170; 172–173; Epithet: 97; 251; 289; 299–300; 325–326; 371;
181 n.13; 202; 209–210; 217; 246–247; 251; 376 n.17; 413; 560
318 n.37; 327 n.74; 377; 415; 436–437; 449 Epos, epic
n.19; 450; 458 n.54; 460; 504; 519; 542; Allegoric epic: 505; 510
560 Beast epic: 494; 496; 499; 502; 510
Enipeus: 86+n.13; 557 Ysengrimus: 502
Ennius: 100; 229; 334 Bible epic: 494+n.4; 498 n.19; 514
Eos: 147; 429; 438; 440 n.151 Didactic epic: xiii; 73; 355; 361; 458 n.54;
Epaphus: 337 n.26; 344+n.52; 347 n.64; 474; 519; 521–525+n.19; 530–533; 542
476 Hagiographic epic: 494; 496–497; 502;
Ephialtes: 124 n.54 510–511; 519; 521; 532
604 general index
Epos, epic cont. Fairy tale: 38–40; 118; 127; 496; 507+n.45;
Historic(al) epic: 377; 496; 499; 506–507; 508; 510
509; 525 Asinarius: 496; 507; 508 n.46
Mock-epic: x n.9; 507–510+n.49; 558; Rapularius: 496; 508 n.46
561–562 Ruodlieb: 496; 498–499
→ see also: Epic Cycle, cyclic poems / Märchenepyllion: 507+n.45
Short epic / Index of Selected Greek Fergusson, Robert: 538
Words: ἔπος Fernandus (Columbus’ son): 526–527
Epyllienkette: 71; 498 figmenta poetarum: 494
Er-Stil: 168 n.91; 172 Flodoard of Reims
→ see also: Du-Stil De triumphis Christi: 496
Eratosthenes of Cyrene: 44; 201 n.2 Florentine scholia: 223–224
Erigone: 77 n.140; 149 n.3; 233 n.35 Folklore: 298+n.40
Hermes: 66; 149 n.3; 171; 466 n.94 Formula, formulaic: 97; 114; 120 n.39;
Erebus: 559 126–127; 137; 156; 160; 168; 187; 234;
Erechtheus: 233 236; 264 n.18; 269+n.36; 391; 421 n.48;
Erichthonius: 64–65+n.58+59 432–434; 436
Eros: 252; 254; 257; 290–291; 312 n.8; τὰ περὶ/κατὰ + girl or girl-boy (or boy-
414–415; 416 n.22; 418 n.35; 425 n.58; girl) formula: 432–434
427+n.84; 437; 439–443; 463+n.82 Fortuna (personified): 526
Erotes: 524 Fortunate Isles: 526; 529
→ see also: Cupid Fracastoro, Girolamo
Erycius: 319 Syphilis: 522
Ethnicity: 375–377 Fragment, fragmentary, fragmentation:
Ethopoeia: 374 n.10 20–21; 24; 55–56; 64; 68+n.80; 128
Euboea: 284; 338 n.29 n.69; 173; 201; 202 n.3; 218; 221; 223 n.6;
Eumaeus/Eumaios: 238; 269–270+n.37 226–227; 232 n.34; 233; 235; 237; 240;
Euphemism, euphemistic: 103 256; 266–267; 277–278; 285 n.7; 287; 291;
Euphonism, euphony, euphonist critics: 302–303; 312 n.9; 313; 315 n.23; 318–330;
224 n.13; 226 n.16; 228–229+n.23; 335–345; 372–373; 380 n.31; 385; 448 n.8;
234–235; 319+n.45 468; 475; 516; 543
Euphorion of Chalcis: 75; 77 n.140; 149 Fragment as a literary form: 21
n.3; 201 n.2; 316 n.29; 319; 321–324; 330; François Vase: 194
333–334; 351 Fratricide: 323
Thrax: 316 n.29; 321+n.49; 324 n.63
Euphrates: 222 Galateia: 279; 288; 293–295; 298; 299 n.43;
Eupolemius: 495 311 n.5
Euripides Gallus (Gaius Cornelius Gallus): 75; 87;
Alcestis: 39 n.19 312–314; 317; 322–325; 329–330; 334
Heracles: 259 Ganymede: 147; 528–529; 533–534+n.53
Hippolytus: 252 +55+57
Phrixos: 475 n.7 Garda (Lake Garda): 525 n.28; 530–531
Scyrioi: 287+n.17 Gedächtnisraum: 136–137
Suppliant Women: 239 genera dicendi/loquendi
Europa (personified): 218; 336–338; 345; genus mixtum: 497; 504
348–349; 423 n.51; 473–490; 558 → see also: Rhetoric, rhetorical,
→ see also: Moschus: Europa’s basket rhetorician / Style
Europe (continent): 311; 338; 477 Genre (literary genre), generic
Euryalus: 121; 124; 130–131 Generic hybridisation, mixing/synthesis
Eurydice: 71; 356–359; 364–367; 513; 547 of genres, Kreuzung der Gattungen:
Eurymachus: 387 xi n.11; 143–144; 224+n.13; 412; 433;
Eurypylus: 394; 396 n.84; 398; 459 445; 469; 471
Evadne: 239 n.52 Generic memory, Gattungsgedächtnis:
Exposition: 416; 417 n.32; 419–420; 438–439; xvi; 137
441
general index 605
Grossdichtung, Grossform: 363–365 Harpalyce: 323

Kleindichtung, Kleinform: 361–362; Haupt, Moriz: 31; 33; 57–62
364–365; 367 Hebe: 208; 247–248+n.7; 255; 528+n.36; 533
Kleingattung: 355; 359 n.49
Geryon: 353 Hecabe: 313 n.16; 449 n.16; 466 n.99; 514
Stesichorus, Geryoneis: 256 Hecataeus (sculptor): 231 n.30
Geßner, Salomon: 39–40 Hecate: 102
Gesta Apollonii: 513 Hector: 300–301+n.51+53; 396+n.84; 398;
Giannettasio, Nicolò Partenio 400
Nautica: 523+n.19 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich
Giants: 362; 364 Vorlesungen über die Ästhetik: 40 n.23
Glaphyrae: 320 Heinsius, Daniel: 10–11; 17; 20
Glasgow: 537 Helen: 14–15; 17–18; 105; 130 n.74; 131; 257;
Gnome, gnomic: 96; 126; 209; 212; 217; 283; 296–298; 300 n.47; 311; 324 n.64;
543–544 388+n.62; 392–393; 398; 404; 408
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang: 34 → see also: Colluthus: Abduction of
Die Braut von Korinth: 42 Helen / Theocritus, Ps.-Theocritus,
Hermann und Dorothea: 40+n.23 Corpus Theocriteum: Idyll 18
Golden Fleece: 212–214 (Epithalamium of Helen and
Google Books: 32–33 Menelaus)
Gorgias: 429 Helenus: 386; 404+n.99
Gortynian stables: 346 Helice: 278
Gotha: 18 n.57 Helicon (Mount Helicon)
Gothic: 3 Heliconian Muses: 165 n.80
Graces: 18; 94; 137–138; 175; 182–183 → see also: Muse(s)
→ see also: Charites Heliodorus
Grammar school → Gymnasium Aethiopica: 431 n.105; 432; 433 n.117; 437;
Greenwich: 539 443 n.172
Gregory of Nazianzus: 450 n.21 Helios: 102; 128; 431 n.105
Gryne: 323 Hellespont: 414; 415 n.21; 427 n.84; 437
Grynean wood: 323 Hemingway, Ernest
Gurlitt, Johannes: 21–24 A Farewell to Arms: 268 n.34
Gymnasium (grammar school): 18 n.57; 20 Hephaestus: 91–98; 101–103; 107–108;
n.58; 21 n.63 114–115; 124–128; 132; 134; 138 n.10;
→ see also: Index of Selected Greek 193–194+n.46; 337–338+n.28; 459 n.60;
Words: γυμνάσιον 474; 480
Hera: 94; 103; 105; 115; 182; 202–203;
Habrocomes (character in Xenophon’s 246–249; 259; 342 n.43; 347 n.62; 474;
Anthia and Habrocomes): 419 n.42; 420 488; 529
n.44; 438 n.141; 440 n.155; 442 → see also: Juno
Habsburg: 525 n.28 Heracleodorus: 224 n.13; 226 n.16
Hades: 44; 118; 125; 128; 358; 478 Heracles: 19–20; 43–44; 66 n.65; 149 n.3;
→ see also: Pluto 163; 177–197; 202–204; 207–216; 245–257;
Hadrian: 313 259–282; 353; 426; 459
Hagenau: 7 n.15 Ps.-Hesiod, Shield of Heracles (Aspis;
Hagenbuch, Johann Caspar: 5 n.8 Scutum): 30–31; 34; 41; 44–45; 57 n.9;
Hagesichora: 128 111 n.2; 150; 163; 177–197; 379; 520
Hagia Sophia: 459 → see also: Theocritus, Ps.-Theocritus,
Halios: 128 Corpus Theocriteum: Idyll 24
Halle: 34 (Heracliscus) and Idyll 25 (Heracles
Hamburg: 21 n.63 The Lion-Killer)
Hanno the Carthaginian: 316 n.25 Heraclides of Pontus: 225–226+n.16
hapax legomenon: 140 n.13; 234; 236; 404 Herder, Johann Gottfried: 21
Harmonia: 125; 459 n.60 Heringa, Adrian: 166
606 general index
Herippe: 315 Idyll, (e)idyllion, (e)idyllic: 6; 8–11; 17–18;

Hermes: 35–36; 85; 96–97; 104 n.71; 114; 24; 38–41; 45; 61 n.30; 64; 112+n.8; 463;
124 n.54; 126; 134; 169; 249; 261; 290; 344; 479; 543
350–351; 426–427 n.78; 453 → see also: Theocritus, Ps.-Theocritus,
→ see also: Eratosthenes of Cyrene: Corpus Theocriteum
Hermes / Mercury / Philetas (Philitas) Ilgen, Karl David: 34–38; 42; 45; 111; 150 n.8
of Cos: Hermes Imitation, imitatio: 58–59; 161 n.61; 187–188;
Hermesianax: 316 n.29 222; 250; 342; 345; 350–351; 390; 435; 465
Leontion: 321–322+n.54 n.91; 513; 523 n.19; 525 n.28; 560
Hermocrates: 439 n.145 imitatio cum variatione: 390
Hermophantos: 182 oppositio in imitando: 342
Hesiod → see also: aemulatio
→ Catalogue poetry: Catalogue of Inachus: 337+n.26; 339; 343; 347; 350–352
women (Hesiod) Inachids: 338+n.29; 342; 344 n.50+52
→ Heracles: Ps.-Hesiod, Shield of Inceptive δέ: 263+n.15
Heracles (Aspis; Scutum) Inceptive imperfect: 377; 403
Hesse, Eoban: 7–10; 19 India, Indians: 456; 486; 546
Hestia: 142; 143 n.18 Indian War: 435 n.130; 468 n.104
Hiero: 251 Indo-European tradition: 167
Hipparchus: 111; 116; 123; 180 n.10 Interpolation: 114–117+n.21; 146–147;
Hippias: 162 187–188+n.31
Hippodameia: 406–407+n.106+107 Intertextuality, intertextual, intertext:
Hippolytus: 440 n.152 xi–xii; xiv–xvi; 70; 94; 112; 115; 127 n.65;
Hittite: 116; 133 135–148; 179; 187–189; 247–248; 269–272;
Hofsänger: 119 n.30 274–275; 278; 288–289; 294; 296 n.36;
Homecoming: 127 n.65; 146 n.22; 402–403 303–304; 339–340; 343; 384; 389; 399;
→ see also: Index of Selected Greek 404; 412; 420; 424; 432; 445; 473–490;
Words: νόστος 508–509; 545
Homer of Byzantium: 457 Io: 218; 333–353; 474; 476; 480–481; 520
Homerid(s): 167 n.85; 445 → see also: Calvus: Io
Homerus novus: 457+n.52 Iolaos: 185; 196+n.50
Horace: 227; 305; 515 Iole: 252
Hrotsvit Iolkos: 186 n.29
Ascensio: 502 Iphicles: 202; 204; 206; 208
Theophilus: 502 Iphigeneia: 287 n.19
Hugh of Mâcon Iphimedeia: 87 n.16
Gesta militum: 504–505 Iris: 248
Hugh Primas of Orléans: 513; 515 Irony, ironic: xiv; 113; 135 n.2; 138–139; 145;
Humanism, humanists: 3–4; 6; 10–14; 16–17; 170; 207–209; 253; 292; 327 n.72; 341; 348;
22–23; 287; 530 362 n.24; 408; 464; 473; 480–481; 488; 515
→ see also: Renaissance Dramatic irony: 327
Hyacinthus: 358 Isaiah: 525 n.25
Hylas: 212–214; 252–253; 259 Isocrates: 231–232; 466 n.99
→ see also: Theocritus, Ps.-Theocritus, Italy: 57; 352–353; 524 n.22
Corpus Theocriteum: Idyll 13 (Hylas) Ithaca: 92; 122; 129; 131; 250; 387; 403; 438
Hypermestra: 339 n.31 Itys: 326
Hypertext(ual): 374; 384; 395; 397–399; 408 Ixion: 333
Hypotext(ual): 374; 395; 397–398; 400; 408 Iuvencus: 495; 501
Hypsipyle: 520
Hyrieus: 270 n.38 Jason (Argonaut): 66; 253
hysteron proteron: 102 n.67 Jason of Nysa
The Sacred Institutions of Alexander: 182
Iconic poems: 462 Jena: 34
Ida (Mount Ida): 296–298+n.37; 310 Jesus Christ: 495; 527; 533
general index 607
Johann Gaudenz Freiherr von Salis-Seewis: Leucippos: 214

537 Leuconoe: 96–97
Johansson, Scarlett: 460 n.68 Lexicography, lexicographers: 233; 235
John of Garland: 517 Libya/-e (eponymous heroine): 337+n.21;
John of Gaza 338 n.29; 347; 476
ἔκφρασις τοῦ κοσμικοῦ πίνακος: Linear B: 118 n.30
459–460+n.68 Linus: 251; 345 n.55
Joseph of Exeter Lipare (nymph): 522
Ylias: 514 Little epic → Short epic
Juno: 344+n.50; 485; 528; 542 locus amoenus: 92; 463; 526
→ see also: Hera Lodge, Thomas
Junta, Philip: 260–262+n.7 Glaucus and Scylla: 529 n.38
Jupiter: 339; 361; 362 n.24; 482–485; 524; Longinus: 233 n.35; 237 n.46
527–529; 542; 547 Love story → Index of Selected Greek
→ see also: Zeus Words: ἐρωτικὸν πάθημα
Justinian: 378; 460 Lucan
Pharsalia: 436 n.132
Keyx: 44; 196 Lucian
Kilmarnock: 540–541; 543 Amores: 109
Kleinepos → Short epic How to Write History: 333; 351
Kleisthenes: 180 Lucius Crassicius Pansa: 335+n.11
Klytoneos: 122; 128 Lucretius: 73
Körner, Christian Gottfried: 40 n.23 Luther, Martin: 42–43
Krisa: 179 n.8 Lycidas: 288–291; 293–295
Kronia (Saturnalia): 125 n.55 Lycomedes: 285–287; 296; 300
Kronos: 93; 125 n.55; 247; 248 n.7; 344 n.52; Lycophron: 224 n.13; 319; 405
474 Alexandra: 201; 280; 327–328; 407 n.107
→ see also: Saturnus Lycoris: 322
Küttner, Karl August: 17–18+n.56 Lydia, Lydian: 241; 422
Lynceus: 214; 339 n.31; 347 n.64
Lacedaemon: 296; 298
Lactantius: 56 Macareus and Canace: 315 n.23; 324 n.62
Laertes: 123; 132; 180 n.11 Macedonia, Macedonian: 249–250; 257
Lament: 86–87; 123; 159 n.48; 218; 254; 311; MacGuffin: 275
318 n.37; 326; 361; 386; 396; 418+n.36; 527 Mädchentragödie: 474–476; 478; 484
Laodamas: 128 Maenads: 358; 360
laudatio, laudatory → Encomium, Manso, Iohann Caspar: 18–19+n.57
encomiastic Manutius, Aldus: 16
Lavater, Johann Caspar: 21 Bibliotheca Aldina: 16; 430; 520; 541
Leda: 172 n.103 Marathon: 186 n.27; 230; 239; 377
Leerstelle: 147 Marathonian bull: 221; 230; 237–238; 383
Lemnos: 97; 128 n.69; 399 n.44
Leonteus: 402 Märchen → Fairy tale
Lesbia: 69 Marianus of Eleutheropolis: 470 n.115
Lesches of Lesbos: 117; 374; 380–381+n.32; Marlowe, Christopher
391 n.74; 392 Hero and Leander: 529 n.38
→ see also: Epic Cycle, cyclic poems Mars: 92; 97; 556–557
Letaldus of Micy → see also: Ares
Within piscator: 496; 506–509 Mater Dolorosa: 527
Leto: 247+n.6; 314 n.19 Matthew of Vendôme
Letronne, Jean Antoine: 371 n.4; 375+n.16; Tobias: 495
378 Medea: 237; 239; 254–256; 342 n.42
Leucippe (character in Achilles Tatius’ Medusa: 194+n.49; 520
Leucippe and Clitophon): 416 n.26; Megara: 252
419–427; 440 n.115; 442–446 → see also: Moschus: Megara
608 general index
Melanchthon: 8; 15 Milton, John: 540 n.5

Meleager: 462–463+n.80; 481 Mimnermus: 224; 227; 256; 312 n.8
Meles (Homer’s father): 457 Nanno: 322+n.54; 331
Melissus: 328 Minerva: 483–484
Melitte (character in Achilles Tatius’ → see also: Athena
Leucippe and Clitophon): 427+n.80; Minos: 335 n.14; 345–346+n.60; 347 n.64;
446 474
Memnon: 394; 396+n.84 Minotaur: 346
Memphis: 249 mise-en-abyme: 114; 120; 130; 133; 336; 365;
Menelaus: 14; 85; 88–89; 298; 388–390; 392; 476 n.12
402; 408; 435 n.128; 467 miserabile carmen: 359–362; 365
→ see also: Theocritus, Ps.-Theocritus, Mnemosyne (personified): 233–234
Corpus Theocriteum: Idyll 18 Moero of Byzantium: 201 n.2
(Epithalamium of Helen and Curses: 316 n.29; 321
Menelaus) Moirai: 418 n.35
Mercury: 72 n.107; 483–485; 524 Molorc(h)us: 66 n.65; 238 n.49; 255; 270 n.38
→ see also: Hermes Monologue: 418; 476
Merrick, James: 378; 406 Moschus: 5; 17; 41; 75; 463; 473–482; 543
Metabasis: 134; 160 n.53 Epitaph for Bion: 288–290; 294; 299 n.42
→ see also: Index of Selected Greek Europa: 9–10; 17–21; 56; 66; 86; 100; 149
Words: μεταβαίνειν (μετάβηθι, n.3; 173; 181; 194 n.47; 201; 218–219; 232;
μεταβήσομαι) 310; 321; 336–338; 341 n.38; 342–345;
Metapoetics, metapoetic(al): 114; 118–121; 347; 350; 353; 463; 473–482; 484;
124–130; 133; 185–186+n.29; 209; 216–217; 487–489; 520; 558
232+n.33; 241; 243; 250 n.16; 266 n.25; 270 Megara: 19–20; 245; 280; 321; 463
n.38; 277–278; 280; 295–296; 338 n.27; Europa’s basket: 66; 218; 232;
347–348; 350 n.78; 352 n.83; 365–367; 336–338+n.27; 343; 459 n.60; 467;
385–390; 392 n.75; 394–395; 401; 473–474; 476–478; 480; 484; 552
444–445; 455–457; 460 Müller, Karl Otfried: 42–45
Metapontion: 163 Murdoch, John: 540+n.5
Metre, metrics: xi–xii; xiv; 67; 79; 155; 202 Musaeus
n.4; 221; 229 n.25; 231 n.28; 257; 269; 334 Hero and Leander: 5; 16; 22–24; 379–380
n.9; 377; 390; 411–413; 417 n.29; 435; 462; n.30; 383 n.45; 385+n.55; 411–446;
465 n.91+92; 495 n.9; 519 n.1; 541 470–471; 520
Aeolic basis: 119 Muse(s): 37; 98 n.54; 99–100; 120 n.39;
Choriambic hexameter: 174 149–150; 164; 165 n.80; 170–172; 189;
Dactylo-epitrites: 202 n.4; 380 n.32; 387 230–231; 233–234; 241; 243; 289; 361;
Epodes: 462 367; 386–387; 411 n.3; 415; 429+n.92;
Glyconeus: 119 431+n.103; 434–435; 456–457; 523; 539;
Iambic proem: 460–461+n.67 548–549
Iambics: 17; 173; 201; 318; 411; 462–463; Calliope: 91 n.31; 100 n.62; 358 n.11; 367;
470 n.115 385–387
Leonine hexameter: 513 Invocation of the Muse(s): 120 n.39; 289;
Pherecrateus: 119 361; 411 n.3; 415; 434; 436; 456–458;
Spondee, Spondiacus: 119; 319 n.44; 334 530; 533
n.9 Urania: 523
→ see also: Elegy, elegiac, elegiac Musurus, Marcus: 261
couplet/distich/metre Mycenae: 278; 296
Middle Ages, mediaeval: 9; 15; 493–518; Mycenaean period: 111
520; 530 Myrmidons: 186 n.29; 552
Middle Greek: 470+n.116 Myrrha: 69; 324 n.62; 335+n.12; 358;
Milio, Girolamo Giuseppe 363–364
Hercules Benacensis: 525 n.28 Myrson: 288; 290; 292–295
militia amoris: 300 n.48 Mysia: 285+n.6
general index 609
Nachleben: 93; 178; 539–540 Neoteric(s): 46; 57; 59; 61–62; 67–70; 72–73;
Naiad(s): 157; 522; 533 n.49 76; 78; 309+n.1; 329; 333–338; 343–351; 363
Nanis: 329 → see also: poeta: poetae novi
Naples: 467 Nereid(s): 7; 294; 474
Narcissus: 529 Nero: 108
Narratology, narration, narrative, narrator Nestor: 284–285; 389; 402
Analepsis, analeptic: 147; 400 Nestor of Laranda: 372; 375; 383 n.45
Brevity (of the narrative): xiv; 21; 139; Missing Letter Iliad: 406
144; 188; 300; 372; 380; 382–383; 389; → see also: Triphiodorus: Missing
447; 462+n.76; 464–465; 519 n.1; 532 Letter Odyssey
→ see also: Short epic Netherworld → Underworld (Tartarus)
Compression: 83–109; 153; 170; 266; 381 Nicaenetus of Samos: 324–326
Discontinuous narrative: 265–266+n.22; Nicander: 324–325
274 Nicias (addressee of Theoc. Id. 13): 252
Ellipsis: 265–267+n.21; 273–274; 279–280 Nicias (painter): 237 n.47
Embedded narrative: 68 n.80; 87; 100 Nika revolt: 448; 467 n.101
n.61; 114; 120; 123–124; 137–139; 178; 188; Niobe: 314 n.19; 317 n.31
321; 328–330; 336; 350; 357; 366–367 Nireus: 440 n.152
Episodic narrative: 255 n.22; 329–330; Nonnos
336; 435–436 n.130; 468; 511 Dionysiaca: xv; 372; 390; 407+n.108;
Extension: 83–109; 396 411–413; 435–436; 445; 458 n.54;
Extradiegetic: 357; 475; 478; 482; 483 468–471; 485–489
n.29; 489 School of Nonnos: 413 n.10; 448
fabula: 9; 97; 363; 365; 510 Novel: ix n.4; xi n.12; 135; 265; 315; 406;
Focalization: 114; 134; 326; 557 411–446; 458; 468; 470; 473; 479 n.21; 531
Homodiegetic: 479 n.21 Byzantine novel: 411–412+n.6; 432–433
Incompetent narrator: 479–482+n.21; Hexameter novel: 434; 446
490 Prosaroman: 412 n.6; 445
Intradiegetic: 357; 482 Versroman: 412 n.6; 496
Narrativity: xiv; 464–467 Nuremberg: 7; 20 n.58
Primary narrator: 350; 396 n.85; 398; Nymph(s): 212–214; 259; 297; 298 n.40; 311;
402 n.95; 407; 415 n.21; 431 n.105; 320; 346; 349; 439 n.148; 522–523; 524
439–440+n.146+150 n.22; 526; 528; 530; 533; 555–556; 561
Prolepsis, proleptic: 141; 147; 327; 337
n.23; 350; 392+n.76; 398–399; 402; Oceanus: 524
404; 477 Odo of Magdeburg
Sub-plot: 279; 292 n.31 Ernestus: 496
Unreliable narrator: 479 n.21; 484; 490 Odysseus: 85–90; 98–100; 106; 118; 120–132;
Zoom-technique: 211 n.19 140; 145–146; 238; 247; 250; 268 n.33; 269;
Nausicaa: 123; 125 n.56; 129; 131; 173; 284–286; 292 n.31; 315; 380; 386–395;
426–427; 445; 477 398–399; 402–404; 408; 426–427; 433;
Neander, Michael: 15–16+n.49 438; 445–446; 482
Near East: 94–95; 118; 133–134 Quarrel between Odysseus and Achilles:
Nectar: 247–248 120; 131
Nekyia (Odyssey 11): 467 n.102 Quarrel between Odysseus and Ajax:
Nemean lion: 215+n.23; 255; 262; 264–266; 515–516
273; 277; 528 n.36 → see also: Ulysses, Ulixes
Neologism: 421 n.48 Oedipal struggle: 459
Neoplatonism: 413 n.12; 430 n.102 Oenone: 296–298; 310–311; 315; 324 n.64
Neoptolemus (Achilles’ son): 284–285; 287 Ogygia: 446 n.179
n.17+19; 392; 394; 396 n.84; 397–398; Olympus (Mount Olympus): 115; 208; 210;
400–402 246–249; 377; 488; 528
Neoptolemus of Parium: 227–230+n.21+22; The Olympians (gods): 91; 98; 100; 130;
237 247
610 general index
Omphale: 252; 426 Panhellenism, panhellenistic: 111–112;

Oppian: 16 n.49; 405 115–116; 164–167
Orality, oral composition/poetry/tradition: Panopolis: 375+n.15
83 n.1; 94; 111–112; 115; 118–119; 125–126; Paphos: 92–94; 127; 137–138
127 n.65; 134; 138 n.10; 158–159; 181; → see also: Aphrodite
186–187; 216; 356; 366–367; 391 n.73; 397 Papyrus/-i, papyrology: 107; 178 n.3; 190;
n.87; 434 n.121 223–225+n.9; 237; 256; 260–261; 265; 272;
→ see also: Performance, performative, 275; 287; 372; 390; 428 n.86; 432
performativity Antinoa papyrus: 261
Orchomenos Antinopolis papyrus: 260
Chariteisia: 182 Lille papyrus: 223 n.9; 278
Orion: 545 Paraphrase: 9 n.21; 41 n.27; 225; 228; 241
Ornithogony: 526 n.57; 243; 260; 406; 470; 495 n.9; 502; 511;
Oropus 514; 528–530
Amphiareia: 182; 183 n.21+22 Parataxis, paratactical: 468
Orpheus, Orphic: 16; 71; 73; 87; 117; 132; 251; Parcae: 22; 218; 358 n.9; 482
336 n.15; 355–368; 429–430; 513; 520; 522; Paris (French capital): 6; 13 n.38
559–562 Paris (mythical figure): 16 n.49; 105; 130
Orphica Argonautica: 16; 17 n.56 n.74; 296–299; 310–311; 315; 324 n.64; 393;
Orphic hymns: 16; 542 396 n.84; 404 n.99; 482 n.25; 514
Orsini, Fulvio (Fulvius Ursinus): 287 Parma: 11
Ortygia: 209 n.14 Parody, parodistic: xiii n.24; xiv; 112; 133;
Ossian: 22–24 153; 231 n.28; 238 n.49; 305; 481; 490; 496;
Otos: 124 n.54 506 n.40; 508–512; 528 n.37
Ovid: 70; 72–73; 75; 87; 103–104; 106–109; → see also: Epos, epic: Mock-epic /
315 n.23; 378; 493 n.1; 515–516; Satire, satirical
520–532 Paroemiography: 303
Ars amatoria: 516 pars epica: 120; 167–168
Fasti: 270 n.38; 312 n.8; 479 n.21 Parthenius of Nicaea: 68; 69 n.85; 75–76;
Metamorphoses: xv; 57; 62; 65; 68 n.80; 309–331; 333–334; 351
71–72; 74–75; 86; 100; 310; 312 n.8; Anthippe: 149 n.3; 321
355–368; 482–487; 506; 515–516; Aphrodite: 313; 318
520–532 Encomium of Arete: 318; 321–322
Ovidius puellarum (= De nuncio sagaci): Epicedium of Arete: 318
516 Metamorphoses: 318+n.38; 320–321
Oxymoron: 297 n.38 Parthian empire: 377
Pasiphae: 72; 92; 339; 345–351; 479
Padua: 12 n.36 Pastoral: 64; 279 n.58; 289 n.26+27;
Paean/Paian: 157–158 289–299+n.26; 542
Pagasae: 44; 196 → see also: Bucolic, bucolic poetry,
→ see also: Apollo(n): Apollo at bucolic setting
Pagasae Patrizi da Cherso, Francesco
Pagnini, Luca Antonio: 11; 20–21 n.60 Della Poetica: 4
Palaepaphos: 93 n.40 Patroclus: 180 n.11; 300; 389; 396; 552
Palamedes: 287 n.19; 399 Patronymic: 325; 405–407
Palladium: 395; 520 n.4 Paul the Silentiary: 459–461
Pamprepius: 413 n.10 ἔκφρασις τοῦ ναοῦ τῆς Ἁγίας Σοφίας: 459
Pan: 99; 169; 186 n.27; 289 n.26; 290; Paulinus of Nola: 511 n.55
350–351 Paulinus of Périgueux
Panathenaia, Panathenaic: 111; 117; 119–120; De vita sancti Martini libri sex: 495; 511
124; 180–181 n.55
Pandora: 93; 193–194 n.46; 393 n.79; 459 Pausias: 225 n.14
n.60 Pederasty: 252–254
Panegyric → Encomium, encomiastic Peirene: 328
general index 611
Peisandros: 20 Philostratus
Peisidice: 315; 325 n.67; 327+n.72; 329 Eikones: 467+n.102
Peisistratus, Peisistratids: 117 n.21; 162; 180 Philoxenus: 292 n.31
n.10 Phobius the Neleid: 327–328
Peleus: 11–15; 31; 43; 59; 61; 69–70; 79 n.146; Phocylides: 15
176; 218+n.30; 284–285+n.7; 286 n.10; Phoenicia, Phoenician: 205–206; 336
288; 291–292; 296 n.36; 300; 371; 400; Phoenix (Achilles’ educator): 285; 406
531; 547 Phoenix (brother or father of Europa): 337
→ see also: Achilles: Peleus’ son / n.21; 347 n.64
Catullus: Carmen 64 / Thetis Phrygia: 128 n.69
Penelope: 84; 92; 118; 131–132; 388 n.62; 392 Phthia: 327
n.76; 406; 433; 438; 445; 482 n.25 Phyleus: 262; 264; 270–271; 273–274;
Penthesilea: 394; 396+n.84; 398 277–278
Pentheus: 18; 215; 559–560 Piasus: 323
Performance, performative, performativ- Pico del Teide: 523
ity: 98–101; 108; 111–134; 138 n.10; 140–141; Pierian bee: 456
152–153; 158–170; 177–184; 188–190; 216; Pindar: 13; 21–22 n.63; 67; 157–158; 201–219;
221; 257 n.29; 295; 374 n.9; 450; 499; 256; 279; 384 n.51; 389; 456 n.45
538 Pirithous (Peirithoos): 44; 406 n.106
→ see also: Orality, oral composition/ Pisander of Laranda: 372; 375; 383 n.45;
poetry/tradition 407 n.108
Pergamum: 227 Pittheus: 277 n.50
Pericles: 466 n.99 Plato
Peripatetic school: 225–227; 316; 330 Ion: 181
Peripeteia: 237–238 Republic: 231
Periphrasis, periphrastic: 120 n.39; 272; 405; Symposium: 252; 257
544–546 Pleiad(e)s: 303; 545
Persephone: 102; 173; 420 n.47; 478–479; Pluto: 486; 513; 524
481; 487 → see also: Hades
→ see also: Proserpina Po (river): 524 n.22; 526; 557
Perseus: 194–195+n.49 poeta
Persia, Persian: 246; 248; 477 poeta doctus: 112; 505
Persian Wars: 377 poetae novi: 67; 319 n.44; 334 n.9
Personification: 124–125; 437; 457; 477; 530 → see also: Neoteric(s)
Petronius Poetology, poetological → Metapoetics,
Satyricon: 479 n.21 metapoetic(al)
Petrus of Saintes: 514 Polycrates: 167 n.85+87
Petrus Riga: 514 Polycrite: 329
Phaeacian(s): 91; 99; 101 n.66; 106; 113; Polydeuces, Pollux: 9; 11 n.28; 172+n.103;
118–125; 127–129; 131; 140; 146; 446 n.179 214; 255; 546–547
Phaethon (bull): 266; 273; 276–277 Polymele: 315
Phallus: 126 Polyphemus → Cyclops (Polyphemus)
Pharos: 85+n.6 Polyphony: 482 n.26
Phemios: 129+n.74; 392 n.76 Polypoetes: 402
Pherecydes: 128 n.69 Polyxena: 380; 387; 400 n.90; 466 n.99
Philaechme: 317 n.31; 327 Pompeius: 460
Philemon and Baucis: 270 n.38 Pope, Alexander: 542
Philetas (Philitas) of Cos: 224; 231 n.30 The Rape of the Lock: 38
Demeter: 171 Translator of Iliad and Odyssey: 560–561
Hermes: 149 n.3; 201 n.2; 316 n.29 Poseidon: 86–87+n.16; 96; 101 n.66; 126–127;
Philippos (epigrammatist): 462–463+n.80 157; 328; 337; 346+n.60; 401 n.94; 402; 418
Philochorus: 233; 239 n.35; 474
Philoctetes: 311; 394; 396 n.84; 399 Posidippus: 109; 231 n.30; 250–251
Philodemus: 225–229; 235 New Posidippus: 251
612 general index
Postmodernism: 265 Ciris: 46 n.38; 55–56; 60; 65; 68 n.80;

praeteritio: 361 75–77; 310; 316; 506; 520; 535
Praise, praise poetry → Encomium, Copa: 63 n.39
Â�encomiastic Culex: 56; 75–76; 506
Prayer: 83 n.2; 153–158; 174–175; 260–261; Moretum: 76; 310; 319 n.39
400; 526; 533 → see also: Appendix Vergiliana
Presupposition: 267–274 Pseudonym: 11 n.30; 429 n.92;
Priam: 159 n.48; 310; 388; 398–401 430–431+n.101+102
Proclus Psychology, psychological,
Chrestomathy: 90+n.26; 284–286; 373; Â�psychologisation: 41; 145; 170; 194 n.49;
380–381+n.33+34; 391; 400; 402; 404 311; 326; 363; 418; 433
n.99 Ptolemy, Ptolemies (age of the Ptolemies),
→ see also: Epic Cycle, cyclic poems Ptolemaic: 8 n.17; 18; 62; 169; 171–173;
Procne: 326 182–184; 189–190; 245–257; 327 n.73; 542
Procopius of Gaza: 460 Pygmalion: 358; 364
Proem: 100+n.62; 179 n.5; 246; 361 n.21; Pyramus and Thisbe: 515
377; 380; 382; 387; 404; 411+n.3; 415; 417 Pythagoras, Pythagorean(s): 236+n.45; 357
n.32; 419; 420 n.47; 428 n.85; 434–438; Pythia, Pythian
440 n.150; 444–445; 456 n.44; 457–458; Homeric Hymn to Apollo, Pythian part:
460–463; 524 n.22; 534 n.57 166–168+n.84+92; 191–192 n.41
→ see also: Muse(s): Invocation of the Pythian Apollo: 162; 167 n.85+88
Muse(s) / Index of Selected Greek Pythian Games: 121 n.44; 167 n.85; 420
Words: προοίμιον n.42
Proetides: 72; 346–349 → see also: Delphi
Proetus: 346; 347 n.64; 349 Pytho: 196
progymnasma: 406; 459 n.57; 460
Prometheus: 344 n.52 Qaşr Ibrīm: 322
propemtikon: 318–319+n.39 Quintus of Smyrna
Propertius: 299 Posthomerica: 4; 15; 372–373; 375;
Propontis: 212 381–383; 390–391+n.69; 394; 396–404;
Proserpina: 559 407; 449 n.15; 520
→ see also: Persephone
Proteus, Protean: 71; 85; 355 n.3; 359–360; Ranke, Karl Ferdinand: 30–31; 41; 57 n.9
363–365; 435; 444–445; 457–458; 469; Rapin, René
486; 522–523+n.19; 525 n.25; 546 Hortorum libri IV: 522–523
→ see also: Metapoetics, metapoetic(al) Reader response: 351; 463 n.84; 475
/ Index of Selected Greek Words: Realini, Bernardino: 12–13; 22
ποικιλία, ποικίλον εἶδος, ποικίλος ὕμνος Realism, realistic: 268; 271 n.41; 464; 466
Prudentius n.99
Psychomachia: 495 recusatio: 63 n.39; 289 n.26; 362
Prytanis: 376 Reference tag → Reklamant
Ps.-Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound → Reggio Emilia: 12 n.36
Aeschylus: Prometheus Bound Reich-Ranicki, Marcel: 24
Ps.-Bion → Bion of Smyrna Reiske, Johann Jakob: 11; 20
Ps.-Homer Reklamant: 367
Batrachomyomachy: xiii n.24; 16; 36; 45; Renaissance: 6 n.13; 12 n.34; 32–34; 527;
100 n.60; 150 n.8; 153; 481; 528 n.37 530 n.41
Epikichlides: 29; 36 → see also: Humanism, humanists
Ps.-Moschus → Moschus Reposianus
Ps.-Quintilian De concubitu Martis et Veneris: 92; 102;
Versus de geminis languentibus: 516 520 n.3
Ps.-Theocritus → Theocritus Rezeptionshorizont: 384+n.51
Ps.-Vergil Rhadamanthys: 474
general index 613
Rhapsody, rhapsode, rhapsodist, rhapsodic: Scaliger, Joseph Justus: 13–14; 541–542

44; 88; 111; 116; 140; 149–176; 179–189; 462 Scaliger, Julius Caesar: 430–431; 531 n.43
n.76 Schadenfreude: 138–139 n.11
Rhesus: 395–396 Scheria: 118
Rhetoric, rhetorical, rhetorician: 10–11; 13; Schiller, Friedrich
166 n.84; 242; 288 n.21; 301 n.53; 385–390; Xenien: 18 n.57
405; 408; 413–415; 458–460+n.57 Schizophrenia: 297 n.38
controversia: 516 Scholia, scholiast, scholiastic tradition:
declamatio: 516 6–10; 93; 96; 98; 103; 162 n.63; 178–179;
suasoria: 513 222–228; 230; 236; 242; 256; 274; 316; 318
→ see also: genera dicendi/loquendi / n.37+38; 319 n.39; 323; 380 n.32; 386–388;
Style 403; 405; 407 n.107
Rhianus: 319 Schulze, Ernst
Rhyme: 234; 367; 543 Die Bezauberte Rose: 38–41; 59
Riga, Petrus Schwebel, Nicolaus: 19–20
Aurora: 495; 514 Scott, Walter: 538
Rococo: x n.9; 16 scriptio continua: 126
Romanos: 470 Scylla: 159 n.48; 335 n.13
Romanticism, Romantic: 21; 35 n.14; Scyros: 283–305
39–41+n.24; 45 Scythians: 301
Rome: 13 n.39; 46; 309+n.1; 312–313+n.9+11; Secer, Johannes: 7 n.15
319; 330 n.76; 334; 346 n.59; 352; 361 n.21; Second Sophistic: 372 n.5; 374–375; 376 n.17
374–378; 384; 448; 452; 454; 457; 516; Sedulius Scottus: 501; 509 n.53; 510
524; 526 Selene: 256 n.23; 421–423+n.51; 440 n.151
Roman empire: 372 n.5; 374; 376–377; Semele: 84; 487
384; 408; 457 n.52 Seneca
Roman Republic: 221 Troades: 527–528
Rome as a Second Troy: 454 Septimius Severus: 376
Romulus: 479 n.21 Serio (river): 524 n.22; 533 n.49
Ruhnken, David: 166 Seriades (nymphs): 524 n.22; 533+n.49
Sermon
Sacred War Versified sermon: 502
First Sacred War: 179 n.8 Sestos: 414–416; 419; 429; 434 n.121; 436; 439
Sacrifice: 155–156; 173; 239; 346 n.60+61; Sex, sexuality, sexual, sexual intercourse:
359; 380; 397; 400 n.90; 419–420+n.42; 86; 91; 94; 102–106; 108; 113–114; 123;
437 n.137; 441; 522; 527; 531 n.43 125+n.56; 131–133; 145; 192; 286; 293;
Saint Martin of Tours: 495 296–297 n.36; 298; 302–303; 335 n.11;
Sammelgedicht → Collective: Collective 336+n.17; 420; 423; 425; 427; 433; 438;
poem 441 n.162; 443; 446; 473; 476–479; 488;
Sannazaro, Jacopo: 525 n.25+27 517; 530
Sappho: 14; 163 Heterosexuality: 315
Saronic sea: 318 n.38 Homosexuality: 303–304+n.61; 479
Sarpedon: 396; 474 Shakespeare, William: 540 n.5
Satire, satirical: x n.9; 481; 496; 510; 548 The Rape of Lucrece: 529 n.38
→ see also: Epos, epic: Mock-epic / Venus and Adonis: 529 n.38
Parody, parodistic Short epic: xvi; 15; 23–24; 44; 64; 71; 111 n.2;
Satrachus: 313 n.10 112; 133; 143; 146; 168; 187; 216; 219; 222;
Saturnalia (Kronia): 125 n.55 232; 233 n.35; 240; 242–243; 380; 382; 385
Saturnus: 125 n.55; 524 n.53; 407–408; 412–413; 445; 473; 490;
→ see also: Kronos 493–518; 520; 522; 524; 530; 534+n.49
Satyr play, satyric: 237 Epopee, Epopöe: x n.9; 22–24; 37
Satyrus (character in Achilles Tatius’ Kleinepos, -epik: xiv; 61; 362–363; 412
Leucippe and Clitophon): 424–426 n.5; 504; 507
Saxo (character in the Gesta Apollonii): 513 Kleinstepos, -epik: xiv
614 general index
Short epic cont. Strozzi, Vespasiano

Little epic: 60; 136; 146–148 Borsias: 525–526; 533 n.49
poematium, parvum poëma, parvum Lucilla nympha Rechanensis: 534 n.55
carmen (etc.): 9–10; 378 Style
Small epic: 36; 44; 46; 113; 152; 154 Asianism: 242
Sicily: 209; 288; 353; 441 n.156 Atticism: 242
Sigebert of Gembloux Jeweled style: 468
Passio Thebeorum: 502 Leptotic style: 230; 240 n.54
Sikyon: 180; 441 n.162; 443 n.170 Plain style: 224 n.11
Silenus: 339; 345–346; 351; 364; 366 Thin style: 241–243
Silius Italicus → see also: genera dicendi/loquendi /
Punica: 520 Rhetoric, rhetorical, rhetorician
Silkworm: 523–524 Subjunctive: 264 n.18
Simaetha: 256 n.23 Subversion, subversive: 35; 37; 113–114; 118;
Simias of Rhodes: 149 n.3; 201 n.2 120; 125; 133; 139 n.11; 149 n.5
Simichos: 7; 290 Sulpicius Severus: 495
→ see also: Theocritus, Ps.-Theocritus, Supernatural: 314; 538; 559; 561
Corpus Theocriteum Symplegades: 212
Simon Aurea Capra Synaesthesia, synaesthetic: 235
Ylias: 514 Syphilis/-us: 522
Simonides: 466 n.99 Syracuse: 209; 289 n.26; 328; 439+n.145; 473
Plataea Elegy: 248 Syrinx (personified): 350–351; 526
Sinon: 90; 386; 393; 399
Sintians: 128 n.69 Tabulae Iliacae
Sirmio: 531 Borgia Table: 380 n.32; 381 n.35
Sisyphus: 90 Tanagra
Sitz im Leben: 116 Sarapieia: 182
Slapstick comedy: 193 Tantalus: 333
Small epic → Short epic Taphians: 192
Smyrna: 375–376 Tarpeia, Tarpeia-motif: 315–316
→ see also: Quintus of Smyrna Tartarus → Underworld (Tartarus)
Solon: 123 n.47; 180 n.10; 183 teichoscopeia: 388
Sophocles: 315 Teiresias: 208; 211–212; 218; 248; 250; 323;
Women of Trachis: 259 515
Soterichus: 44 Telchines: 127; 134; 156 n.36; 224
Soviet Union: 538 Teleboans: 192
Sparta: 180 n.11; 296–297; 299; 388 n.62; Teleology, teleological: 76; 401 n.94; 403
393; 404 n.99 n.98
sphragis: 163; 431 n.105; 432 → see also: Index of Selected Greek
Sporades: 284 words: τέλος
Sprechgesang: 498 Telephassa/-e: 337+n.21+26; 476
Stasinus: 393 Telephus: 256; 285; 396 n.84
Statius: 501 Tellus: 524
Achilleid: 283–284+n.3+4; 287; 302; 305 Tempe: 100 n.61
Statius, Achilles (Achilles d’Estaço): Tenedos: 386
13+n.39 Teneriffa: 523
Stesichorus: 119; 179 Tereus: 326
Boar Hunters: 387 textus: 484
Geryoneis: 256 Theagenes (character in Heliodorus’
Oresteia: 380 n.31 Â�Aethiopica): 420 n.42+44; 437 n.137; 440
Stevenson, Robert Louis: 538 n.151; 442
Strabo (character in the Gesta Apollonii): Thebaid (Egypt): 413 n.10
513 Thebes (Boeotia): 118 n.30; 174 n.115; 191
n.41; 192; 515
general index 615
Theocritus, Ps.-Theocritus, Corpus Triphiodorus

Â�Theocriteum Capture of Troy (Iliupersis): xiv–xv; 4–5;
Idyll 2 (Pharmakeutriai): 6; 279 15; 56; 88–90; 371–409; 465; 520
Idyll 13 (Hylas): 5 n.4; 6; 18–19; 75; Events at Marathon: 377
212–214; 245–257; 259; 279; 310; 490; Hippodameia: 406
520 Missing Letter Odyssey: 405–406
Idyll 18 (Epithalamium of Helen and → see also: Nestor of Laranda:
Menelaus): 5 n.4; 14; 283 Missing Letter Iliad
Idyll 22 (Hymn to the Dioscuri): 5 n.4; Paraphrase of Homer’s Similes: 406
6–7; 9–10; 55 n.3; 172; 214; 255; 257 Tryphiodorus (different spelling): 371
Idyll 24 (Heracliscus): 5 n.4; 11 n.29; n.4; 375–376; 405 n.101
19–20; 77; 100; 173; 202; 211; 215; Triphis: 371 n.4; 375
245–257; 259–262; 279; 310; 490 Troy: 15–16+n.49; 88; 98; 120; 130 n.74; 231
Idyll 25 (Heracles The Lion-Killer): 5 n.4; n.29; 284 n.4; 285–286; 301; 371–409; 454;
6; 19–20; 100; 181; 215; 245–246; 255; 467; 514–515; 533 n.49; 560
259–282 Constantinople as a Third Troy: 454
Idyll 26 (Bacchantes): 5 n.4; 18; 214 Trojan Horse: 88–90; 98; 380–381; 386;
Theognis, Theognidea: 15 392–399
Theon (Alexandrian grammarian): 224 n.9 Trojan War: 87; 145–146; 284; 287 n.17;
Theromantis: 526 296–297; 304–305; 371–409; 452–455;
Thersites: 387–388; 482 n.25 467; 514–515
Theseus: 43; 58–59; 65; 218; 221; 230–243; → see also: Triphiodorus: Capture of
270 n.38; 277 n.50; 350; 383 n.44 Troy (Iliupersis)
Thespiae Tulipa: 522–523
Mouseia: 182–183 Turnus: 343+n.45
Thessaly, Thessalian(s): 179 n.8; 183; 234; Tuscany: 84; 542 n.6
547 Typhon: 486–487
Thetis: 11–15; 31; 43; 59; 61; 69–70; 79 n.146; Tyro: 85–87; 90
176; 218; 284; 286–287+n.10; 300–301; 371; Tyrus: 421; 483–484
400; 531; 547; 558
→ see also: Catullus: Carmen 64 / Ulysses, Ulixes: 515–516; 527
Peleus → see also: Odysseus
Thrace, Thracian(s): 127; 158; 320; 326; 344; Underworld (Tartarus): 87 n.16; 127; 180
356–357; 359; 367; 402; 560 n.11; 247; 275 n.48; 333; 356; 364; 366;
Thronia: 157 388–389; 513; 524; 561
Thucydides: 117 Usteri, Johann Martin: 537
Thyrsis: 99; 293–295 Utopia, utopian: 118; 125
Tiber: 557
Tiberius (emperor): 313+n.11+14+16 Vadian, Joachim: 12+n.34
Tieck, Ludwig: 17 n.55 Vasilinda: 526–527
Timavus: 522 vates: 357; 359–360; 364; 367
Tiryns: 278 Vegio, Maffeo
Titelei: 428–429; 436; 445 Antonias: 534 n.56
Tithonus: 107; 147 Astyanax: 527–528; 532–534+n.55+56
Tityus: 333 Vellus Aureum: 533; 534 n.56
Topos: 174; 251; 326 n.70; 420 n.47; 438 Venus: 7; 92; 97; 359; 363; 524; 527–529
n.140; 455–456+n.45+46 → see also: Aphrodite
topothesia: 360–361+n.19 Vernacular: 500–501; 505; 520; 537
Trachis: 43; 196; 248 n.8; 259 Verschachtelungstechnik: 358+n.14
Trambelus: 317 n.31; 321 n.49; 323–324 Vertumnus: 522
Transvestism → Cross-dressing, Victor Lists: 177 n.1; 182–183+n.22
Â�transvestism Vida, Marco Girolamo
Trickster: 126 De bombyce libri II: 523–524+n.22;
Triklinios, Demetrios: 6–7; 9; 11 533
616 general index
Vida, Marco Girolamo cont. Winsheim, Veit: 8–11+n.17

Scacchia ludus: 524; 532–533+n.49; 534 Wittenberg: 8
n.53+57 Wolf, Friedrich August: 3+n.1; 30–31; 33–36;
Vienna: 12 40–42; 44–45; 58; 111 n.2; 152
Vienna tablet: 235 Wooden Horse → Troy: Trojan Horse
von Finkenstein, Friedrich Woolf, Virginia
Versuch über das bukolische Gedicht: 17 To the Lighthouse: 265
von Orelli, Johann Caspar: 5 n.8
Voss, Johann Heinrich Xanthus: 398
Luise: 40 n.23 Xenomedes of Ceos: 317 n.30
Vossius, Isaac: 14 Xenophanes: 183
Xenophon
Wagner, Adolph: 38–41; 45 Symposium: 108
Urania (yearbook for literature): Xerxes: 477
38–39+n.18
Wagner, Richard: 39 n.19 Zeus: 84; 94–95; 103; 105; 107; 120 n.39; 127;
Walter of Châtillon 139; 142; 143 n.18; 147–148; 152–153;
Alexandreis: 494 171–173; 178; 182; 183 n.19; 191 n.41;
Waltharius (Versroman): 496; 500; 505–507 193–195; 204; 218; 239; 246–249; 252;
Wandering poets: 448 n.7 257; 278; 335–338; 340; 344+n.52; 345;
Wedding, wedding poetry: 13–14; 21; 31; 349; 351; 371; 394; 400; 403; 423 n.51;
104–105; 131–132; 176; 182–184; 218; 248; 437 n.138; 440 n.150; 473–490; 529; 544;
304; 412; 414–416; 418 n.36; 423; 429; 548–549; 559
436–438; 446; 474; 524 Zeus Basileus: 249; 257
→ see also: Catullus: Carmen 64 / → see also: Jupiter
epithalamium Zeuxippus-bath: xv; 448–449+n.12; 454;
Whisky: 538; 540 466–467+n.101
Willetrudis Zurich: 5+n.7+8
Versus de Susanna: 495
index locorum
The Index Locorum is latinised for the sake of consistency (following the practise of
TLG, cf. <http://stephanus.tlg.uci.edu>), except for Neo-Latin authors, whose names
are quoted in their vernacular form, and modern authors.
Achilles Tatius Prometheus vinctus

Leucippe et Clitophon 585 344
1.1.1 439 n.143 624–630 340+n.35
1.1.2–13 423 n.51 645 340
1.2.1–1.3.1 439 647 342
1.4 412 n.6 647–654 340–341
1.4.1–3 421–422 733–734 338 n.29
1.4.3 423 n.51; 440 n.151 742 352 n.82
1.4.4–5 424 776 340+n.35
1.9.1–7 425+n.56 848–849 344 n.52
1.10.1–2 427 n.84 Supplices
1.10.1–7 425+n.57 299 342 n.43
1.10.4 426 n.66
1.10.5 424 n.55 Alcaeus (ed. LP)
1.11.3 442 n.165 fr. 347 186 n.28+29
1.15.1–1.19.3 425 n.58
1.19.1–2 422+n.50 Alcman
2.3.3 425 n.58 fr. 1 Davies =
2.4.3–4 425+n.59 fr. 3 Calame 128
2.5.2 442+n.166
2.6.1–3 426 n.78 Alexis Comicus (ed. Kock)
2.6.1–2.7.7 425+n.60 fr. 135 251
2.7.5–7 426 n.65
4.1.1–8 423+n.52 Amelesagoras
5.25.1–6.1.1 427 n.79 FGrHist 330 F 1 233
5.25.4 427 n.80
5.26.1 427 n.80 [Anonymus]
5.27.1 427 n.83 Phoronis
5.27.4 427 n.84 fr. 2 PEG 128 n.69
6.1.3 420 n.44
Anthologia Palatina
Acusilaus 1.10 448 n.8; 459
FGrHist 29 475+n.8 2.3–4 467
2.44–49 466+n.99
Aelianus 2.117–120 466+n.99
Varia Historia 2.131–135 466+n.99
13.14 180+n.11 2.143–147 466+n.99
2.175–188 466+n.99
Aeschylus 2.197–208 466+n.99
Agamemnon 2.256–258 466+n.99
589 391 2.311–350 455; 460
1492 234 2.315–321 456
Persae 2.321–322 455
181 477 2.334 455
188–189 477 2.342 456
618 index locorum
Anthologia Palatina cont. 1.1–2 174–175

2.344 455 1.496–511 361–362
2.346–347 456 3.1–155 443 n.171
2.385–387 456 n.45 3.749–750 384+n.50
2.398–406 460 4.445–446 547
2.407–408 457 4.445–449 254
2.415–416 457 4.982–990 317 n.32
6.321 156 n.36 4.1773–1775 175
7.11 230 n.28 4.1773–1781 174–175
7.377 318 n.35; 319+n.42
7.697 448 n.8 Apostolius (ed. CPG)
7.698 448 n.8 5.98c 303+n.59
9.63 230 n.28; 241 13.88 231 n.32
9.362 463
9.363 460 n.69; 463 Apuleius
9.369 462 n.76 Metamorphoses
9.440 463 1.23 243
9.507 230–231 n.28; 240
n.54; 244 Aratus
9.523.1–2 387 Phaenomena
9.545 230–233 1 153+n.20
9.656 448 n.8
11.130 318 n.35; 319 Archilochus (ed. Obbink)
n.40+42 P.Oxy. 4708 256
11.130.1–2 226 n.19; 269 n.36
12.150.3 224 n.11 Aristophanes
15.21–22 462 n.78 Acharnae
15.24–27 462 n.78 398 29
16.200 463 n.82 Equites
756 231 n.32
Antigonus Carystius (ed. Giannini) Lysistrata
fr. 7 168+n.93 1 263 n.17
Pax
Antimachus (ed. Matthews) 531 29
test. 11 87 Ranae
389–390 96 n.45
Apollodorus 942 29; 112
Bibliotheca
1.7.4 87 n.16 Aristophanes Byzantius
1.9.8 86+n.13 Commentaria in Callimachi pinaces
2.1 338 n.29 fr. 1.4–5 Nauck 178; 187
2.4.9 251
3.1 346 n.60 Aristoteles
Bibliotheca: epitome Ars Poetica
5.15 90 n.28 1447b 13–16 xii n.18; 465 n.91
5.19 90 n.27 1448a 1–18 238 n.49
1448b 34–38 457 n.53
Apollodorus Gelous (ed. Kassel/Austin) 1449a 19–21 237
fr. 3 232 n.33 1449b 24–28 237
fr. 3.2 231 n.29 1450b 34–1451a 15 237
1451a 9–15 221 n.1
Apollonius Rhodius 1459b 1–2 379
Argonautica 1459b 12–16 457 n.53
1.1 153+n.20 1459b 17–28 221 n.1
index locorum 619
1460a 1–2 224 n.13 10 297

1460a 3 237 n.46 10–11 311 n.5
1460a 5–11 106 11 298
1460a 18–22 267 12–15 299–300
1462a 18–b3 237 16–20 302
Ars Rhetorica 22 293
1392b 15–33 267–268 25–30 302–303
1401b 20–30 267–268 28 303
1408a 32–36 103 n.70 Fragmenta
De sophisticis elenchis fr. 5 289 n.26
167b 1–8 267–268 fr. 9 283; 289 n.26
Fragmenta fr. 9.8–11 290–291
fr. 196 236 n.45 fr. 10 283; 289 n.26
fr. 10.5–13 290
Arsenius (ed. CPG) fr. 14 289 n.26
18.51 303+n.59 fr. 16 292; 294; 295 n.34
Artemidorus Boccaccio, Giovanni

Onirocriticon Genealogie deorum gentilium
4.63 319 n.41+42 6.4 528
9.2 528
Athenaeus
Deipnosophistae Boiscus Cyzicenus
1.14c 96 n.47 SH 233 173–174
1.15d 108
2.65a 29 n.2 Burns, Robert
5.192c–e 87 n.17 Tam O’Shanter
11.782b 231 n.29 1–13 543–544
12.511b–c 121 n.42 11 549
13.610c 380 n.32 14–17 560
14.639a 29 n.2 29–32 559
14.620b–c 182 34–37 548
38–51 552–553
Bacchylides (ed. Snell/Maehler) 56–57 549
fr. 11.45–58 347 n.62 60–67 549
fr. 20d.3 298 n.40 72–73 549
75–104 558
Baebius (Publius Baebius Italicus) 83–86 558
Ilias Latina 107–110 547
1.19–26 83 n.2 116–144 554
1.32–43 83 n.2 154–155 546
166–187 539
Barlaeus, Melchior 167–173 557
De raptu Ganymedis 174–181 552
1–31 533 n.49 182–187 548
196–197 560
Bion Smyrnaeus (ed. Gow) 196–201 550
Epithalamium Achillis et Deidameiae 204–211 546
1–4 293–294
1–7 288 Callimachus (ed. Pf. nisi alia editio
1–9 283; 290 Â�indicatur)
5–9 295 Aetia 1
6 291–292 fr. 1 63
8 289 n.26 fr. 1.3 134
620 index locorum
Callimachus cont. fr. 179 224 n.9

fr. 1.12 227; 241 test. 7 243
fr. 1.16 244 test. 9 233; 239
fr. 1.17–18 228 test. 10 243
fr. 1.24 241 test. 11 243 n.58
fr. 1.27–28 241–242 test. 14 243
fr. 1.29–30 186–187 test. 15a 243–244
fr. 1.32–35 186–187; 227 Hymnus in Apollinem (no. 2)
fr. 7.13–14 175 38 93 n.41
fr. 42 224 n.9 89 224 n.9
Aetia 3 105–112 222
fr. 57 279 106 222; 232
fr. 57.1 224 n.11; 266–268; 108 222; 227
274 111–112 222; 227
fr. 67.1–2 91 n.31 Hymnus in Delum (no. 4)
fr. 75.76 91 n.31; 317 n.30 4–8 100 n.59
fr. 76–77 275 30 91 n.32
Epigrammata 162–195 327 n.74
27 230–231 n.28; 240 Hymnus in Dianam (no. 3)
n.54; 244 15–16 93 n.41
28 226–227 46sqq. 102
46 241 122–137 188 n.32
46.3 224 n.11 186 434+n.119
51 93 n.41; 175 235 347
fr. 398 226–227; 231 n.28; 240–243 185
241 245 185
Hecale (ed. Hollis) Iambus 13
fr. 1 233–234 Dieg. IX 32–38 224+n.13
fr. 2 242–243 Fragmenta
fr. 9.1–2 224 n.9 fr. 465 63+n.45; 227
fr. 16 235 fr. 494 156 n.36; 173
fr. 29 224 n.9 fr. 597 278 n.54
fr. 40 239 fr. 677 278 n.54
fr. 41–54 239 fr. 732 59
fr. 42.5–6 234 Testimonia
fr. 45.1 224 n.9 test. 23 223+n.8
fr. 46.3 235 test. 24 470 n.115
fr. 47.6 235 n.40
fr. 49.2–3 238 Calvus (ed. Hollis)
fr. 58 239 fr. 20 H = 9 FPL 72 n.106; 338–339;
fr. 71.1–2 224 n.9 341
fr. 71.2–3 235 fr. 21 H = 10 FPL 338; 340–343
fr. 74.1–3 239 fr. 22 H = 11 FPL 339; 341 n.40; 344;
fr. 74.22–28 238 350
fr. 74.24–25 235 fr. 23 H = 12 FPL 339
fr. 80 238 fr. 24 H = 13 FPL 339
fr. 80.1–2 384+n.50 fr. 25 H = 15 FPL 339; 344
fr. 80.3–5 242
fr. 82b 243–244 Carrara, Ubertino
fr. 83 243 Columbus
fr. 111 235 2.302–578 526
fr. 117 235 3.123–210 526
fr. 128 235 10.784–962 526
fr. 149 235
index locorum 621
Cato (Publius Valerius Cato) (ed. Hollis) Tusculanae disputationes

Dictynna 3.45 309 n.1; 323 n.58;
fr. 14 H 335 n.14 334
Catullus Cinna (ed. Hollis)

Carmina Smyrna/Zmyrna
1.1 78 8 H = 8 FPL 335 n.10
1.8 78 9 H = 7 FPL 335 n.10
16.3 78 10 H = 6 FPL 335 n.10
16.6 78
50.4 78 Colluthus
64.1–30 531 De raptu Helenae
64.11 58 1–17 533 n.49
64.22–24 175–176
64.22–29 547 Cornificius (ed. Hollis)
64.31–302 531 Glaucus
64.52–264 482 96 H = 2 FPL 335 n.13
64.53 58
64.94–98 547 Cyclus Epicus
64.111 59 Cypria
64.113 350 PEG p. 41 =
64.116–117 549 p. 73 West 284–285
64.140 73 PEG 19 = 19 West 285–286
64.303–381 531 PEG °40 =
64.323–381 482 adesp. 17 West 285 n.7
64.381–408 176 Ilias parva
64.382 358+n.9 PEG 24 = 4 West 285
95.9–10 232 n.34
Demetrius
Chariton Aphrodisiensis De elocutione
De Callirhoe narrationes amatoriae 36 224 n.11
1.1.1 439 n.145 54 237 n.46
1.1.2 440 n.152; 441 61 237 n.46
n.156 70 236 n.42
1.1.3 420 n.44; 440 75 237 n.46
n.149+152 76 237 n.47
1.1.4–6 420 n.42 103 237 n.46
1.1.5 440 n.151 104 237 n.46
1.1.11 440 n.155 120 237 n.46
1.2–5 441 n.156 122–123 237 n.46
2.3.6 440 n.152 190 224 n.11
Choniates, Michael Democritus

Theano 68 B 16 DK 429–430+n.96
337 243
Diogenes Laertius
Cicero Vitae philosophorum
Epistulae ad Atticum 9.18 183 n.22
7.2.1 309 n.1; 319 n.44;
334 n.9 Dionysius Halicarnassensis
Orator Antiquitates Romanae
75 231 n.32 1.35 353+n.85
161 309 n.1; 334 n.9 1.69.3 380 n.32
622 index locorum
Dionysius Halicarnassensis cont. Giannettasio, Nicolò Partenio

De compositione verborum Nautica
25 231 3.352–475 523
Demosthenes 4.808–1051 523
8 243 n.59 8.633–1065 523
36 243 n.59
38 243 n.59 Gorgias
51 231 82 B 25 DK 429+n.95
Isaeus
20 243 n.59 Heliodorus
Pompeius Aethiopica
2.2 224 n.11 1.2.6 440 n.152
2.33.4–5 442+n.167+168
Empedocles (ed. DK) 2.34–3.6 420 n.42
fr. 27–30 132+n.83 3.3.4 440 n.151
3.4.1–6 440 n.151
Eratosthenes 3.5.2–6.1 437 n.137
Hermes 3.6.1 442
CA 1–16 171 4.1.1–4.5 437 n.137
SH 397–398 171 4.3.1 420 n.44
SH 922 171 4.18.4–6 442
5.5.2 437 n.136
Euripides 5.31.1 440 n.152
Iphigenia Aulidensis 10.41.4 432+n.112
73–76 297
Medea Hellanicus
278 231 n.32 FGrHist 4 F 29 298
401–409 342 n.42
Heraclitus
Eustathius Quaestiones Homericae
Commentarii ad Homeri Iliadem 39 121 n.42
1.446.21 235 69 121 n.42
1.581.17 388–389
1.640.26 388 n.62 Hermesianax (ed. CA)
2.283.13 235 fr. 7.41–46 87
2.755 406
4.761.13 389 Hermogenes (ed. Rabe)
327.37 320+n.47 201.11–202.2 86 n.12
782.47–49 284 n.3 454.6–14 96 n.45
1160.46 187
1187.14 287 n.19 Herodotus
1597.22–36 95–96 2.53 430 n.97
1597.38 108 2.116 229+n.26
1597.46–47 87 n.17 2.117 297 n.37
1600.48 97 4.29 229+n.26
1601.16 99 n.56 5.67.1 180
Fracastoro, Girolamo Hesiodus

Syphilis Opera et dies
2.281–423 522 1–10 152+n.18
59–80 193–194 n.46
Gellius (Aulus Gellius) 225–247 188 n.32
Noctes Atticae 582–588 179 n.5; 186 n.29
9.9.3 313 n.15 582–596 186
13.27.1 313 n.15
index locorum 623
Scutum Fragmenta (ed. MW)

hypothesis 179 fr. 10a.102–106 87 n.16
1–14 192 fr. 19 87 n.16
1–56 191 fr. 23a.35 481+n.2
13–14 191 n.41 fr. 25.18 481+n.2
14 192 n.43 fr. 30 86+n.13
20 192 fr. 64.16 481+n.2
21–22 193 fr. 117 87 n.16
28–29 191 n.41 fr. 124 342 n.43
34 194 n.46 fr. 131 347 n.62
39–40 193 fr. 133.4–5 349
42–44 192–193 n.44 fr. 141 474+n.5
49 191 n.41 fr. 141.3–7 337 n.22
53 481+n.2 fr. 142 337 n.22
57 195–196 fr. 177.6 481+n.2
72–74 196 fr. 195 178 n.3
80–89 191 n.41 fr. 195.53 481+n.2
105 191 n.41 fr. 296 338 n.29
113–114 196
118–119 196 Hesychius
139–320 185 π 2640 437 n.138
140 194 n.46 τ 1752 437 n.138
156–159 187
165 194 n.46 Hesychius Milesius
213–215 185 Vita Homeri
216–237 194–195 6 29 n.2
272 191 n.41
277–279 197 Hippias
278 185 86 B 6 DK 430 n.97
279 185–186
305–313 195 Homerica
314–318 196 Certamen Homeri et Hesiodi
318 194 n.46 319–321 161+n.62
318–319 193–194+n.46 Hymni minores
325sqq. 188 n.33 3.149 121
325–340 188 n.33 6.19–20 156+n.38; 174+n.112
348 186 n.26 7.1–16 83–84
353–354 196 9.9 184 n.23
380–382 186 n.29 10.5 156+n.39; 174+n.113
393–401 179 n.5; 186 13.3 154 n.26
458–466 188 n.33 16.5 154
478–480 191 n.41 17.4 481+n.24
Theogonia 18.11 184 n.23
1 137 n.7 19.21 186 n.27
54 233–234 21.5 154
114 137 n.7 24.5 156+n.39; 174+n.113
327 481+n.2 25.6 156+n.39; 174+n.113
374 481+n.2 Hymnus in Apollinem
500 93 n.41 1 161; 164
575 93 5–19 247
578–584 459 n.60 146–150 161
933 105 n.75 151–155 166
962 481+n.2 157–161 161
166–167 161+n.60
624 index locorum
Homerica cont. 3.108–109 560

174–176 165 3.214 388
546 184 n.23 3.217 388 n.61
547 161 3.219 388 n.61
Hymnus in Cererem 3.222 388
1 164 3.228–229 560
1–21 478 3.258 560
19–20 478 3.442–446 105
495 184 n.23 5.385–391 124 n.54
Hymnus in Mercurium 5.792–813 188 n.33
580 184 n.23 5.825–858 188 n.33
Hymnus in Venerem 5.864–868 188 n.33
1 137 6.2 164
1–5 142 6.160–161 105
7–35 142 6.161 296 n.36
45 144 7.2 164
45–293 137; 141 7.71 560
48 144 8.141 560
49 139 8.412 386 n.58
54 144 8.552–565 396 n.85
55–65 144 9.2–11 396 n.85
58–59 93–94 9.28 560
58–63 127 n.65; 137 9.447 560
61–80 144 9.448–452 406
81–91 94–95; 144 9.560 304+n.62
90 93 9.563 326+n.69
92–292 144 9.666–668 284 n.3; 285–286
133 104 9.668 284
155–176 144 10.1 164
161–167 104–105 10.474–483 395
188–190 106 n.76 11.1 164
203–246 147 11.243–245 105
234 107 11.769–775 284
247–248 139 12.1 164
276–290 139 12.167–170 552
293 140; 148; 160 n.54; 13.1 164
184 n.23 13.492 406
14.166sqq. 94
Homerus 14.169 138
Ilias 14.172 138
1.1 291–292; 386; 434; 14.180 234
436 n.132 14.295–296 105
1.1–4 398 15.1 164
1.5 377; 403 15.80–83 195 n.49
1.129 560 16.1 164
2.133 391 16.259–265 552
2.141 560 16.312–319 552
2.173 446 n.179 16.408 236
2.323–325 403–404 16.698 560
2.683 560 17.52 235
2.724–726 399 17.425 236
2.742 406 n.106 18.1 164
2.761 386 n.58 18.349 236
2.868 387–388 18.356 182
3.75 560 18.372sqq. 102
index locorum 625
18.478–608 459 8.100–103 121

18.535–538 187 8.123 128
18.593–606 129 n.71 8.205–214 121
19.63–64 159+n.50 8.230–233 122
19.314 159 n.48 8.246–249 124
19.324–325 300 n.47 8.246–253 122
19.339 159 n.48 8.249 125; 127 n.65
20.9 235 8.250–251 99
21.544 560 8.256–265 123
22.1 164 8.258–260 122
23.1 164 8.260 123 n.47
23.334 389 8.262–264 108
23.709 390+n.66 8.263 123
24.4–9 159 n.48 8.265 123
24.160–169 159 n.48 8.266–267 120 n.39
24.504 159 n.48 8.266–271 101–102
24.509–512 159 n.48 8.266–366 83–109; 111–134; 168;
24.804 396 181; 216
25.1 164 8.267 96; 98
26.1 164 8.267–269 91
27.1 164 8.268 132 n.84
28.1 164 8.268–271 102; 106
30.1 164 8.269 105
Odyssea 8.270 101 n.65
1.1 386; 393; 434; 436 8.272sqq. 101
n.132 8.273–275 102; 107
1.44–62 393 8.278 132
1.150–155 129 8.280 102
1.325–328 129 n.73; 392 n.76 8.282 132
2.20 402 n.95 8.294 128 n.69
2.199–200 387 8.295 105
4.187 159 n.48 8.295–298 103
4.351 85 n.7 8.297 107 n.77
4.351–592 85 8.298 107; 125
4.354 85 n.6 8.298–299 104 n.71
4.364–366 85 8.300–302 101
4.428–434 85 8.300–358 104 n.71
4.472–592 85 n.7 8.304 125
4.805 126 8.305sqq. 106
6.124 235 8.306–312 107–108
6.149–175 426 n.74 8.307 125; 138+n.10
6.187 427 n.81 8.313–314 103
6.194–197 427 n.81 8.315–317 104 n.71
6.255–315 427 n.81 8.318–319 125
6.306 93 8.326 126
7.97 234 8.326–332 95–96
8.43–45 99–100 8.329 96; 126
8.46 121 8.329–332 139 n.10
8.73 99 8.333–342 96
8.73–82 121 8.335–343 126
8.74 120 8.337 103
8.75 97 8.343 138
8.76 119 8.350–353 127
8.77 88 8.355–356 127
8.90 120 8.359–360 127
626 index locorum
Homerus cont. 13.108 93

8.360 104 n.71 14.29–47 269 n.37
8.361 91; 106 18.158–301 131
8.362 97 18.182 406
8.362–366 127+n.65; 137–138 18.189–196 131
8.366 92–93 18.209–213 131
8.367–369 99; 128 19.518–523 326 n.70
8.367–384 123 20.131 327 n.72
8.370–371 128 21.103 327 n.72
8.372–380 129 22.344–353 129 n.73
8.382–384 131 22.383–389 131
8.387–392 131 23.133–134 129
8.396–415 131
8.424–456 131 Horatius
8.438–456 127 n.65 Ars poetica
8.457–462 123 119–122 305
8.457–468 131 Carmina
8.487–491 99 1.7.6 227 n.19
8.487–498 90 n.25; 98 3.13.1 236 n.41
8.492 98+n.52; 120 n.39; 3.27 473
140 Epistulae
8.492–498 97 2.2.92 231 n.30
8.494 89+n.29
8.499 99 Inscriptiones
8.499–509 89–90 CEG 326.2 174+n.114
8.499–520 123 CEG 396 163
8.500–513 88 FD III 1.477.5 183 n.18
8.514–520 88 FD III 4.126.7 183 n.18
8.515 88–89 FD III 4.127.7 183 n.18
8.516 88 FD III 4.128.6 183 n.18
8.517–520 467+n.103 FD III 4.356.12 183 n.18
8.518 89; 132 IG I2 761 = I3 948 162
9.19 123 IG VII 415.3 182
9.116 85 n.6 IG VII 416 183+n.21
10.277–279 85 IG VII 416.23–29 183 n.22
10.360 236 IG VII 416 col. 1.11 182
11.235–259 85–86 IG VII 418 183+n.21
11.245–246 86+n.10 IG VII 418.6 182
11.248–252 86+n.10 IG VII 419 183+n.21
11.260–265 85–86 IG VII 419.17 182
11.271–280 315 IG VII 420 183+n.21
11.305 87 n.16 IG VII 420.13 182
11.323 233 IG VII 540.5 182
11.328–330 86 n.9 IG VII 1760.17 182+n.16
11.333–334 389 IG VII 1762.4 182+n.16
11.368 123 IG VII 1773.18 182+n.16
11.379 388–389 IG VII 1776.17 182+n.16
11.445 327 n.72 IG VII 2726 182+n.16
11.506–509 284 IG VII 2727 182
11.601–604 247 IG VII 3195.11 182
12.189–191 84+n.5 IG VII 3196.6 183
12.309 159 n.48 IG VII 3197.7 183
13.23 121 IG VII 4147.10 182
13.93 236 IG VII 4151.5 182
index locorum 627
IG XIV 1089 313 n.14 682 241 n.57

SEG 2.260.6 183 n.18 826 241 n.57
SEG 32.436.15 182+n.16
SEG 437.22 182+n.16 Macrobius
SEG 498.21 182+n.16 Saturnalia
SIG 424.10 183 n.18 5.17.18 313
Isocrates Martialis
Panathenaeus Epigrammata
17–18 181 1.45 269 n.36
3.2 175 n.119
Longinus 8.73.6 322+n.56
De sublimitate Liber spectaculorum
33.5 233 n.35 25a 414 n.18
Longus Menander (ed. Sandbach)

Daphnis et Chloe Georgus
praefatio 1 439 n.146 22 263 n.17
1.7.1–2 439 n.148
1.28–31 438 n.140 Mimnermus (ed. Gentili/Prato)
4.39.2 439 n.146 fr. 1.3 105
fr. 7.3 296 n.36
Lucanus
De bello civili Moschus
4.593–655 520 Epigrammata
9.621–699 520 4.8 481
Epitaphius Bionis
Lucianus Samosatensis 1 299 n.42
De historia conscribenda 8 289 n.26
56–57 319 n.40+42 10–20 295–296
57 333 13 289 n.26
De saltatione 19 289 n.26
63 104 n.71; 108 58–63 294–295
Dialogi deorum 80–84 289 n.26
21 104 n.71 93–97 288
Dialogi mortuorum 119–121 288
15 481 Europa
Philopatris 1 480
4 481 8–9 477
13–15 478
Lucilius 16–27 476
338–344 Marx = 28–29 480
376–382 Krenkel 229 30–32 544
345–346 Marx = 37–42 337
383–384 Krenkel 227 n.19 37–62 459 n.60; 467; 476
44–49 337
Lycophron 45 342
Alexandra 49 337 n.24
1–2 263 50–51 344 n.52
57–68 298 50–54 337
183–185 287 n.19 52 342
260–265 301 n.51 65–71 478
276–280 287; 300 74sqq. 173
345 90 75 481
628 index locorum
Moschus cont. 68 440 n.153

77 488 69–70 441 n.156
77–78 480 74–83 418 n.36
79 86+n.10 77 440+n.154
80sqq. 480 86 417 n.32
83 481 92–95 417 n.32
108–134 476 92–98 412 n.6; 423–424
126 336 n.17 99 424 n.53
127–128 479 99–107 425 n.61–63
135–152 479 101–108 424 n.54
141–145 482 112–117 426 n.64–66
153 336 117–119 426
153–161 476 120–127 426 n.67
153–164 86+n.10 123–127 418 n.36
158–159 349 n.76 130–140 426 n.68–73
160–161 345 135–157 418 n.36; 426 n.64;
446
Musaeus 141–144 443 n.171
Hero et Leander 141–157 426 n.75
1 411 n.3; 431 n.103; 149–152 426 n.76
434; 437 n.134+135; 152 427 n.78
438 157 426 n.77
1–13 436 158–343 446
1–15 428–438 160 427 n.80
1–29 417 n.32 169 427 n.80
3–4 438 174 427 n.81+83
4–5 428 n.88; 434 n.121 174–193 418 n.36; 427
5 437+n.134 175 427 n.83
6 437 n.134 177 427 n.83
8 437 n.134 177–184 427 n.81
8–10 440 n.150 180 427 n.83
14–15 431 n.103 186–193 427 n.81+82; 443
15 428 n.88; 437 n.134 190 427
16–17 439+n.143 196–202 418 n.35; 427 n.84
16–29 439 202 446 n.179
16–41 438–444 203–220 418 n.36; 446 n.179
16–134 446 212 437
17–19 418 n.35; 439 n.147 240 418 n.35
22–23 440+n.150 244–255 446 n.179
23–27 414 n.13; 439+n.144 245–250 418 n.36
30–41 441; 443 255 414 n.15; 437–438
30–85 417 n.30 268–271 418 n.36
33 420+n.43; 287 415 n.19
440+n.153; 441 301 417 n.32
n.157 309–330 446 n.179
34–40 441 n.158+159+161 319–323 418 n.35
42–43 419+n.40 343 420 n.47
42–231 419–427; 443
44–54 441 n.156 Nicander (ed. Gow/Scholfield)
51–54 419+n.42 fr. 108.2 481+n.2
55–66 420–422
56–59 421 n.48 Nonnus
66 440 n.153 Dionysiaca
67–85 420 n.47; 423; 440 1.1 434+n.121
n.156 1.1–45 435
index locorum 629
1.13–15 435 n.128 11 324+n.62

1.14–15 435; 457; 486 14.85–108 339 n.31
1.45 434 n.121; 486 15.155–156 303+n.59
1.60–190 487 15.204 341 n.42
1.65 437 n.138 17.182 341 n.42
1.71 487 18 414 n.15
1.83–85 487 18.148 414 n.15
1.93–124 488 19 414 n.15
1.118–119 488 19.65 341 n.42
1.132 437 n.138; 488 19.121 342 n.42
1.136 486; 488 Ibis
1.325–346 481; 488 539 335 n.12
1.345–351 487–488 Metamorphoses
1.355 488 1.2 361 n.21
1.361 487 1.4 227 n.19
5.142–189 459 n.60 1.452–567 526
25.1–270 435 1.568–746 72
25.27 435 n.125 1.583–751 336; 350
25.264–265 456 1.610–612 342+n.43
25.265 431 n.104; 435 1.632 72 n.106
n.123 1.632–634 351
25.380–567 459 1.634 72 n.106
1.642–650 351
Ovidius 1.651–654 351–352
Amores 1.651sqq. 339
1.5.17–18 108–109 1.689–712 526
1.15.14 228 1.713–719 350
1.15.29–30 322+n.56 1.738–742 342
3.7.2 106 2.401–530 526
3.7.10 107 n.77 2.833–3.7 473
3.7.27–35 107 2.836 483
3.7.68 106 2.846–847 485
3.7.71 106 2.859 485
3.7.79–80 107 3.1 485
3.7.81–84 106–107 3.3–4 483
Ars amatoria 3.339–510 529
1.11–18 312 n.8 4.170 97
1.75 419+n.41 4.185–189 96–97
1.299–326 346 n.61 4.190–192 92
1.308 349 n.73 6.1sqq. 367
1.323–324 348 6.98–107 483
1.453 105 6.103–104 485
1.681–704 302; 305 6.131 484
2.582–588 104 n.71 7.490–8.5 355 n.2
2.585–586 97 9.450 324+n.62
2.561–592 97 n.49 9.454–665 364
3.346 312 n.6 10.1–85 355
3.461–462 105 10.76 356
Fasti 10.85 361 n.19
3.745 349 10.86–90 360
Heroides 10.86–147 357; 366
5.63–64 297 n.37 10.86–739 357
5.73 297 n.37 10.106–142 360
5.149 341 n.42 10.148–150 361
7.98 341 n.42 10.150–154 362–364
630 index locorum
Ovidius cont. fr. 33.6 320 n.46

10.298–502 324+n.62 fr. 34 318
10.298–514 364
11.1 361 Pausanias
11.1–3 357; 367 Descriptio Graeciae
11.1–36 357; 366 1.2.6 241
11.1–66 358 1.22.6 287 n.16
11.20–22 360 1.27.7 277 n.50
11.37 361 n.19 1.38.3 168+n.93
11.37–66 355 2.10.4 441 n.162
11.66 365–366 10.24.6 94 n.41
11.238–240 301 n.52 10.25.5.6 380 n.32
12.604–628 515+n.69 10.26.1.4 380 n.32
13.1–398 515+n.69
13.904–14.69 335 n.13 Petronius
15.478 357 Satyricon
15.622 361 n.21 89.57 89 n.22
Remedia amoris 135.8 243
381–382 312 n.8
Tristia Pherecydes
1.1.7 175 n.119 FGrHist 3 F 47 128 n.69
4.10.53 322+n.56
Philetas (Philitas) Cous
Panyassis (ed. PEG) CA 1–4 171
Heraclea SH 673–675 171
test. 21 274–275 5a-21 Spanoudakis 171
Papyri Philicus Corcyraeus

P.Med. 18, IX 32–38 224+n.13 SH 676–677 174
P.Oxy. 4708 256
Philochorus
Parthenius (ed. Lightfoot) FGrHist 328 F 109 233
Erotika Pathemata
praefatio 1–2 312–314 Philodamus (ed. Käppel)
4 310–312 Paean in Dionysum
11.3 317 110–113 156 n.36
11.6–7 325–326
14.7–10 328 Philodemus
14.10–15 328 De poematibus (ed. Janko)
14.18 329 n.75 col. 1–12 226 n.16
14.20–25 328 col. 6.2–9 228–229 n.23
14.38–39 329 n.75 col. 7.25–8.34 225–226
21.6 327 col. 8.6–7 225 n.15
21.13–14 327 col. 13.32–16.28 227–228
21.17–19 327 col. 14.14–17 229
21.21 327 col. 14.31–36 229 n.25
34.2 481+n.2 col. 23.27–24.12 235
Fragmenta col. 132.18–27 227
fr. 24 318 n.35 col. 185.13–186.3 235
fr. 28 315 n.23; 319–321 col. 185.17–19 234–235
fr. 28.1 320 n.46 col. 191.3–193.3 224 n.13
fr. 29 315 n.23 col. 210.20–22 224 n.13
fr. 33 315 n.23; De rhetorica (ed. Sudhaus)
318–321+n.45 1.165.3–4 224 n.11
index locorum 631
Philostratus 252b 29 n.2

Vita Apollonii 255c 424 n.53
3.58 93 Res publica
364e 429 n.93
Philoxenus (ed. PMG) 390c 6–7 121 n.42
5 = 818 292 n.31 Theages
7 = 820 292 n.31 122e 251
10–11 = 823–824 292 n.31
Plinius
Photius Historia naturalis
Bibliotheca 12.11 349
94 (73b) 443 n.172 35.124 225 n.14
Pindarus (ed. Snell/Maehler) Plutarchus

Nemea Alexander
1.1–6 209+n.14 4.11 181–182
1.7–33 209 De Homero
1.33–72 202 22.8 86 n.12
1.41–43 202 214 96 n.45
1.43–47 203–204 Lysander
1.48–53 205 18.4 183 n.22
1.55–59 207 Moralia
1.58–59 205+n.9 19d 96 n.47
1.60 250 315A.8 391
1.70–71 248 Quaestiones convivales
2.3 184 n.23 736e 182
4.33–34 209+n.16 Theseus
4.71–72 209+n.16 14 239
10.19–20 209+n.16
Pythia Posidippus (ed. Austin/Bastianini)
10.53–54 209–210 fr. 63 231 n.30
Fragmenta fr. 78.14 250 n.15
fr. 52b.1–5 157 fr. 79.1 250 n.15
fr. 52b.35–36 157–158 fr. 82.6 250 n.15
fr. 52b.71–72 157–158 fr. 116.5 250 n.15
fr. 52b.104–108 157–158 fr. *147 109
fr. 52f.81–82 391
fr. 86a 156 n.36 Posidonius (ed. Theiler)
fr. 94b.3–5 174 n.115 fr. 136e.9–10 232 n.33
Plato Proclus
Apologia Socratis Chrestomathia
41a 430 n.97 92 404 n.99
Hippias 144–146 399
228b 111 222–223 393–394
Ion 230–231 393–394
531a–c 181 239–240 380 n.32
532a 181 239–273 380
534b–c 224 n.13 241–242 393–394
Leges 257–258 400
658d 181 277–303 402
Phaedrus
238d 533 n.49
251b 424 n.53
632 index locorum
Procopius Gazaeus 10.1.93 322+n.56; 324

De bello Persico 12.10.19 242
1.24.9 448 n.12 12.10.25 242
Epistulae
147 431 n.103 Quintus Smyrnaeus
165 431 n.103 Posthomerica
1.1–17 396+n.85
Propertius 1.103 397
1.9.11 312 n.8 1.582 397
1.20 xi n.14 1.644 398
2.34.91–92 322+n.56 1.784–788 398
4.4 316 5.6–101 459
5.369 397
Ps.-Aeschylus → Aeschylus 5.377 397
5.441 398
Ps.-Bion → Bion 6.168–169 388
6.198–293 459
Ps.-Herodotus 7.360 397
Vita Homeri 8.125–127 402
24 29 n.2 8.144 398
8.481–482 398
Ps.-Hesiodus → Hesiodus 9.248 397
9.272 397
Ps.-Homerus → Homerica 10.153 391
10.404–405 398
Ps.-Longinus → Longinus 12.8–20 404
12.23–24 393
Ps.-Moschus → Moschus 12.66–100 394
12.138–150 381
Ps.-Plato 12.306–313 456 n.44
Hipparchus 12.375–386 399
228b 180+n.10 12.540–551 382
12.557 389 n.63
Ps.-Plutarchus → Plutarchus 13.100–101 398
13.231–234 400
Ps.-Quintilianus 13.354–373 467+n.103
Declamationes 13.456 398
4 516 n.74 14.1–382 381
14.132 397
Ps.-Tibullus → Tibullus 14.215 397
14.309 397
Ps.-Vergilius 14.400–403 398
Ciris 14.471 397
54–91 317 n.32 14.630–631 402
184 344 n.50 14.654–656 401 n.94
294–309 335 n.14
Rapin, René
Quintilianus Hortorum libri IV
Institutio oratoria 1.301–342 522
10.1.52 240
10.1.54 240 Reposianus
10.1.55 xii n.18 De concubitu Martis et Veneris
10.1.56 323 176–182 92
10.1.78 242
index locorum 633
Rhetorica Anonyma (ed. Walz) vetera in Hesiodi Opera et dies

vol. 3, p. 574.3 405 70 386
vetera in Homeri Iliadem
Sannazaro, Jacopo 1.5 403 n.97
De partu virginis 1.594 (bT) 128 n.69
3.281–504 525 n.25 9.668 (T) 285 n.7; 286–287
11.515c (bT) 380 n.32
Sappho (ed. Voigt) 14.187 (bT) 103
fr. 30.4 304 16.408d (T) 236 n.45
fr. 30.7 304 19.326 (D) 285–286+n.12
fr. 103.2 304 vetera in Homeri Odysseam
fr. 103.11 304 1, hypothesis 386–387
fr. 103b.2 304
fr. 104 254 Seneca
fr. 116 304 Troades
fr. 117 304 365–370 527
fr. 130.1–2 254 483–488 527
fr. 168b 303 1102–1103 527
Scaliger, Julius Caesar Servius

Poetices libri VII Commentarius in Vergilii Eclogas
3.101 531 n.43 6.47 347
3.106 531 n.43 6.72 323
3.121 531 n.43 Commentarius in Vergilii Georgica
5.2 531 n.43 4.1 73 n.111; 355 n.3
Scholia Silius Italicus

in Apollonii Rhodii Argonautica Punica
1.1129 128 n.69 7.162–211 520 n.4
in Aristophanis Pacem 8.44–201 520 n.4
778 98 n.52; 115; 146 13.30–81 520 n.4
in Callimachi Aetia
PSI 1219, fr. 1 223–224 Statius
in Callimachi Hymnum in Apollinem Achilleis
106 (test. 1 Hollis) 222; 256+n.26 1.3–4 283–284
in Callimachum 1.22 301
SH 255 223+n.9 1.41–42 301
SH 258 223+n.9 1.318–324 302
SH 261 223+n.9 1.638–639 302
in Dionysii Thracis Artem grammaticam 1.652–654 302
p. 124.4 Hilgard 178–179 1.855–863 305
in Homeri Odysseam 1.874–882 305
8.267 96 n.45 Silvae
8.346 121 n.42 1.2.215–217 284 n.4
8.363 93 2.1.88–89 284 n.4
in Lycophroni Alexandram 2.6.30–31 284 n.4
Proleg. 103–105 14 n.40 5.3.193–194 284 n.4
in Pindarum Thebais
Nem. 2.1 162 n.63; 181 5.49–498 520
in Theocriti Idyllia 12.581–582 239 n.52
Proleg. E. a–c 10 n.26
minora in Homeri Iliadem Stephanus Byzantius
1.392 407 n.107 s.v. Ἄζιλις 224 n.9
634 index locorum
Stesichorus (ed. PMG) 1.12 293–294

15 = 192 297 n.37 1.39–44 185
30 = 207 179 1.64 289–290+n.27
63 = 240 387 1.70 289–290+n.27
1.73 289–290
Strabo 1.94 289 n.27
13.1.22 (C 591) 414 n.17 1.99 289 n.27
1.127 289 n.27
Strozzi, Tito Vespasiano 1.131 289 n.27
Borsias 2.140 107 n.77
5.387–388 526 6.15–19 293
5.439–508 526 6.32–33 293
5.476–477 526 6.36 348
11.7 289 n.26
Suda (ed. Adler) 11.14–15 292–293
M 1278, s.v. 11.38 294
Μόσχος 473+n.1 11.42–44 294
N 261, s.v. Νέστωρ 318 n.38 11.49 294
Π 664, s.v. 11.53 215
Παρθένιος 312–313+n.9+12 11.54–55 348 n.70
T 1111, s.v. 11.61 215
Τρυφιόδωρος 376–377; 391 n.72 11.72 341
T 1112, s.v. 13.1 544
Τρυφιόδωρος 404–406 13.1–11 252–253
13.5–31 212
Suetonius 13.10–13 544
De grammaticis 13.12–13 254
18.1–2 335+n.11 13.25 253
Vita Tiberii 13.25–26 545
70 313 n.11+16 13.30–31 555
70.2 313 n.14; 319 13.32–45 212–213
n.40+41 13.34–35 555
13.39 554
Supplementum Hellenisticum (SH) 13.39–44 555
233 173–174 13.46–51 213
255 233+n.9 13.53–60 214
256–268C 238 n.49 13.55–67 253
257.21 278 13.62–63 253
258 233+n.9 13.62–75 214
261 233+n.9 13.65 253–254
264 279 13.66 254
264.1 224 n.11; 266–268; 15.23–24 250
274 16.29–35 251
268B 278 n.54 17.1–8 171–172
268C 278 n.54 17.5–6 247
397–398 171 17.13–33 246–247
605d 318 n.35+36 17.19–20 248
673–675 171 17.23–27 248
676–677 174 17.32–33 248
706 109 17.112–120 251
922 171 17.128–134 248
17.135–137 172
Theocritus 18.3 250 n.16
Idyllia 18.22 304
1.1–3 293–294 22.1–2 172+n.103
index locorum 635
22.1–26 255 25.153–161 262

22.8–16 558 25.153–281 264
22.24–25 172 25.162–171 278
22.37–43 555 25.170 277
22.42 552 25.175 277
22.115–117 548–549 25.189–192 262
22.116 434+n.119 25.197–198 277
22.131–132 546 25.204–205 273
22.210 559 25.223–226 556
22.212–223 255 25.242–246 556
22.223 172 25.274–277 273
23.59–60 559 25.280 263; 266
24.1–12 202 27.1 296
24.11–12 545 27.68 296 n.36
24.13–19 202–203 28.16–18 289 n.26
24.20–33 204 30.20 304 n.61
24.34–53 205–207
24.47–51 250 Thucydides
24.54–63 207–208 1.12.3 391
24.64 545 3.104.4 168+n.93; 184 n.23
24.65–66 250
24.72 250 Tibullus
24.79–85 248 3.6.41–42 69
24.103–106 250–251
24.109–110 251 Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta (TrGF)
24.119–124 251 vol. 1, pp. 268–269
24.127–128 251 (no. 98) Snell 457+n.51
24.140 260–261 vol. 4, pp. 217–222
24.171 260 Radt 475+n.7
25.1 262–263; 268 vol. 5.2, pp. 665–666
25.1–4 261 Kannicht 287+n.14
25.1–84 264 fr. 820, vol. 5.2, p. 864
25.2–3 269 Kannicht 475+n.7
25.3 263; 266
25.6–7 262 Triphiodorus
25.7 270 Iliupersis
25.7–17 271 1 390; 401
25.35–41 270 1–2 88
25.38–41 271 1–5 385–386
25.43–44 271; 274 2 399
25.54–57 271 3 394
25.60–61 264; 274 4 100 n.62
25.62–67 271; 276 5 371
25.63 255 16–56 395
25.68–83 269 n.37 20 397
25.84–85 272; 274 48 404
25.85 262; 545 50 386
25.85–152 264 57–58 393
25.110 272 57–663 381
25.112–117 272–273+n.45 62–102 381
25.134 276 114 394
25.138–144 276 115–116 388 n.61
25.142 277 120–151 393
25.148–149 279–280 135–136 386
25.153 273 136 394
636 index locorum
Triphiodorus cont. 253–309 527

185 386 261–309 527
220 90
270–272 399 Vergilius
291 90 Aeneis
331 394 1.223–296 528
376–416 382 1.640–642 343 n.45
408–409 401–402 6.494–534 467+n.103
503–505 384+n.50 7.789–792 343
510 386 8.185–275 520
515 390 9.59–64 527
528 386 12.749–757 527
533 89 Eclogae
545 371; 397 1.9 347 n.65
607 398 1.10 534 n.54
613–629 88 2.21 347 n.65
634–639 400 2.60–62 299
639 397 2.69 347
640–643 401–402 2.69–73 341+n.42
644–650 402 4.1 289+n.25
645 393 n.80 6.1 534 n.54
649 394 6.31 345 n.54
651–653 377 6.42–43 345 n.54
657–658 384+n.50 6.45–60 72; 336; 345–347
664–667 88; 100 n.62; 6.46 345 n.54
389–390 6.47 347–348
667 394 6.47–55 345 n.57
687 397 6.48 349
689–691 401 6.51 349
6.52 347
Valerius Flaccus 6.54 347–348+n.60
Argonautica 6.56 349
2.82–310 520 6.58 350
4.344–421 520 6.60 349
4.345–347 338 n.29 6.61–64 345 n.54
4.346 343 n.47 6.67–73 345 n.55
6.74 345 n.54
Varro 6.78 345 n.54
De re rustica 6.84 345 n.54
2.5.3 352–353 9.35 313
Menippea 10.1 533 n.49
fr. 398 Astbury 229 10.50 322–323+n.57
10.66 326+n.71
Vegio, Maffeo Georgica
Astyanax 1.437 313
82–121 528 3.146–156 344 n.50
138 527 3.258–263 414 n.18
150–154 527 4.10–12 550
163–165 527 4.11 347 n.65
181–188 527 4.51–52 546 n.8
192–224 527 4.67 550
221–235 527 4.67–85 558
228–234 527 4.167 549
243–250 527 4.305–307 545
index locorum 637
4.315–317 100 n.61 2.211–257 524

4.315–558 520 2.387–438 524 n.22
4.315–588 355 Scacchia ludus
4.320–332 558 1–2 534 n.53
4.325 73 5 533 n.49
4.334–347 556–557 8 534 n.57
4.366–367 554; 557
4.366–373 557 Vitruvius
4.401–403 545 De architectura
4.418–421 557 2.9.13 175 n.119
4.425–429 546 7.4–7 (praef.) 189–190+n.38+39
4.453–529 355; 359
4.465–466 547 Xenophanes
4.471–472 559 fr. 11 121 n.42
4.487 559
4.491 73 Xenophon Ephesius
4.498 73 Anthia et Habrocomes (= Ephesiaca)
4.510–511 359 1.1.3 420 n.44
4.516–527 359 1.1.5 442+n.164
4.520–522 559 1.2.3 420 n.42
4.544 546 1.2.7 440 n.152
4.552 546 1.2.9 440 n.155
4.565 535 n.57 1.2–3 419 n.42
Vida, Marco Girolamo Zenobius (ed. CPG)

De bombyce libri II 5.62 231 n.32
1.4–6 524 n.22
1.395–430 524
Index of Selected Greek Words
ἄγαλμα: 89; 93; 156; 161–164+n.67; 170–171; ἐρωτικὸν πάθημα: xiv; 13; 284; 295–298;
173–176; 448 309–331; 362–363; 366; 415; 431 n.106;
ἀγών: 111; 121–122; 124; 126; 181; 195 433–434; 437; 439; 442; 463; 465
ἀγῶνες μουσικοί: 177; 180; 182; 190 εὐτοπία: 118
ἀδύνατον → General Index: adynaton ζήλωσις → General Index: aemulatio
αἰδώς: 423–424+n.53; 441 ἡδονή: 460
αἰσυμνήτης: 122–123+n.47; 128 ἡμίθεος: 171–172; 247; 249
ἀκρίβεια: 231+n.30 ἵλαμαι: 154
ἀμοιβή: 174 ἰσχνός (κάτισχνος): 224 n.11
ἀναβολή: 120 n.39 καταστερισμός: 522
ἀναγνώρισις → General Index: κιθαρῳδός: 119; 153 n.23; 181
Anagnorisis κλέος: 238 n.50; 255; 270 n.40; 301; 388
ἀνατίθημι: 162 n.63 κλέα ἀνδρῶν: 97
ἀοιδή: 89; 99; 122; 156; 160+n.54; 171–172; κλέος ἄφθιτον: 121
175; 266–267; 289 n.26+27; 371; 385–386; κόρη: 168 n.96; 348
389; 394 κόσμησις: 93–94
ἀοιδός: 99; 116; 119+n.34; 123; 129; 173; 232 λέξις: 228–229+n.23+25
ἀριστεία → General Index: Aristeia λίτομαι: 154
ἀτιμία: 124 μάγοι: 128+n.69
αὐτοσχεδίασμα: 115 μακρός (as a literary term): 237+n.46
βία/βίη: 132; 394; 399 Μέγα Παλάτιον: 448
γόης, γόητες: 128+n.69; 134 μέγεθος (as a literary term): 221 n.1;
γραμματικός: 376; 406; 413; 428 n.87 237+n.46
γραμματοδιδάσκαλος: 251 μεταβαίνειν (μετάβηθι, μεταβήσομαι): 98;
γυμνάσιον: xv; 235; 249; 376; 448; 454 117; 120; 129; 140+n.13; 148; 160 n.54;
→ see also: General Index: 184 n.23
Gymnasium (grammar school) → see also: General Index: Metabasis
δέσποινα: 425–426+n.60 μῆνις: 371; 397–399+n.86+87; 426; 434;
διαλλακτής: 123 n.47 436 n.132
διηγηματικόν: 6; 9; 11 n.29 μηχάνημα: 118;
→ see also: General Index: μίμησις → General Index: Imitation,
Narratology, narration, narrative, imitatio
narrator μιμνήσκομαι: 158–160+n.48
Διὸς ἀπάτη (Iliad 14): 133 μνῆμα: 161–162; 164
δόλος: 394; 399 μοιχεία: 125
δύναμις: 22; 233 νεῖκος: 132
δυστοπία: 118 νόμος: 153 n.23
εἰδύλλιον: 9; 10 n.26; 64; 112 n.8 νόστος: 117
→ see also: General Index: Idyll, παιδεία: 249; 251; 374; 376–377; 406;
(e)idyllion, (e)idyllic 445; 453–454; 457+n.52; 460; 469
ἔπος: 9; 64; 232; 240; 378 παρθένος: 415 n.19; 419; 421–423; 426;
ἔπος τυτθόν: 63 443
τορευτὸν ἔπος: 230–232; 241 ποίημα: 179
→ see also: General Index: Epos, epic μέγα ποίημα: 221–244; 256–257+n.26
ἐραστής: 252–253 ποιημάτιον: 233 n.35
ἐρώμενος: 253 ποίησις: 228–230; 237–238
640 index of selected greek words
ποικιλία, ποικίλον εἶδος, ποικίλος ὕμνος: τέρας: 404

85; 435–436; 445; 457–458+n.54; 460; τέρψις: 123
463; 469–471; 486 τέττιξ: 186–187
πολυείδεια: 224–225; 469 τέχνη: 132; 228; 231; 233
πορνίδιον: 481 n.23 τέχνη ποιητική: 227
προοίμιον: 117; 120+n.39; 129–130 n.74; τρυφή: 371 n.4
151–155+n.16; 176; 184 n.23; 249 ὕβρις: 124; 442
πρῶτος εὑρετής: x; 116; 414 ὑπόμνημα: 223 n.9; 314+n.17
σῆμα: 131 ὑφαίνω: 119
στολή: 421–422 φιλότης: 105; 129; 132
σύνθεσις: 228 φόρμιγξ: 119 n.34; 122; 129
σύριγξ: 185; 289 n.26; 293–294; 438 n.140 χαῖρε (hymnic; closural): 92; 156; 160 n.54;
σφαῖρα: 128; 132 163; 172
σωφροσύνη: 441 χάρις: 123; 155–156; 164; 173–175+n.115
τέλος: 93; 131; 403–404 χορηγός: 119
→ see also: General Index: Teleology, χορός: 122; 124; 129; 131; 555
teleological

Brill's Companion To Greek and Latin Epyllion and Its Reception

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Brill’s Companion to Greek and

Latin Epyllion and Its Reception

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/bccs

Copyright 2012 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

A Short Introduction to the Ancient Epyllion ........................................ ix

History and Development of the Term and

Before the Epyllion: Concepts and Texts ................................................. 3

On the Origins of the Modern Term “Epyllion”: Some Revisions

Catullus 64: The Perfect Epyllion? .............................................................. 55

The Archaic and Pre-Hellenistic Period

The Songs of Demodocus: Compression and Extension in Greek

Demodokos’ Song of Ares and Aphrodite in Homer’s Odyssey

Borderline Experiences with Genre: The Homeric Hymn to

Rhapsodic Hymns and Epyllia ..................................................................... 149

A Proto-Epyllion? The Pseudo-Hesiodic Shield and The Poetics of

The Hellenistic Period

Pindaric Narrative Technique in the Hellenistic Epyllion .................. 201

The Hecale and Hellenistic Conceptions of Short Hexameter

Miniaturizing the Huge: Hercules on a Small Scale

Herakles in Bits and Pieces: Id. 25 in the Corpus Theocriteum .......... 259

Achilles at Scyros, and One of His Fans: The Epithalamium of

The Late Roman Republic and the Augustan Period

“εἰς ἔπη καὶ ἐλεγείας ἀνάγειν”: The Erotika Pathemata of

A Virgo Infelix: Calvus’ Io vis-à-vis Other Cow-And-Bull Stories ....... 333

The Tenth Book of Ovid’s Metamorphoses as Orpheus’ Epyllion ..... 355

The Imperial Period

The Fast and the Furious: Triphiodorus’ Reception of Homer

Musaeus, Hero and Leander: Between Epic and Novel ........................ 411

“Museum of Words”: Christodorus, the Art of Ekphrasis and the

The Motif of the Rape of Europa: Intertextuality and Absurdity

The Middle Ages and Beyond

“Epyllion” or “Short Epic” in the Latin Literature of the

Short Mythological Epic in Neo-Latin Literature .................................. 519

Robert Burns’ Tam O’ Shanter: A Lallans Epyllion? .............................. 537

General Index .................................................................................................... 597

Manuel Baumbach & Silvio Bär

“Epyllion” (τὸ ἐπύλλιον) is an established generic term within modern clas-

of how the classification of a text as an “epyllion” affects or enriches our

a generic classification and, depending on the categories of grouping the

Form: Metre and Scale

In analogy to the diminutive “epyllion” the term “small(er) epic” com-

questioned the value of scale as a criterion for modern literary criticism,15

Relation: Short vs. Long Epic

Approaching the epyllion as short hexametrical poetry reconciles the

the Argonautica might be called an (Alexandrian) epic. As both shape and

Narration and Content

With regard to the established core of epyllia within modern scholarship,

A further specification of the content, that is, a mythical topic, does

25 Cf. esp. Crump (1931) 22–23.

the inclusion of post-antique texts—ranging from mediaeval and Neo-

Prof. Dr. Benjamin Acosta-Hughes (bacosta2008@gmail.com)

Dr. Silvio Bär (silvio.f.baer@klphs.uzh.ch)

Prof. Dr. Manuel Baumbach (manuel.baumbach@rub.de)

Prof. Dr. Anton Bierl (a.bierl@unibas.ch)

as Senior Fellow at Harvard’s CHS in Washington DC (2005–11). He is co-

Prof. Dr. Peter Bing (pbing@emory.edu)

Ewen Bowie (ewen.bowie@ccc.ox.ac.uk)

Prof. Dr. Carmen Cardelle de Hartmann (Cardelle@access.uzh.ch)

Victoris Tunnunensis Chronicon cum reliquiis ex Consularibus Caesarau-

Nicola Dümmler (nicola.duemmler@klphs.uzh.ch)

Prof. Dr. Ulrich Eigler (ulrich.eigler@klphs.uzh.ch)

17 Winsemius (1558) 2: Porrò Bucolicum carmen id uocarunt, quod argumenta de re rus

2.b The First Attestation in Classical Scholarship: K.D. Ilgen’s Edition of

2.d New Εvidence for Wolf’s Concept of “Εpyllion” and His Role in

2.e Variety in the Attestations from 1825–1855 and K.O. Müller’s