Lyric and Dramatic Voices Midterm

Birth date of Sophocles

Anagnorisis

Homartia

Paripeteis

You will die and be still, never shall be memory left of you after this, nor regret when you are gone. You have not touched the flowers of the Muses, and thus, shadowy still in the domain of Death, you must drift with a ghost's fluttering wings, one of the darkened dead. (Author and poem?)

Like the very gods in my sight is he who sits where he can look in your eyes, who listens close to you, to hear the soft voice, its sweetness murmur in love and laughter, all for him. But it breaks my spirit; underneath my breast all the heart is shaken. Let me only glance where you are, the voice dies, I can say nothing, but my llips are stricken to silence, under-neath my skin the tenuous flame suffuses; nothing shows in front of my eyes, my ears are muted in thunder. And the sweat breaks running upon me, fever shakes my body, paler I turn than grass is; I can feel that I have been changed, I feel that death has come near me. (Author and poem?)

Throned in splendor, deathless, O Aphrodite, child of Zeus, chram-fashioner, I entreat you not with griefs and bitternesses to break my spirit, O goddess; standing by me rather, if once before now far away you heard, when I called upon you, left your father's dwelling place and descended, yking the golden chariot to sparrows, who fairly drew you down in speed asland the black world, the bright air trembling at the heart to the puls of countless fluttering wingbeats.

Swiftly then they came, and you, blessed lady, smiling on me out of immortal beauty, asked me what affliction was on me, why I called thus upon you, what beyond all else I would have befall my tortured heart: "Whom then would you have Persuasion force to serve desire in your heart? Who is it, Sappho, that hurt you? Though she now escape you, she soon will follow; though she take not gifts from you, she will give them: though she love not, yet she will surely love you even unwillingly."

In such guise come even again and set me free from doubt and sorrow; accomplish all those things my heart desire to be done; appear and stand at my shoulder. (Author and poem?)

Let one who has brought the commonwealth to calm peace, search then for the light, the shining of great-hearted Concord, to drive malignant Discord away from his mind, bestower of poverty, spiteful as nurse of children. (Author and poem?)

War is sweet to those who have not tried it. The experienced man is frightened at the heart to see it advancing. (Author and poem?)

Traveler, take this word to the men of Laakedaimon: we who lie buried here did what they told us to do. (Author and poem?)

There is one story that Virtue has her dwelling place above rock walls hard to climb with a grave chorus of light-footed nymphs attendant about her, and she is not to be looked upon by the eyes of every moral, only by one who with sweat, with clenched concentration and courage, climbs to the peak. (Author and poem?)

Not even those who lived long ago before us and were sons of our lords, the gods, themselves half-divine, came to an old age and the end of their days without hardship and danger, nor did they live forever. (Author and poem?)

Being no more than a man, you cannot tell what will happen tomorrow, nor, when you see one walk in prosperity know for how much time it will be. For overturn on the light-lifting wings of a dragonfly is not more swift. (Author and poem?)

For the multitude of mankind there is only one virtue: Money. And there was no good found in anything else, not if you had the sagacity of the great Rhadamanthys, not if you had the resource of Sisyphos, Aiolos' son, who by the crafty guile in his mind came up out of Hades and flattered the Queen of the Dead into letting him go, Persephone, who dims men's mind with the water of Lethe; and to this day no other man has made such an escape, once the darkness of death has closed in a vapor about him, once he has taken his way to the shadowy place of the dead and gone on through the black gates which shut the protesting souls of dead men in and will not let them go free; yet Sisyphos was a hero who came back even from that place into the light of the sun through the resource in his mind; not if you could be false and make falsehood look like honesty, not if you had fair speech like Nestor the almost-divine, not if in the speed of your feet you outrean the flying Harpies or the North Wind's two sons in the storm of their fee. None of these;but all me must understand when I tell them: Money, and nothing but Money, holds all the power in the world. (Author?)

If I had money, Simonides, as I have had in time past, I could without embarrassment consort with the great. But as it is, I know a man, and he passes me by. Dumb stand I, for poverty, though I know as much as the rest even now. So it is. We are swept with the wind, white sails lost, out from the Melian Sea, on into the gloom of the night. The men are unwilling to bail any more. The sea washes over the bulwarks on either side, and barely and in destress we keep afloat. But some are at work. They have put down the noble helmsman, who knew his business well, and kept a good watch.All discipline is gone, and they plunder the cargo at random, nor is there any fair division made for the lot. The base hands and the porters control, the great are beneath them. Let this be my secret ciphere addressed to the nobles; but even the base man, if he is clever, can see what it means. (Author and poem?)

See, I have given you wings on which to hover uplifted high above earth entire and the great waste of the sea without strain. Wherever men meet in festivals, as men gather, you will be there, your name will be spoken again as the young singers, with the flutes clear piping beside them, make you into a part of the winsome verses, and sing of you. And even after you pass to the gloom and the secret chambers of sorrow, Death's house hidden under the ground, even in death your memory shall not pass, and it chall not die, but always, a name and a song in the minds of men, Kyrnos, you shall outrange the land of Greece and the islands, cross the upheaving sea where the fish swarm, carried not astride the back of a horse, but the shining gifts of the dark-wreathed Muses shall be the force that carries you on your way. For all wherever song is you shall be there for the singers. So long as the earch endures and the sun endures, you shall be. I did this. But you give me not the smallest attention. You put me off with deceits as if I were a child. (Author and poem?)

No man, Kyrnos, is responsible for his own disasters or gains, but both alike are handed out by the gods; nor does any human being who acts have any true knowledge whether the thing he does will end in evil or good. Often he thinks the result will be bad, and it comes out better; he thinks again the result will be good, and it comes out worse. Nor is what happens to any person just what he wishes. We are helpless: it is hard: but we are caught and confined. We are men, what we think is vanity, for we know nothing. All is disposed of by the gods in the way they wish. (Author and poem?)

Kyrnos, this city is still the same city, but its people are different. Those who before knew nothing of lawsuits, nothing of laws, who went about in goatskins flapping over their shoulders, who lived on the ranges, far our from the town, like wild deer, these are now the Great Men, son of Polypas. Our former nobles are Rabble now. Who could endure it when things are so? They swindle each other, they mock at one another, and meanwhile undertand nothing at all of what good and bad men think. Never make one of these citizens your friend, son of Polypas, pretend to all that you are their friend: talk as if you were one: but never communicate to any one of these men anything important. You must know that their purposes are unpleasant, and there is no trusting them in any matter at all, but treachery, and deception, and catch-as-catch-can is their nature. Such are the desperate men who have no future assured. (Author and poem?)

Kyrnos, this city is big with child, and I fear it will bring forth a man who will chastise all our disorderly ways. The people in the city are still well behaved, but their leaders have turned their steps into a path that will make them corrupt. Never yet, my Kyrnos, was a city destroyed by its nobles, but only after base men take to disorderly ways and debauch their own people and give rights to the unrighteous for the sake of their own money and power; and when this is so, for long, although for the time it rides on a tranquil keel, and private advantage comes with public disaster. For this breeds civil discord and men's blood shed by their fellow-citizens, and monarchies. But pray that our city may never be such. (Author and poem?)

Kyrnos, this is my work; let a seal be stamped on the writing of these words, so that none who steals them shall ever deceive, so that none in the presence of good work can substitute forgery. Thys shall each reader say: "These are the words of Theognis of Megara, a great name, the world knows it." And yet I cannot please all the people in my own town. No wonder there, son of Polypas, since not Zeus even can please all, by raining or withholding his rain. (Author and poem?)

Remember to read Solon again

Counterbalenced against the iron is the sweet lyre-playing. (Author and poem?)

Now, supposing a man were to win the prize for the foot race at Olympia, there where the precinct of Zeus stands beside the river, at Pisa: or if he wins the five-contests, or the wrestling, or if he endures the pain of boxing and wins, or that new and terrible game they call the pankration, contest of all holds: why, such a man will obtain honor, in the citizens' sight, and be given a front seat and be on display at all civic occasions, and he would be given his meals all at the public expense, and be given a gift from the city to take and store for safekeeping. If he won with the chariot, too, all this would be granted to him, and yet he would not deserve it, as I do. Better than brute strength of men, or horses either, is the wisdom that is mine. But custom is careless in all these matters, and there is no justice in putting strength on a level above wisdom which is sound. For if among the people there is one who is a good boxer, or one who excels in wrestling or in the five-contests, or else for speed of his feet, and this is prized beyond other feats of strength that men display in athletic games, the city will not, on account of this man, have better government. Small is the pleasure the city derives from one of its men if he happens to come first in the games by the banks of Pisa. This does not make rich the treasure house of the state. (Author and poem?)

Now the floor is swept clean, and the hands of all who are present are washed, and the cups are clean. One puts the garlands on, another passes the fragrant myrrh on a dish. The mixing bowl is set up and stands by, full of the spirit of cheer, and more wine stands ready and promises no disappointment; sweet wine, in earthen jars, preserving its own bouquet. In the middle of all, frankincense gives out its holy fragrance, and we have water there too, cold and crystal and sweet. Golden-brown loaves are set nearby, and the lordly table is weighted down underneath its load of honey and cheese. The alter, in the center, is completely hidden in flowers. Merriment and singing fill all the corners of the house. First of all, enlightened men should hymn the God, using words of propriety, and stories that have no fault. Then, when they have made libation and prayed to be able to conduct themselves like gentlement as occasion demands, it will not be drunk-and-disorderly to drink as much as one can and still get home without help-except for a very old man. Best approve that man who in drinking discloses notable ideas, as they come to his mind and his good disposition directs. It's no use to tell the tale of the battles of Titans and Giants, or Centaurs either, those fictions of our fathers' imaginations, nor wars of the Gods; there's no good to be got from such subjects. One should be thoughtful always and right-minded toward the Gods. (Author and poem?)

What, then, is life if love the golden is gone? What is pleasure? Better to die when the thought of these is lost from my heart: the flattery of surrender, the secret embrace in the darkness. These alone are such charming flowers of youth as befall women and men. But once old age with its sorrows advances upon us, it makes a man feeble and ugly alike, heart worn thin with the hovering expectation of evil, lost all joy that comes out of the sight of the sun. Hateful to boys a man goes then, unfavored of women. Such is the thing of sorrow God has made of old age. (Author and poem?)

How long will you lie idle, and when will you find some courage, you young men? Have you no shame of what other cities will say, you who hang back? You think you can sit quiet in peacetime. This is not peace, it is war which has engulfed our land.

A man, as he dies, should make one last throw with his spear. It is a high thing, a bright honor, for a man to do battle with the enemy for the sake of his children, and for his land and his true wife; and death is a thing that will come when the spinning Destinies make it come. So a man should go straight on forward, spear held high, and under his shield the fighting strength coiled ready to strike in the first shock of the charge. When it is ordained that a man shall die, there is no escaping death, not even for one descended from deathless gods. Often a man who has fled from the fight and the clash of the thrown spears goes his way, and death befalls him in his own house, and such a man is not loved nor missed for long by his people; the great and the small alike mourn when a hero dies. For all the populace is grieved for the high-hearted warrior after his death; while he lives, he is treated as almost divine. Their eyes gaze on him as if he stood like a bastion before them. His actions are like an army's though he is only one man. (Author and poem?)

No man is respected, no man spoken of, when he is dead by his townsmen. All of us, when still alive, will cultivate the live man, and thus the dead will always have the worst of it. (Author and poem?)

Such is the passion for love that has twisted its way beneath my heartstrings and closed deep mist across my eyes stealing the soft heart from inside my body. (Author and poem?)

If it only were my fortune just to touch Neoboule's hand. (Author and poem?)

Hide we away these painful gifts of the lord Poseidon. (Author and poem?)

The fox knows many tricks, the hedgehog only one. One good one. (Author and poem?)

Often along the streaming hair of the gray salt water they pray for sweet homecoming won in spite of the sea. (Author and poem?)

Heart, my heart, so battered with misfortune far beyond your strength, up, and face the men who hate us. Bare your chest to the assault of the enemy, and fight them off. Stand fast among the beamlike spears. Give no ground; and if you beat them, do not brag in open show, nor, if they beat you, run home and lie down on your bed and cry. Keep some measure in the joy you take in luck, and the degree you give way to sorrow. All our life is up-and-down like this. (Author and poem?)

Blaming the bitterness of this sorrow, Perikles, no man in all our city can take pleasure in festivities: Such were the men the surf of the roaring sea washed under, all of us go with hearts aching against our ribs for misery. Yet against such grief that is past recovery the gods, dear friend, have given us strong endurance to be our medicine. Such sorrows are variable. They beat now against ourselves, and we take the hurt of the bleeding sore. Tomorrow it will be others who grieve, not we. From now on act like a man, and put away these feminine tears. (Author and poem?)

O vast earch, you contain Aristophon and Megatimos under your folds, the two tall columns of Naxos sustained. (Author and poem?)

Som barbarian is waving my shield, since I was obligated to leave that perfectly good piece of equipment behind under a bush. But I got away, so what does it matter? Let the shield go; I can buy another one equally good. (Author and poem?)

By spear is kneaded the bread I eat, by spear my Ismaric wine is won, which I drink, leaning upon my spear (Author and poem?)

I am two things: a fighter who follows the Master of Battles, and one who understands the gift of the Muses love (Author and poem?)

Ask not, for thou shalt not find it, what my end, what thine shall be;
Ask not of Chaldæa’s science what God wills, Leuconoë:
Better far, what comes, to bear it. Haply many a wintry blast
Waits thee still; and this, it may be, Jove ordains to be thy last,
Which flings now the flagging sea-wave on the obstinate sandstone reef.
Be thou wise: fill up the wine cup, shortening, since the time is brief,
Hopes that reach into the future. While I speak, hath stol’n away
Jealous time. Mistrust tomorrow, catch the blossom of today. (Author and poem?)

What slender Youth bedew'd with liquid odours
Courts thee on Roses in some pleasant Cave,
Pyrrha for whom bindst thou
In wreaths thy golden Hair,

Plain in thy neatness; O how oft shall he [ 5 ]
On Faith and changed Gods complain: and Seas
Rough with black winds and storms
Unwonted shall admire:

Who now enjoyes thee credulous, all Gold,
Who alwayes vacant, alwayes amiable [ 10 ]
Hopes thee; of flattering gales
Unmindfull. Hapless they

To whom thou untry'd seem'st fair. Me in my vow'd
Picture the sacred wall declares t' have hung
My dank and dropping weeds [ 15 ]
To the stern God of Sea. (Author and poem?)

Mother, I cannot mind my wheel;
My fingers ache, my lips are dry:
Oh! if you felt the pain I feel!
But Oh, who ever felt as I!

No longer could I doubt him true;
All other men may use deceit:
He always said my eyes were blue,
And often swore my lips were sweet (Author and poem?)

Dear mother, I cannot work the loom

Filled, by Aphrodite, with love for a slender boy… (Author and poem?)

Death date of Sophocles

Date around the florishing of Greek poetry (Aeschylus)

Date around the florishing of Greek poetry (Sophocles)

Date around the florishing of Greek poetry (Euripides)

Foot & Meter

Foot

Feet used in writing poetry

Iamb (iambic)

Trochee (trochaic)

Anapest (anapestic)

Dactyl (dactylic)

Monometer

Dimeter

Trimeter

Tetrameter

Pentameter

Hexameter (if in iambics, called an Alexandrine)

Heptameter

Octameter

Scansion

Figurative language

Figures of speech

Tropes

Schemes

Examples of tropes

Examples of schemes

Alliteration

Anaphora

Apostrophe

Assonance

Irony

Metaphor

Simile

Metonymy

Parallelism

Personification/prosopopoeia

Synecdoche

Symbol

Tone

Speaker or persona

Apostrophe (trope or scheme?)

Irony (trope or scheme?)

Metaphor (trope or scheme?)

Simile (trope or scheme?)

Metonymy (trope or scheme?)

Synecdoche (trope or scheme?)

Personification (trope or scheme?)

Alliteration (trope or scheme?)

Anaphora (trope or scheme?)

Assonance (trope or scheme?)

Parallelism (trope or scheme?)