Thomas Moore (Томас Мур)

From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 18

Now the star of day is high,
Fly, my girls, in pity fly,
Bring me wine in brimming urns,
Cool my lip, it burns, it burns!
Sunn’d by the meridian fire,
Panting, languid I expire.
Give me all those humid flowers,
Drop them o’er my brow in showers.
Scarce a breathing chaplet now
Lives upon my feverish brow;
Every dewy rose I wear
Sheds its tears, and withers there.
But to you, my burning heart,
What can now relief impart?
Can brimming bowl, or floweret’s dew,
Cool the flame that scorches you?

1. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 54
2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 46
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 15
4. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 17
5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 52

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