Poetry that has survived across the ages and is supposed to be the best of the lot. Read this poem, and have a re-think.
I fell in love.
Who hasn't?
I partied.
What's new?
I had been
driven mad.
By whom?
By Aphrodite.
To hell with her.
My hair
is getting grey now,
announcing
I am at
the age of discretion.
When it was
time to play,
I played.
That's over.
Now wiser counsels
will prevail.
Philodemus (c. 110-35 BC)
(Ancient & Modern; Peter Jones; 1999)
Poetasters of the world, I think there is hope for ye yet. I need not seek the icy mountains of despair yet.
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