Στέφος πλέκων ποθ᾽, εὗρον
ἐν τοῖς ῥόδοις Ἔρωτα:
καὶ τῶν πτερῶν κατασχὼν,
ἐβάπτις1᾽ εἰς τὸν οἶνον.

λαβὼν δ᾽ ἔπιον αὐτόν
καὶ νῦν ἔσω μελῶν μου
πτεροῖσι γαργαλίζει.

— Paton edition

Tessevo un serto: vidi
di tra le rose Amore:
lo presi per le ali,
lo battezzai nel vino,
lo tracannai d'un sorso.
Mi fa con l'ali, adesso,
solletico nel corpo.

— Pontani, Filippo Maria (1978-81) (ed.): Antologia Palatina, 4 vols., Torino.

T'other day as I was twining
Roses, for a crown to dine in,
What, of all things, 'midst the heap,
Should I light on, fast asleep,
But the little desperate elf,
The tiny traitor, Love himself!
By the wings I pinch'd him up
Like a bee, and in a cup
Of my wine I plunged and sank him;
Then what d'ye think I did?—I drank him.
Faith, I thought him dead. Not he!
There he lives with tenfold glee;
And now this moment with his wings
I feel him tickling my heart-strings.

— Hunt, Leigh (1784–1859), The New Monthly Magazine (September 1836)

As once, amid the rosy bowers,
I wove a crown of fairest flowers,
Love, little urchin, lurking sly
Beneath the leaves I chanced to spy;
Around his wings the wreath I twine,
And plunge him in a cup of wine:
Then love, in each delicious draught,
I from the foaming goblet quaff'd.
Oh! still he moves his fluttering wings,
Still to my heart strange transport brings.

— Bourne, Thomas (1806–1881), Pindar and Anacreon (1846)

As late in wreaths gay flowers I bound,
Beneath some roses Love I found,
And by his little frolic pinion
As quick as thought I seiz'd the minion,
Then in my cup the prisoner threw,
And drank him in its sparkling dew:
And sure I feel my angry guest
Fluttering his wings within my breast!

— Coleridge, Samuel Taylor (1772–1834), written 1792, first published in collected works (1893)

As late in wreaths gay flowers I bound,
Beneath some roses Love I found,
And by his little frolic pinion
As quick as thought I seiz'd the minion,
Then in my cup the prisoner threw,
And drank him in its sparkling dew:
And sure I feel my angry guest
Fluttering his wings within my breast!

— Coleridge, Samuel Taylor (1772–1834), written 1792, first published in collected works (1893)

As once, amid the rosy bowers,
I wove a crown of fairest flowers,
Love, little urchin, lurking sly
Beneath the leaves I chanced to spy;
Around his wings the wreath I twine,
And plunge him in a cup of wine:
Then love, in each delicious draught,
I from the foaming goblet quaff'd.
Oh! still he moves his fluttering wings,
Still to my heart strange transport brings.

— Bourne, Thomas (1806–1881), Pindar and Anacreon (1846)

T'other day as I was twining
Roses, for a crown to dine in,
What, of all things, 'midst the heap,
Should I light on, fast asleep,
But the little desperate elf,
The tiny traitor, Love himself!
By the wings I pinch'd him up
Like a bee, and in a cup
Of my wine I plunged and sank him;
Then what d'ye think I did?—I drank him.
Faith, I thought him dead. Not he!
There he lives with tenfold glee;
And now this moment with his wings
I feel him tickling my heart-strings.

— Hunt, Leigh (1784–1859), The New Monthly Magazine (September 1836)

Tessevo un serto: vidi
di tra le rose Amore:
lo presi per le ali,
lo battezzai nel vino,
lo tracannai d'un sorso.
Mi fa con l'ali, adesso,
solletico nel corpo.

— Pontani, Filippo Maria (1978-81) (ed.): Antologia Palatina, 4 vols., Torino.

Στέφος πλέκων ποθ᾽, εὗρον
ἐν τοῖς ῥόδοις Ἔρωτα:
καὶ τῶν πτερῶν κατασχὼν,
ἐβάπτις1᾽ εἰς τὸν οἶνον.

λαβὼν δ᾽ ἔπιον αὐτόν
καὶ νῦν ἔσω μελῶν μου
πτεροῖσι γαργαλίζει.

— Paton edition