Peace was performed at the City Dionysia in 421 BCE, just days before the signing of the fifty-year treaty known as the Peace of Nikias, which brought an end to the first ten years of the Peloponnesian War. The negotiations that led up to this definitive moment for Athens and Sparta had been initiated the previous summer by the simultaneous deaths of Cleon and Brasidas at Amphipolis, who had been, according to Thucydides, ‘the two principal opponents of peace on either side’ (5.16.1). These unexpected deaths created a power vacuum which was filled by more moderate politicians on both sides of the conflict—Nikias and Pleistoanax, respectively—each of whom had his own personal reasons for desiring peace, apart from alleviating the battle fatigue felt keenly throughout the Greek world by this point. At Athens, the break in military action occasioned by this transference of power put the focus back on the political situation at home, and it was during this break that Aristophanes produced his cautiously optimistic play Peace, which, in its celebration of this fortuitous turn of events, also displayed a renewed interest in the well-being of the Athenian home front at this time.

‘I no longer look upon Theocritus as a romantic writer,’ wrote Lady Montagu to Alexander Pope; ‘he has only given a plain image of the way of life amongst the peasants of his country … I don't doubt, had he been born a Briton, but his Idylliums had been filled with descriptions of thrashing and churning.’ Thanks to greater sophistication about the nature of pastoral and a better knowledge of Hellenistic poetry we have probably left behind forever the notion of Theocritus as the conveyor of a ‘plain image’ of rustic life. The alternative is not, of course, the ‘romantic’ Theocritus, but a poet of consummate literary artistry, wit, and irony.

Besides the critical commonplace of rustic realism the other stumbling block to a satisfactory appreciation of Theocritus has been the inevitable comparison with Virgil. Critics who have viewed Theocritus through lenses adjusted to Virgil have tended to emphasize the emotional complexity, inwardness, and seriousness of the Latin poet over against the outward-facing playfulness and lightness of the Greek. Theocritus certainly lacks the tension between historical reality and poetry which gives the Eclogues their special depth and poignancy; but he has a seriousness of a different sort. The simplicity and trivial realism which are sometimes attributed to the bucolic Idylls are in fact themselves part of the poetic fiction and often stand in deliberate self-contradiction with mythical elements in the form and structure of the work.

Two sets of ‘autobiographical’ text that span the transition from the first principate into the second—the Res Gestae Diui Augusti and the poetry of Ovid's exile—offer a rare opportunity to compare the contemporaneous self-portraits of the politician and poet whose careers have evolved in tandem up until this point. Yet where scholars have studied the interactions between these texts, they have tended to overlook the parallels between the self-fashioning strategies deployed by their respective authors in favour of a hunt for corroborating historical data.

A recent book by Michele Lowrie challenges us to treat as part of the same problematic the authorising claims made in texts as ostensibly disparate as these. In this study, Lowrie balances her exploration of how the literary productions of the Augustan era responded to its social and political upheavals, reflecting and refracting the performative powers that were being used to effect political transformation at this time, against the efforts made by Augustus to appropriate the self-fashioning strategies exemplified by the poets. Her focus on how Augustus' own manipulation of the media replicates the modes of authorship practised by his literary contemporaries thus makes the social energies circulating across cultural boundaries in Rome at this time appear as traffic in a two-way street. With this work, then, we have been given a new incentive to treat the authorial names and authorising claims of Augustus and of the ‘Augustan’ poets as a package-a prompt to which I will respond in this article by unpacking the signatures of ‘Naso’ and ‘Augustus’ as a twin pair. I will therefore be looking to the Res Gestae and to the poetry of Ovid's exile in order to see how the authorial signatures of poet and princeps fare alongside each other at this defining moment of the Augustan principate; and will attempt to refine the theoretical framework required in order to plot the ways in which these different types of signature play off one another.

The challenge to classicists to read Josephus ‘as literature’ is an awkward one, because it throws into relief the crooked, appropriative practices we undertake in the name of literary criticism. If Josephus' works are to be seen as ‘literature’—a category closely associated with specifically Hellenic literary ideals, in much of the ancient world as well as the modern academy—then we are also avoiding looking at them as documents of early Jewish cultural history or belief. ‘Literature’ is far from a neutral category.

Josephus would, however, have probably approved, at any rate up to a point. In the proem to the Jewish Archaeology—on which this article will focus—he promises a work of ‘universal usefulness’ (κοινή ὠϕέλειαν, 1.3), which will appear ‘worthy of study to the whole Greek world’ (ἅπασι…τοῖς Ἕλλησιν ἀξίαν σπουδῆς, 1.5). Unlike Against Apion, which denigrates Greek historiography in relation to Jewish and other near-eastern narrative traditions (see esp. 1.6-56), the Archaeology seeks to translate biblical discourse into a Greek-friendly register. In terms of communication, ‘universal’ necessarily means ‘Greek’, a point of which the translators of the Septuagint were aware (as much as Cicero and Paul). Moreover, the tralatitious language (Thucydidean ὠϕέλεια, Dionysian σπουδή) coupled with the direct allusion in the work's title to Dionysius' Roman Archaeology reinforce the already clear impression that Josephus is inscribing his project into the Greek cultural tradition, marking its intelligibility within the conceptual framework that we would call ‘literature’, and Josephus and his contemporaries called paideia. The Archaeology converts the fragmented and at times self-contradictory narrative of the Hebrew Bible (what Christians call the Old Testament) into a coherent chronological narrative, seeking to confer on it the legitimacy (as gentile Greeks would see it) of historical narrative.

In the medical practice of Asclepian dream incubation, dreams offered a conduit through which the divine power of the healing god could be visited upon an ailing suppliant. This practice was enough of a part of everyday life in fifth-century Athens that it achieved the dubious honor of an extended parody in Aristophanes’ Plutus. An extensive inscriptional record suggests that it continued to flourish for many centuries. But there was another type of dream employed in ancient Greek and Roman medical practice, with a much scanter trail of evidence. These dreams had endogenous, physiological origins and provided information about the internal disposition of the body not by divine intervention, but by some manner of inward perception on the part of the patient. With the rising interest in observational methodology in the fith century, opsis, and ideally autopsy, became the basis on which scientific knowledge was produced and elaborated. Taboos against physically opening the human body, in life as well as in death, prevented physicians from directly observing their patients’ interiors. The visions of dreams, then, could potentially provide doctors with a uniquely valuable diagnostic tool: genuine access to the observation of a body's internal condition, albeit in a strange, mediated form.

Plautus' Captivi is a play of discovery rather than of action. Its plot is not so much a story as a situation, which is misperceived at first but gradually revealed to the characters in the drama. The chief complications of the plot are all given as part of the initial conditions, which are described in the prologue as having occurred prior to the time of the dramatic action. There had been a war between two Greek communities, Elis and Aetolia. The event itself is strictly and explicitly banished from the stage as befitting tragedy, not comedy (58-62). The prisoners taken on either side in the war were sold as slaves, as commonly happened. Among these was a young Aetolian named Philopolemus, son of Hegio, who fell into the possession of a doctor in Elis called Menarchus. As a result, Hegio, though a man of excellent character, has begun to purchase slaves on the slave market, not with an eye to profit, however, but in order to acquire an Elean captive whom he may exchange for his own son. On the day before the date on which the play is imagined to take place, Hegio has succeeded in buying, at considerable cost, a distinguished citizen of Elis named Philocrates, along with his personal slave, Tyndarus.

So wrote G. Schubert in his study of dream symbolism (Die Symbolik des Traumes) published in 1814—one of many works of dream theory that served as a resource for Freud, whose magnum opus—The Interpretation of Dreams—would appear at the turn of the century. Schubert offers the example of the nonsensical association of the word ‘writing’ with the image of two men (‘one carrying the other on his back’) in an effort to argue a thesis later challenged by the work of Freud: that a ‘daytime language of words’ exists independent of, and unaffected by, a ‘nighttime language of dreams’. Read nearly a century after Freud, the passage is ironic, as Neil Hertz has observed, largely because Schubert's exemplary ‘nonsensical’ combination of word and image is richly suggestive of one of the principal concerns of poststructuralist psychoanalysis: how writing is a process of bearing the burden of the past and shouldering the father, an (oedipal) narrative of the son coming to terms with paternal authority: ‘The weight of the older man's body, the pressure of his will give substance to the voiced word…[w]riting, Freud would have us say, is Oedipal, a coming to terms with the Father, a shouldering of the burden of the past.’

The sixth book of Silius Italicus' Punica opens with the aftermath of the battle at lake Trasimene: the victory of the Carthaginians has been total. An analeptic narrative on the adventures of Regulus in Libya during the First Punic War occupies a large portion of this book (62-551). Regulus' son, Serranus, wounded after the battle at Trasimene, finds refuge at the house of his father's faithful companion, Marus. In a flash-back narrative, Marus relates the killing of a serpent at the river Bagrada (140-293), the capture of Regulus and his mission to Rome (299-402), Marcia's reaction to her husband's uncompromising attitude, Regulus' speech to the Senate (403-520), and his final return to Carthage, resulting in his death (521-51).

The poet brings several innovations into his account in Book 6 in comparison to pre-Silian tradition. He introduces three persons around the figure of Regulus who are otherwise unknown or remain anonymous in other sources. The first is Serranus, Regulus' son. Although Regulus' son must have participated in the battle at Trasimene, this fabricated Serranus is called iuuenis (‘young man’, 101, 415) and flore nitens primo (‘in the flower of his youth’, 65), references which further complicate historical chronology. Another Silian innovation is Marus, Regulus' faithful companion during his tribulations in Africa. His presence fits into the scheme of Silius' portrayal of Serranus' ‘education’ by Marus, who will tell the story of Regulus' heroic adventures in Africa and Rome. Generational continuity would be guaranteed through the precepts of an older man. And finally, Silius gives Marcia herself a substantial role.

In this paper I shall outline a possible new interpretation of Aeschylus' Prometheus Bound. I find that despite universal agreement that this drama has immediate and deep relevance to our lives, there is no available reading which comes closely to grips with the rich, specific details of the play as well as its broad outline. Prometheus Bound is neither a symbolist drama nor an allegory, since the Olympian gods and their predecessors were immediate, shared reality for the Greeks of the early fifth century. So we should begin by asking what Aeschylus meant by his choice of scene and subject, and in particular what issues would have been evoked for the Athenian audience by the confrontation between Prometheus and Zeus.

The manuscripts place before this drama an excerpt from the History of Poetry attributed to Dionysius the younger. Singling out Aeschylus' Prometheus plays for special praise, the author comments that ‘the dramas are filled with the most senior of the gods, and all the masks, both on the stage and in the orchêstra, are divine’.

The debate about how unified and consistent are the epic-like Histories of Herodotus is reminiscent of the form and redaction criticism developed around the Bible. The evangelical author, whose purpose is not to address posterity for a statement purely of the historical record, but rather to solicit his contemporaries in a catechetical fashion, shapes the historical deeds of the life and times of the Hebrews to suit a purpose, which includes history but is finally beyond mere history. The prophets, and their sources, are didactic; similarly Herodotus arranged his material for the purpose of highlighting the conflict of tyranny and freedom, of despotic empire and more democratic coalition. Books VII, VIII, and IX are the most elaborate and tight-woven of all the Herodotean logoi, just as the passion narratives that conclude the Gospels are the most factual and sustained narrative. The episodes prior to the climax life-death events in both the Histories and the Gospels compose a melange of fact and story, anecdote and reminiscence, pithy statement and imagined speeches, and colourful, fabulous deeds and wonders. Characters are introduced and biographies sketched: mini-dramas and conflicts among various interest groups build — all contributing to the climax and the great passion struggle. By way of introduction to these awesome events yet in the remembrances of living men, Matthew and Luke give the marvellous infancy narratives, and Herodotus presents the mythological rape stories of his prolog. And, just as the whole Bible begins with a marvellous blend of myth and history that is Genesis and ends with the epilog that is Apocalypse, so the Histories begin with the almost-out-of-memory stories of the kings’ daughters kidnapped, and end with the epilog where the ‘ghost’ of Cyrus appears and there discloses the final revelation of the inner impoverished core of Xerxes’ imperial court government.

It is now widely recognised that Medea's last words in her elegiac letter to Jason, Heroides 12, combine the terrible foreshadowing of infanticide with a telling metapoetic signature:

quo feret ira, sequar! facti fortasse pigebit;

et piget infido consuluisse uiro.

uiderit ista deus, qui nunc mea pectora uersat!

nescioquid certe mens mea maius agit.

(Ov. Her. 12.209-12)

Where my anger leads, I'll follow. Perhaps I'll regret my deed—

as I regret the attention I paid to my faithless husband.

Be that the concern of the god who now goads my breast!

Certainly, something greater is stirring in my mind!

Ovid positions Heroides 12 as ‘a “prequel” to his own Medea-tragedy’, that maius opus which notionally provides Medea with an appropriate generic setting in which to exact her revenge; elegy is too light a medium to bear the weight of so tragic a denouement. Heroides 12 thus concludes by adapting itself to the contours of the larger Ovidian career—a career in which he was to revisit the Medea-theme for the third time in Metamorphoses 7. There, her life-story is selectively told from the beginning of the Argonautic voyage and Medea's first infatuation with Jason to her magical intervention in his gaining of the golden fleece (1-158); from her rejuvenation of Jason's father, Aeson, to the dastardly way in which she induces the daughters of Pelias, Aeson's half-brother, to murder their father (159-349); and from the briefly told murder of her children at Corinth to her marriage to Aegeus and the attempted murder of Theseus, his son, at Athens (394-423). At this point Medea takes flight once more (424; cf. 350-93, in the wake of Pelias' murder) and disappears from the Metamorphoses for good—or, we might imagine, for yet more evil to be worked.

The short Platonic dialogue, the Ion, has suffered a strange fate. Its authenticity has been doubted, and its content considered slight or repetitious. The greatest and most surprising setback the work has encountered is that critics have never even been able to agree on its subject. Therefore, an analysis of the dialogue requires that we first investigate whether the dialogue questions the knowledge of poets or critics, the two subjects proposed. Second, Socrates' argument denying an area of expertise to rhapsodes needs examination; and, finally, the implications of the Ion's argument, especially in regard to the connections between literary criticism and philosophy, deserve attention.

The main argument of the Ion is anticipated by two questions posed at the beginning of the work. Socrates asks Ion whether he is as skilful (deinos) in discussing Hesiod and Archilochus as he claims to be in regard to Homer (531a1-2). When the rhapsode responds that his talent is limited to Homer, Socrates concludes that Ion's ability to speak about Homer is not based upon technical knowledge (tekhnē) or a scientific method (epistēmē) but upon divine inspiration. Shortly afterwards, Socrates asks whether Ion or a seer could better assess Homeric and Hesiodic passages about soothsaying (531b3-6). This question anticipates the argument in the last third of the dialogue where Socrates insists that Ion has no particular expertise in regard to the Homeric works and that in fact specialists in various technical fields are better qualified to judge Homeric passages. The question also prefigures the important role divination will play in the dialogue.

I have several times in the past given my students the following oversimplified scheme. Each of Virgil's three works was based on a Greek original: the Eclogues on the Idylls of Theocritus, the Georgics on Hesiod's Works and Days, the Aeneid on Homer's two epics. The difference among these Greek poets (I used to say in my opinionated way) is that while Theocritus was a very fine poet, and Homer of course a genius, Hesiod was only mediocre; therefore Virgil depended on him less and was able to be freer and more genuine in the Georgics than in the Eclogues or the Aeneid. And that, I used to conclude, is why only the Georgics surpasses its model, and justifies Dryden's description of it as the most perfect poem by the most perfect poet.

After spending some time working with the literary sources of the Georgics, I am still inclined to the same final conclusion, that the Georgics is Virgil's masterpiece. I have, however, come to some new observations about the relation of the Georgics to its literary predecessors, which may help in a small way to illuminate the poem.

Latin literature would be the poorer if the Satires of Persius had not survived. Many of course do not like his work because of a certain perceived incoherence or lack of shape or unity in his Satires, and many are of the opinion that their author was a student of books rather than of life: ‘an ideal example of an arrogant and spiritless young man wrapped up in poetry.’ As a merely academic poet, it is believed, Persius could do no more than depend heavily on poets who had gone before, and especially on Horace, reminiscences of whose work thickly lace the lines of Persius' satires. Furthermore, it is widely believed, Persius' ideas and the language in which they are expressed are often so obscure that it is impossible to interpret their meaning. The poet openly espoused a system he called iunctura acris, ‘the harsh collocation’ or ‘the surprising or illogical collocation’, by which he referred to a certain harsh, even violent, yoking together of ideas or images or words. The recent and most useful commentary by R. A. Harvey consistently interprets phrases by identifying them directly as iunctura acris, and a count of the occasions this definition is utilised (or resorted to) would be instructive. Persius' iunctura acris is evidently based on Horace's well-known callida iunctura, ‘the clever collocation’ (AP 47f.); but the changes wrought by Persius on this ‘shared’ phrase unequivocally mark the special characteristics of Persius' poetry, which are a sharp ferocity of expression and a certain aggressively extravagant imagination.

Was Homer sublime? The question is rarely asked today. Sublimity was once a staple of the ancient intellectual traditions, as Homer is perfectly suited to show. The present essay will take up the question of Homeric sublimity by examining four case studies drawn from ancient astronomy to literary criticism to Homer himself, who not only licensed but also inaugurated these later traditions. Longinus will lurk everywhere in the background, but part of the point of this essay is that Longinus, while broadly representative, is in fact a minority voice in the wider landscape of ancient thought, as is the purely literary critical perspective that he is usually assumed to represent. Just as sublimity transcends customary frameworks of experience by putting these radically into question, so does it challenge the ways in which we tend to carve up antiquity into domains and disciplines that are artificially removed from one another. Sublimity by its nature crosses over genres and discourses and brings out the underlying patterns of thought that they share. But now to our case studies, which will give us a clear entrée to the problem, and will supply us with criteria of what should or should not count as ‘sublime’, as we follow each case in turn.

Sophocles' Antigone has been a play of wide and enduring popular appeal. Ironically, however, it is also one of the most controversial of ancient Greek tragedies, and its many admirers have seldom reached agreement in their interpretations of the play. Consequently an enormous body of scholarship exists, presenting a bewildering array of opinions on just about every conceivable aspect of the play. And one major area of dispute has been the identification of the central character(s). For many modern readers and viewers, Antigone has emerged as the sentimental favourite because she has been perceived as a champion of human rights which transcend political obligations and as a martyr to individualism and personal integrity, attractive qualities in these days of social regimentation. Her relentless defiance of an authority she believes wrong, her unswerving defence of a tradition she believes right, and her willingness to die for her beliefs have gained her the sympathy of modern audiences. Knox has suggested that Antigone's refusal to compromise is an indication of her ‘heroic temper’, and he, as well as other critics, has argued that she is the ‘hero’ of the play.

There is a general acceptance now that Propertius was able to mingle the humorous with the passionate and almost manic earnestness. Disagreement, of course, still flourishes about whether this or that poem can be said to be in whole or in part humorous, but by and large each of the four books contributes some poems describable under this head. Within each book, moreover — and here we have to take account of the general opinion that Propertius' work is often experimental, patchy, of uneven quality — some of the best poems are serious and some are humorous.

A further aspect of the common view is that as his writing progresses, Propertius turns more and more to humour, inventing the comic lover as L. P. Wilkinson claims, until by a steady progress he comes to the great humorous poems of Book Four. Again, there is no agreement on the humorous quality of some of the poems of this book (e.g. poem 7 and poem 6), though none would now, I think, opt for seriousness of intent in poems 8 and 9.

In the first throes of madness Seneca's Hercules declares, ‘I shall be borne aloft to the world's high spaces’ (in alta mundi spatia sublimis ferar, HF 958). To Amphitryon these are the unspeakable thoughts of a mind that is hardly sane, but nevertheless great (pectoris sani parum, / magni tamen, 974f.). For Gilbert Lawall, writing the first essay in the 1983 collection of Ramus essays on Senecan tragedy, the fundamental question of the play is the moral quality of its hero, who in his madness becomes a ‘caricature of his real self’. John Fitch, writing just a few years later, argued for a continuity of characterization between the hero of the labours and the murderer of his family. My own essay is concerned less with the morality of Hercules’ character and actions than with the poetics of sublime aspiration and the imagery of grand literary endeavour. Seneca's conception of sublime poetry, as embodied in the figure of tragic Hercules, I discuss through his reception of Lucretius, Virgil, and Horace. The ambivalence Fitch and others have observed in this tragedy of Herculean overreaching I interpret first in the light of a plurality of literary models of transgressive poetics. Juno and the chorus both see violence and danger in the figure of Hercules, but yet do not see the same figure. This difference is located to some degree in the different genres and particular texts which define their perspectives. The Hercules who makes war on the heavens and commits the drama's primary action is very much the creation of Juno and the tragic energies of famous programmatic passages of Aeneid 1 and 7. Lyric offers an alternative conception of sky-towering fame. In the latter part of the article I consider the Lucretian paradigm of heroic rebellion against tradition and Hercules’ failure to break the pattern of Junonian madness. Finally I reflect on the tensions of the Georgics—ars and labor holding ingenium and furor in fragile balance—and see them overwhelmed in the civil war which Hercules Furens, a more powerful Orpheus, wages with himself.

The lively debate about the function of the fable of Cupid and Psyche in the Metamorphoses of Apuleius is continually expanding. On the narrative level, they act like pairs of star-crossed lovers in the Greek Romance tradition, but by designating them ‘Love’ and ‘Soul’ Apuleius has invited philosophical, religious and loosely symbolic interpretations of this inset story. The ambiguity surrounding Cupid and Psyche (characters or concepts) is complicated and enriched by the storyline which concerns the falling in love of Love and the falling in love with Love by Soul (the respective states.of the hero and heroine). By making the Love God suffer the passion he inflicts upon other gods and upon mortals, Apuleius fulfils the sometimes heartfelt but more usually tongue-in-cheek desire of the elegiac poets to punish their tormentor. At the same time, Psyche (Soul) becoming besotted with Love has more serious implications in Platonist doctrine and her actions throughout the story and her ultimate fate have been read both positively and negatively by Apuleian scholars.

‘Bad poetry is written daily, and married women seduced; but it is seldom that a seduction becomes as famous as Helen's, or that a poem as bad as Colluthus’ survives for fourteen centuries to be re-edited with all the apparatus of scholarship and equipped with commentary at the rate of a page for every two lines of verse. γᾷ δ' ἐπισκήπτων πιϕαύσκω: Colluthus is one of the very worst ancient poets to have come down to us. His only notion of the art is to arrange in hexameters phrases borrowed from his predecessors, with little sense of their appropriateness or of narrative coherence. It is as if a parrot had learnt to fit his pseudo-speech to the metre of Shakespeare. Colluthus can give delight, but only to a connoisseur of the ludicrous.’ The opening paragraph of Martin West's review of Enrico Livrea's annotated edition of Colluthus may be the most devastating appreciation of The Abduction of Helen ever written. At the other end stands Giuseppe Giangrande's review of the same edition: ‘Colluthus was a poète savant, who delighted in skillfully borrowing, often with felicitous “humour” and “malice”, from his epic models, and who dexterously applied oppositio in imitando within the framework of arte allusiva.’