In his article ‘Did the Athenians Regard Seduction as a Worse Crime than Rape?’, CQ 40 (1990), 370–7, Edward M. Harris rightly casts doubt on the value of Lysias 1.30–5, which has generally been accepted as evidence that the Athenians did indeed regard seduction as the worse of the two crimes. Euphiletos in this speech is defending himself on a charge of murder, and, as Harris says (p. 375), ‘Euphiletus’ presentation of the Athenian statutes regarding rape and seduction is dictated by the rhetorical constraints of his case. It is not a reflection of widely held social attitudes.'

In this article I am making what is, as far as I know, the first systematic analysis of Justin books 7, 8 and 9. The method is that which I employed in analysing the sources of Diodorus 16 in CQ 31 (1937), 79ff. and 32 (1938), 137ff. Previous scholars had looked for similarities between the fragments of ancient historians and details in the text of Diodorus, and they had taken any such similarity as proof of a particular source being followed. They had carried their method to extremes: A. Momigliano, for instance, had concluded that Diodorus changed his source 12 times within 23 chapters, and R. Laqueur 18 times within 4 chapters in book 16. My system was to define separable Groups of narrative on the basis of fullness, accuracy, military and political detail, and attitude to the general theme, and to see how far any one Group could be attributed to an ancient author. I begin, therefore, with separable Groups of narrative.

Vitruvius has something interesting to say at De architectura 2.8.8:

Heinrich Dörrie has demonstrated that the text of two long passages of Ovid's Heroides depends entirely on a single witness, the printed edition of the complete works published at Parma in 1477 by Stephanus Corallus (π). The passages in question are from the letters of Paris (16. 39–144) and Cydippe (21. 145–248). In this paper I limit myself to a single question: whether these verses are by the same hand as the rest of the epistles of Paris and Cydippe. Since, however, I see no reason to doubt that all the double epistles are by Ovid, this means in effect that I shall be asking whether the disputed passages are his.

If we divide up the action of the Odyssey into days,1 we find that we leaveTelemachus with Menelaus in Sparta on Day 6 (4. 624) and only return to him, still in Sparta, during the pre-dawn hours of Day 36 (15. 1), although at 4. 593–9 he told Menelaus he did not want to stay long.

In Physics 2.8 Aristotle argues for his natural teleology by arguing for the goal-directed character of nature (or biology). The argument that he develops with the most care is directed against those natural philosophers, like Empedocles, who maintain that the results of natural processes which benefit organisms, such as teeth, come to be through chance (198b16–199a8). Aristotle counters by arguing that because the beneficial results of natural processes occur regularly, ‘always or for the most part’, they cannot be the outcome of chance, which would yield beneficial results only irregularly. Thus such results must come to be only for the sake of some end. This argument against chance has received the most attention from scholars, but Physics 2.8 contains another argument for the goal-directed character of nature, which has received relatively little attention because it does not seem to offer much argument for natural teleology. The argument depends upon an analogy between action and nature, and it simply maintains that since human action (of which art is an example) and nature are analogous, and since action is goal-directed, so too is nature. The argument is of interest, despite its neglect, because it seems to prove nothing to us and yet Aristotle puts it forward confidently as advancing his view about the goal-directed character of nature. The argument from analogy should claim our attention because it provides important evidence for the basic spring behind Aristotle's natural teleology. The fact that Aristotle takes for granted the strength of the analogy with human action in his argument for the goal-directedness of nature suggests that he holds human-like goal-directedness to be a condition of intelligibility that must be met by any intelligible process of coming to be, whether human or natural.

In an essay entitled ‘Cinna the Poet’ published in 1974, T. P. Wiseman forcefully countered the arguments of Monroe E. Deutsch and others against the identification of the ‘neoteric’ poet Cinna with the tribune Gaius Helvius Cinna, who after Caesar's funeral was torn to pieces by an enraged mob, mistaken by it for the praetor Lucius Cornelius Cinna, who had applauded Caesar's murder. The identification of the poet with the tribune is supported by Plutarch, Brutus 20.4, where the murdered tribune is called a ποιητικ⋯ς ⋯ν⋯ρ. As Wiseman says, ‘there are six other ancient accounts of the murder, drawn from a source or sources unknown; five of them call the victim a tribune of the plebs, and none of them says he was a poet. Impressed by this, many scholars have thought that the victim was not in fact the poet Helvius Cinna, and M. E. Deutsch suggested in 1925 that either (i) the phrase in the Brutus describing him as a poet is a gloss, or (ii) “the tribune also dabbled in verse but was not the famous poet”.’ Wiseman's refutation of the various arguments of Deutsch and his followers against the identity of the poet and the tribune seems to me quite cogent, but the debate shows no sign of having been brought to a close: G. V. Sumner concludes his review of Wiseman's essay with an argument that the tribune was probably somewhat younger than the poet, and the suggestion that the tribune may have been ‘the adoptive, and hence homonymous, son of the poet’.

Madness and emotion could be said to share, to a certain extent, their definition as kinds of human response to influences from their environment. The connection between madness and emotion is stressed in modern psychological observations establishing strong links between the causation of madness and human emotionality. Despite the fact that similar insights were absent from Greek medical theorists, or indeed from other contemporary writers, this would come as no surprise to either Sophokles or Euripides. Both tragedians handled their material in such a way as to demonstrate how the strong pressures of familial or social influences can lead to mental disturbance. While it is most probably Sophokles who, for the first time, turns to the influence of internal forces in the process of madness, the lack of subject matter in his surviving plays allows us little scope for further comparison. On the other hand, Euripides seems to have dedicated more of his portrayals to madness. These portrayals offer an almost unique opportunity to examine the introduction, not only in drama but perhaps in the whole of Greek literature, of the emotions as contributing factors in madness.

The primary aim of this article is to reveal a number of previously unrecorded appearances of classical Latin poetry in the poems of Ausonius, with a brief assessment of their value in understanding his text, and an incorporation of them into the general picture of his acquaintance with his predecessors; a final section will outline some ways in which his adoptions and adaptations are used. Latin poets now fragmented or lost are not included in this study; for the survival of a Lucilius or an Ennius has generally enjoyed more attention and study than the after-life of better-known authors. It is moreover doubtful if such early writers had a context to offer the borrower in Late Antiquity; while poets of the second and third centuries A.D. (often denoted by the vacuous term ‘neoteric’), who did, are poorly known today.

In 179 b.c. the censors M. Aemilius Lepidus and M. Fulvius Nobilior brought about a reform in the voting. The only evidence for this is a single sentence in Livy (40.51.9):

mutarunt suffragia regionatimque generibus hominum causisque et quaestibus tribus discripserunt

The meaning of these words has often been discussed but never in a fully systematic manner. Further, the attempts to discover their meaning have always been made in an effort to throw light upon some other problem. They are thus transported into the historical context in question, such as the vicissitudes of the freedman vote or the reforms of the comitia centuriata. Yet the formulaic nature of the sentence and its virtual independence from its immediate context make it essential to examine it in its own right in order objectively to establish its meaning. Only then should the question of historical context be considered. The purpose here is to provide a systematic analysis of each element in this sentence. If the results of this are accepted it will become apparent that Livy 40.51.9 relates to central questions concerning the census and the centuriate assembly.

As it stands the sentence is entirely divorced from what precedes and follows it, with the exception of the subject, the censors. Not only is there nothing in the surrounding context to explain it; there is nothing remotely comparable anywhere else in Livy. This, together with the precision of the language, the institutional content, and the formal and formulaic sound of the whole, suggests that Livy has either lifted the sentence out of an official document or is using the terminology characteristic of such documents.

Pindar must have narrated the myth of the birth of Apollo in many poems. We know of at least three, perhaps four versions: his only extant account of the birth itself is in Pa. XII; the latter of the two surviving sections of Pa. VIIb describes the flight of Asteria from Zeus, her transformation into an island and (probably) Zeus' desire to have Apollo and Artemis born there; the birth also seems to have been mentioned in the Hymn to Zeus immediately after the address to Delos and the account of Delos being rooted to the sea-bed in fr. 33c–d; finally a source reports that according to Pindar Apollo passed from Delos to Delphi via Tanagra and this would probably have followed an account of the birth, though it could refer to a lost part of Pa. XII or the Hymn to Zeus. These accounts have never been the subject of systematic investigation, which is regrettable, because they make up an important aspect of Pindar's attitude to religion. In this preliminary study I focus on two interrelated aspects: the stance Pindar takes towards the Homeric Hymn to Apollo and the role he attributes to Zeus.

There is a note of uneasiness in many modern appreciations of Sophocles, and particularly of his Electra. A symptom is the familiar apology that, after all, he was the perfect artist. Jebb himself betrays a certain moral discomfort in the midst of his enthusiasm for the brightness of the morning sun that greets the righteous avenger. Professor Murray has the courage to state as a challenge the criticism which less candid writers hint by inuendo. By the very frankness of his indictment he helps us to face, instead of shirking, the issue. Unlike Euripides and Aeschylus, he says, Sophocles takes the story exactly as he finds it:

He knows that those ancient chiefs did not trouble about their consciences: they killed in the fine old ruthless way.

In a well-known quotation from Speusippus in the Theologumena Arithmeticae (82.10 de Falco), said to have been derived from Pythagorean sources, especially Philolaus, occur the following sentences: And again a little later: Similarly Sextus Empiricus (Math. 10. 279–80), drawing evidently on a relatively early Pythagorean source, writes as follows: And Aristotle himself writes of the Pythagoreans (Met. 1036b12): There were, in fact, certain Pythagoreans who equated the number 2 with the line because they regarded the line as ‘length without breadth extended between two points’; and likewise the number 3 was equated with the plane and 4 with the solid.

‘Quid vero fit, quod poeta hanc plantam, tanquam munus locustae inprimis gratum, commemoret, nemo dixit; nee ego dicere possum’—so Jacobs in his note on the seventh line of this epigram (vol. 6, p. 123). Among later commentators, Mackail thinks ‘can hardly mean “leek” here’ and he assumes it to be ‘groundsel’; Dain in the Budé edition is satisfied with the rather prosaic explanation that it is an ‘observation très juste … la cigale ne se nourrit que des sues des plantes’. I hope to show that the diet of leeks and dewdrops from the mouth is promised by the love-sick swain of Meleager's poem for the same specific reason—to refresh the grasshopper's ‘voice’ for a new day's beguilement by song and persuasion to the sleep which will again free him from the cares of love. Although the ancients were aware of the means by which such insects produced their incessant sound, they remained faithful to the poetic tradition, which made them drink dew as a prelude to their singing, first found in Hesiod, Scut. 395, and clearly expressed in a couplet of Antipater of Thessalonica (A.P. 9. 92):

When Festus said to Paul: ‘Much learning doth make thee mad’, Paul's answer was the instinctive defence of a scholar under attack: ‘I am not mad, most noble Festus, but speak forth the words of truth and soberness’. Whether poets were mad or sober has been a question for critics ever since Gorgias pointed out the incompatibility; it is less frequently debated why scholars unlike poets should need to affirm their sobriety. I should like to concentrate on one aspect of ancient criticism, that of problem-solving, in order, as I hope, to put into a different perspective the whole business of what Alexandrians did with texts. Inevitably perhaps it will be argued that I am neglecting the vast philological and lexical labours of the Alexandrians and failing to appreciate their subtlety in textual criticism. I hope that my criticisms will not be construed in this way; yet I believe that the Alexandrians have been idealized and their critical attitudes over-simplified. By taking a problem from antiquity and setting it in its context, I will be trying to give what I consider to be a more correct perspective to the labours of our ancient predecessors.

A states the phenomenon that requires to be explained. B explains it. C justifies B. D is the furthest reach of the argument and explains C. E. begins the way back, stating the consequence of D and therefore balancing C. F is the inference from E and corresponds to B, and G brings us back to A. The logic is closely knit. And it is pointed by repeats and correspondences. In A the fire is liquidus; in E profundant, in F profundunt. In B the clouds must contain permulta seeds of fire; in D they must conceive multa from the light of the sun, and the repeat of necessest, necessust hammers home the argument.

The Octavia is, on the face of it, one of the most bizarre documents which have reached us from antiquity. If the news of its discovery had broken yesterday, there would certainly have been a sensation at the bare idea, whatever the literary merits of the work. A few years ago the publication of a 15-line fragment of a Greek play about Gyges caused discussion enough; but here we have a complete Roman historical play, unlike any other ancient play in structure, featuring Nero, Octavia, Poppaea, Seneca. …