The word ‘tyrant’ was not originally Greek, but borrowed from some eastern language, perhaps in western Asia Minor. On the other hand, tyranny as it developed in the Greek cities in the archaic age would seem to have been initially an indigenous growth, independent of any intervention by foreign powers. It then became a constantly recurring phenomenon of Greek political and social life, so long as the Greeks enjoyed an independent history.

Hieron of Syracuse was the most powerful Greek of his day. He was also, and the two facts are not unrelated, the most frequent of Pindar's patrons. A singular feature of the four poems for this Sicilian prince is their obsession with sin and punishment: Tantalus in the First Olympian, Typhoeus, Ixion, and Coronis in the first three Pythians – all offend divinity and suffer terribly. But even in this company, where glory comes trailing clouds of pain, the Third Pythian stands out. The other three odes are manifestly epinician and celebrate success, both athletic and military. The Second Pythian, for instance, is a sombre canvas, and a motif of ingratitude dominates the myth. Yet it rings at the outset with praise of Syracuse and of Hieron's victory. The Third Pythian, by comparison, is not obviously a victory ode.

Since the Persian Wars, the Areopagus had allegedly usurped certain ‘additional functions’. By removing them, and assigning them instead to the Council, the assembled People, and the jury-courts, Ephialtes undid the last institutional bastion of aristocratic political authority, and set the copestones on Athens' democratic order.

Philostratos records that the ephebes of Athens wore a black χλαμ⋯ς to commemorate their murder of Kopreus in defence of the Herakleidai. Both the Herakleidai and a herald of Eurystheus appear in Herakleidai of Euripides, but the murder of the herald is not at issue, nor indeed is there any reference to ephebes or ephebic practice. This state of affairs will cause no surprise, for tragedy regularly selects its story-line from the wider range of the myth, and later uses to which that myth may be put have no necessary bearing on the play. It is however the contention of this article that the religious and social context of Herakleidai has been neglected, and that careful reconstruction of that context from later sources, restoring to us the associations that Euripides could assume in his own day, is an essential prerequisite to any aesthetic or dramatic interpretation of the play.

The first choral ode of Euripides' Supplices, or the Parodos if that term can be used for an ode which is not an ‘entry’, ends with two stanzas of lyric-iambic threnody, following four stanzas of supplication in ionic metre (42–70)

As Collard comments, this structure is broadly similar to, and very possibly modelled upon, A. Pers. 65–114, 115–39. But there is an important difference here: prima facie, the ‘further∕different concerted lament’ in 71ff. is sung and performed by the πρ⋯сπολοι mentioned in 72, ‘taking over’ in a kind of antiphon to the Seven Mothers'lamenting ἱκεс⋯α

Thucydides the Historian identifies himself as the son of a certain Oloros (4.104.4) and, since Thucydides was by birth an Athenian (1.1.1), and Oloros is a Thracian name, the question arises how he acquired this Thracian patronymic. According to the view which has gained almost general acceptance, Thucydides of the deme Halimous in Attica owed his Thracian patronymic to a connexion by marriage. The hypothetical reconstruction of the family tree is that Thucydides' Athenian grandfather had married a daughter of Miltiades the Athenian and Hegesipyle, daughter of the Thracian ruler Oloros, and a son of this marriage was called Oloros after his maternal great-grandfather. This Athenian Oloros became, as shown in Figure, the father of Thucydides the historian – an Athenian with a Thracian patronymic.

When Athens settled the Messenians at Naupactus, the Athenians (so Thucydides is said to tell us) had only just captured the city from the Locrians, who had been in possession of it. This, in fact, is all that Thucydides tells us of these important events, and it has (inter alia) caused grave difficulties for those who believe that Thucydides tells all the events he records in strict chronological order. The interpretation of this passage is taken for granted and has not (to my knowledge) been discussed. Crawley, Smith (Loeb edition), Romilly (Budé), Landsmann (Artemis) will suffice to represent translation into various Western languages. It also seems to be accepted by all historians, certainly as far back as Grote (iv. 420), where their language is sufficiently specific to enable us to judge how they understand the passage.

One of the most ingenious arguments in all of Attic oratory is to be found in the speech Lysias wrote for Euphiletus to deliver at his trial for the murder of Eratosthenes (Lys. 1.30–5). In his speech Euphiletus first describes to the court how his wife was seduced by Eratosthenes, then recounts how he discovered the affair, caught the adulterer in the act, and, despite an offer to pay compensation, slew him. Euphiletus defends his action by citing the law of the Areopagus that whoever kills an adulterer caught in flagranti with his wife cannot be convicted of murder. Euphiletus further points out that the same exemption applies to the man who catches someone seducing his pallakē. If the lawgiver regarded the seduction of a pallakē as so serious that it merited the death penalty, Euphiletus argues, he must have regarded the seduction of a wife as even more reprehensible, deserving a penalty worse than death.

The Euthydemus presents a brilliantly comic contrast between Socratic and sophistic argument. Socrates' encounter with the sophistic brothers Euthydemus and Dionysodorus exposes the hollowness of their claim to teach virtue, unmasking it as a predilection for verbal pugilism and the peddling of paradox. The dialogue's humour is pointed, for the brothers' fallacies are often reminiscent of substantial dilemmas explored seriously elsewhere in Plato, and the farce of their manipulation is in sharp contrast to the sobriety with which Socrates pursues his own protreptic questioning. But the strategies of this text are complex: the Euthydemus may be a playful satire of the desire to confound, yet beneath its knockabout humour a serious purpose is also visible.

There are two basic objections to Plato's account of love in the Phaedrus, both raised by Gregory Vlastos, both metaphysically important in their own right, and both still unanswered. The first is that the Phaedrus sees men as mere images of another world, making it folly or even idolatry to treat them as worthy of love for their own sakes. The other is that it considers the love that we bear for our fellow men to be the result of human, temporal deficiency. If only we could be free of this deficiency, the objection runs, we would have no reason to love anything or anyone except the Forms: seen face to face, these by themselves would absorb all our love.

It is well known that Athenian orators, when they made reference to the historical past, usually eschewed prolonged narrative in favour of brief allusions to familiar episodes from Athenian history. Perhaps the most striking exception to this custom is the long and detailed account of fifth-century Plataean history in the pseudo-Demosthenic speech Against Neaera (Dem. 59.94–103). The main interest of this passage, however, lies not in its divergence from contemporary rhetorical practice, but in its clear reliance on Thucydides for its account of the siege of Plataea during the Peloponnesian War. Indeed, it is unique in Attic oratory in the extent of its reliance on an identifiable historical work. Yet, considering its significance, this passage has received very little scholarly attention, and merits a closer reexamination.

In I 7 Aristotle lays down criteria for what is to count as human happiness. Happiness for man is self-sufficient (autarkes), complete without qualification (teleion haplos), peculiar to humans (idion), excellent (kat' aretēn), and best and most complete (aristēn kai teleiotatēn). Many interpreters agree that in X 6–8 Aristotle uses these along with other criteria to disqualify the life of amusement and rank one happy life above another.

The Stoic theory of knowledge was founded by Zeno on a perceptual and crudely materialistic base, but subsequently developed into an elaborate theory involving λεκτ⋯ which has proved difficult to reconstruct. The evolution of the school, influenced not only by internal differences but also by interaction with the Platonic Academy, certainly contributed to this development. Hence any adequate reconstruction of the Stoic theory of knowledge must take account of the differences among the positions of the different representatives of the school with respect to the criticism put foward by the Academics. I propose here to clarify Zeno's position, showing how Arcesilaus' criticism helped to expose certain lacunae and thus to bring about changes in doctrine on the part both of Zeno himself and of his immediate successors.

Plutarch, at De Stoicorum repugnantiis 1038e–1039a (= SVF iii. 211), quotes and briefly discusses a fragment from Chrysippus' On Zeus (Περ⋯ το⋯ Δι⋯ς). This quotation is to some extent paralleled by the scrap, taken from Chrysippus' On the Gods (Περ⋯ Θε⋯ν), which immediately follows at SR 1039a (= SVF Hi. 212). Both quotations are again referred to by Plutarch at De communibus notitiis 1061a (a testimony also included in SVF iii. 212). Although the correct constitution of the text is controversial, it is at least clear that the fragment from the On Zeus deals with the fact that not all virtuous acts are ipso facto also praiseworthy. Plutarch characteristically creates a first and more general contradiction between the On Zeus text and other passages in which Chrysippus argued that virtue and vice do not admit of gradations. In addition, he creates a specific contradiction between it and another quotation, this time from the On the Honourable (Περ⋯ καλο⋯), in which Chrysippus seems to draw the conclusion that the good is praiseworthy.

The phrase ire ad scopulum has long been the victim of a conspiracy of silence. The caput coniurationis, one might say, is an editorial prejudice against the transmitted text born of a rather misguided enthusiasm for Vossius' conjecture capulum. That conjecture has been a reliable fixture in the modern Lucretian vulgate since Havercamp first printed it in his text of the de rerum natura (Leiden, 1725). Before the publication of Havercamp's edition, however, scholars had not baulked at the transmitted text, rightly glossing it as a nautical metaphor for ‘ruin, destruction’: in the words of Lambinus (Paris, 1565), ‘ad interitum: translatum a navi, quae infligitur scopulo’. But after the appearance of Havercamp's edition editors and commentators strangely refused to give due consideration to the reading of the manuscripts, ignoring it for no better reason than a presumption of error. I propose, therefore, in the following discussion to expose the fallacious reasoning that undergirds such a presumption and to vindicate ire ad scopulum.

As befits the proem to so original and immense an undertaking, this passage echoes, in order to retort them upon their inventors, the mythopoeic commonplaces of other ancient schools. One such commonplace was the assertion that some man was the first to effect a revolution in life or thought: those who held with Empedocles that Pythagoras was the first to see beyond his generation, or with Aristotle that Thales was the earliest cosmogonist and Plato the first discoverer of happiness, must learn that neither scientific truth nor human felicity was known before Epicurus. A figure dear to Plato and his admirers was that of the Gigantomachy: if he himself professed to fear that contemporary atomists would drag the heavens to earth, and Aristotle showed similar apprehensions with regard to some of Plato's own interpreters, they were right to foresee the destruction of their own systems, wrong to suppose that this portended anything but deliverance to mankind.

The true relation between these scenes and historic fact is more mysterious and less simple. The metamorphosis takes place on a higher plane. Historic events and the poet's inner experience are stripped of everything accidental and actual. They are removed from time and transported into the large and distant land of Myth. There, on a higher plane of life, they are developed in symbolic and poetic shapes having a right to an existence of their own. The fact, therefore, that the subjection of the storm is described in a simile for a moment highlighting a very important sphere of the poem (namely that of the historical world) is more decisive than a possible allusion to the younger Cato.

The utterances of Claudius were celebrated, or rather notorious. Suetonius, like Tacitus himself, points out that he could be eloquent but that, especially when he spoke impromptu or added unrehearsed remarks to a prepared speech, he revealed that he had no sense of what was appropriate to his dignity as Princeps, or to the time, place and audience. The biographer cruelly collected various examples of his subject's verbal ineptitude.

In Satire 3, Umbricius states his intention to leave Rome and delivers a long explanation of his decision, an explanation which develops into an invective against life in Rome. In the lines quoted above, Umbricius lists the ‘skills’ which (he implies) are essential for success at Rome, ‘skills’ which he does not possess. The list comprises various mendacious, nefarious and criminal activities; Umbricius' stated inability to undertake such activities reinforces his claim to be a simple, honourable man (e.g. lines 21–2). In this list is his claim ‘I have never examined frogs’ entrails'. TLL glosses this passage ‘(sc. ueneni indagandi gratia)’ (TLL inspicio 1951.70), the view taken by Friedländer too (‘zur Bereitung von Gift’). Courtney takes a different view: ‘Presumably not for poisoning, which inspicere would hardly suit, but of divination … of an oriental type.’

at ego tibi sermone isto Milesio varias fabulas conseram auresque tuas benivolas lepido susurro permulceam, modo si papyrum Aegyptiam argutia Nilotici calami inscriptam non spreveris inspicere. figuras fortunasque hominum in alias imagines conversas et in se rursum mutuo nexu refectas, ut mireris, exordior. ‘quis ille?’ paucis accipe. Hymettos Attica et Isthmos Ephyrea et Taenaros Spartiatica, glebae felices aeternum libris felicioribus conditae, mea vetus prosapia est; ibi linguam Atthidem primis pueritiae stipendiis merui, mox in urbe Latia advena studiorum Quiritium indigenam sermonem aerumnabili labore nullo magistro praeeunte aggressus excolui. en ecce praefamur veniam, si quid exotici ac forensis sermonis rudis locutor offendero. iam haec equidem ipsa vocis immutatio desultoriae scientiae stilo quern accessimus respondet. fabulam Graecanicam incipimus. lector intende: laetaberis.