Modern research has done much to elucidate the question what the reforms of Kleisthenes in fact achieved, and the work continues, but that does not settle the question what he was trying to achieve. Herodotos gives him a political motive in outline, that he brought the people over to his side because he had been defeated in a struggle for power against Isagoras (5.66.2); and in resuming this proposition after a digression he describes the Athenian people as (5.69.2). But he gives us no clear insight into the nature or mechanism of the struggle with Isagoras, and in particular he does not say that the latter's election to the archonship in 508 constituted his victory, though the dating of the reform to the archonship of Isagoras ('A.21.1) makes that highly probable; nor does he explain in what sense or by whom the Athenian people had been ‘previously excluded’.

In the Snell-Maehler edition of Bacchylides there is a very comprehensive bibliography, listing almost 300 items concerned with Bacchylides poems. It is significant that 80 per cent of these were written in the first twenty years following Kenyon's publication of the Bacchylides papyri in 1897. Of the articles which have appeared since the First World War, many are concerned with more recent papyrus discoveries and a few are stylistic discussions. For most of the poems dealt with in the pioneering days of Bacchylidean scholarship certain readings of the text and interpretations of it have become canonical. This article aims to show in just one poem, XVII, a few instances in which the accepted interpretations should be re-examined. In some cases new interpretations are offered, but in others older views have been resurrected and bolstered by further argument.

descent represents a progression in this relationship whereby the Chorus, in finally abandoning their chariot and agreeing to approach Prometheus and listen to him, jeopardize their detachment from him and his fate, offer tentative support, and give him scope to develop his storytelling abilities and apply his persuasive powers. Although this progression does not represent an unequivocal commitment to Prometheus–for the Chorus fluctuate throughout the play between sympathy and reproach for him–it is none the less a crucial step as signalled by the intensity of Prometheus' insistence that they descend and hear his story through to the end.

An ambiguity in this passage apperas to have gone unnoticed. The ambiguity in line 27 ( ═ ‘arms’ or ‘genitals’) is well known; and when Xanthias at once continues ‘But you tell me about yours’, many a listener might well not immediately realize that the noun to be supplied was from 25 rather than from 27, and might therefore momentarily suppose that Xanthias was saying ‘Tell me about your penis’; a supposition that would be temporarily confirmed when Sosias replied ‘It's a big one’. The reaction of such a listener would be the same as that of Kalonike at Lys. 23. She has been told (14) that the women have been summoned to deliberate . Now she asks and on receiving the answer at once jumps to the conclusion that Lysistrata is using in its phallic sense and asks .

The Birds of Aristophanes is unique among his extant plays in that it employs a chorus in which each member has an individual identity, that is, in which each chorus-member represents a different kind of bird. The consequent variety of costume must have been a great visual embellishment to the play, and one is led to wonder how commonly the device employed in Birds featured in Old Comedy in general. Two parallels are frequently cited in the choruses of Eupolis' and Ameipsias' , both of which will be considered below, but, although those plays do indeed provide our best evidence outside Birds, I wish to argue here that we may reasonably suspect that some other old comedies known to us had choruses of the type in question, which I designate ‘individualized’ or ‘multiform’ choruses.

The action of Euripides' Ion takes place in front of the temple of Apollo at Delphi. The chorus, maidservants of Kreusa who have come with her from Athens, enters at 184, admiring the temple and commenting on a series of mythological scenes which they see represented before them: (i) Herakles slaying the Hydra with the help of Iolaos (190–9); (ii) Bellerophon mounted on Pegasos slaying Chimaira (200–4); (iii) a Gigantomachial (205–18) which includes the figures of Athena brandishing her Gorgon shield against Enkelados (209–11), Zeus laying Mimas low with a thunderbolt (212–15), and Bakchos slaying another Giant with his thyrsos (216–18). The chorus's description recalls the temple of Apollo which stood in Delphi in Euripides' day.

The Messenger is relating how Menelaus and Helen escape from Egypt in a royal Egyptian ship, under pretext that they are going to carry out a ritual ‘sea burial’ of the supposedly drowned Menelaus. Helen's husband, whose identity was as yet unknown to the Egyptian crew, induced them to let his own shipwrecked crew (as though Greek strangers wishing to participate in honour to the deceased) come on board, and as the bull intended for sacrifice resisted being embarked he here cries to his men to manhandle it—in fact to carry it—on board.

In an earlier article I sought to analyse the metaphor of withdrawal in the last argument of Plato's Phaedo for the immortality of the soul.1 The key to the metaphor lies, I believe, in recognizing the paradox that in terms of Plato's metaphor something stays as it is, for example continues to be fire and to be hot, or to be cold and to be snow, by running away. Plato's argument is that fire will either ‘run away’, i.e. it will escape the onslaught of cold, and so continue to be fire, or else it will perish. For in terms of Plato's metaphor if something which is characterized essentially by one of a pair of opposites, in the way that soul is, were to ‘stay behind’ then it would have to ‘accept’ the opposite of the form by which it is characterized, and that it cannot do. Fire cannot be cold. Snow cannot be hot. The soul cannot be dead.

None or at most one of the emendations here proposed has any philosophical significance. They are niggling corrections that spring merely froman impertinent curiosity about what Plato actually wrote.

In Cornford's opinion, the theory of Forms as put forward in theParmenides is identical with the theory as stated in the Pbaedo—both of them expressing thethat concrete things are the bearers, simultaneously, of contrary characters. Christopher Kirwan has recently denied this identity, in a paper which, if hisis accepted, will upset many traditions and greatly alter our understandingLthe middle dialogues.

This is the latter part of the Spartan Agiad king-list as given by the late Latinsource nicknamed ‘Barbaras‘ by J. J. Scaliger who detected under the seventhname in our list, Cemenelaus, the Greek which appeared to oprovide a well-known name in place of something obscure or very corrupt.

In the much discussed list of thalassocrats excerpted by Eusebios from Diodorosthe tenth entry remains the most puzzling.2 Although the name is missing inEusebios' Chronographia (and in the derivative Synkellos), both the Armenianversion of the Canons and Jerome's Latin Canons give this place to the Karians, and the Armenian Canons are generally followed for the period of rule of sixtyoneyears:3 ‘Zehntens führten die Seeherrschaft die Karier, 61 Jahre.’ The years apparently covered by this Karian thalassocracy are c. 735–674 B.C.4.

‘And if I must make some mention of the virtue of those wives who will now bein widowhood, I will indicate all with a brief word of advice. To be no worse thanyour proper nature, is a great honour for you; andgreat honour is hers, whose reputation among males is least, whether for praise or for blame.’

Athenaeus preserves an intriguing description by the otherwise unknown writerMoschion of a giant grain-ship, the Syracusia, built by Hiero II of Syracuse in thelater third century B.C.1 The account is extremely circumstantial. Besides a fulldescription of the ship's layout, Moschion gives such details as the name of thearchitect (Archias of Corinth), the size of the construction-force (well over 300), the construction time (a year), details of the launching arrangements devised byArchimedes, and even the procedure for judging crimes committed on board.

This incident has never found its place either in the history of the Theban hegemony or in the life of Epameinondas, and even Jacoby's commentary on the the fragment sheds virtually no light on the matter.

The first problem is to determine the location of Sidai, and the only clues tothat are the fact that the pomegranate grew there in abundance and that the place was on the Boiotian-Attic border. Although the early travellers are generally silent on this subject, C. Bursian suggested that Sidai was located in the fertile Skourta plain or else in the Oropia, and in this he was followed by Zwicker in RE.

It is a truism to say that the study of ornithology has made great advances in the last fifty years, and that important problems affecting the classification of certain species and their distribution have been brought much closer to solution. Classical scholars, however, still tend to rely on the identifications of ancient Greek bird-names made by a few standard works such as D'Arcy Thompson's A Glossary of Greek Birds2 (1936) or O. Keller's Die antike Tierwelt (1909), apparently unaware that much of the ornithological information given there is now badly out of date, if not sheerly inaccurate. This brief paper aims protreptically to take four bird-names out of the Peripatetic corpus on natural history: and and to produce more precise identifications in the light of modern ornithological studies.

Catullus 6 is a short poem addressed to a certain Flavius, otherwise unknown. Flavius, so we are told, refuses to say anything about his girlfriend, and the poet can explain this only by assuming that he has taken up with a mistress who is singularly unrefined (lines 1–5). It is certainly clear that Flavius is not spending his nights alone; the state of his bedroom proves that much (lines 6–11). But, says Catullus, there is no reason for Flavius to remain silent, no matter what folly he is engaging in. He should confide in the poet, whose only wish is to praise him and his mistress in witty verse (lines 12—17).

That Catullus’ sixty-fourth poem influenced Virgil's work has long been accepted. We approach a little nearer a resolution of the enigma of the Fourth Eclogue when we recognize epithalamian elements within it that echo not only the song of the Parcae, but also the themes of the Golden Age, of the Voyage of the Argo, and of the relations between gods and men from Catullus’ poem. Similarly, Ariadne's part in the creation of Aeneid 4, both in the ‘marriage’ scene and in Dido's reproaches to Aeneas, has been noted.

It has recently been argued by C. W. MacLeod that Catullus 116 not only has a poetic meaning, but also has a significant position in the Catullan corpus. MacLeod in fact views this poem as a programmatic piece, whose position at the end of the Catullan corpus is purposeful and part of the poet's own design. Since poem 116 has been one of the most neglected of the Catullan epigrams, MacLeod's suggestions are very welcome and serve to reopen the questions surroundingthis poem.

‘The reading of the MSS, and not the Renaissance correction e, is certainly what L. wrote.’ So Kenney in his edition of Lucretius 3.1 I believe that he is right, but that the case for o (apart from manuscript authority) rests on different grounds from those which he adduces.

Kenney quotes D.A. West 's statement that e is ‘not worthy of the precise and vivid imagination of this poet’, and himself finds it anaemic by contrast with the sonorous o.2 These are subjective judgements. One can only reply by expressing disagreement and pointing out that e has seemed unexceptionable to the numerous editors who have printed it and have preferred it to o (which Lachmann thought valde ineptum).