#laughter-loving

Here are quotes from antiquity, from both Greek and Latin sources, that speak to Aphrodite’s, her being the goddess of love, having a nigh-infinite reach, all-encompassing power over man:

Muse, sing to me the deeds of golden Aphrodite of Cyprus, who roused sweet longing in the gods and overwhelmed the tribes of mortal men and the birds of the air and all the beasts, as many as the land nourishes and the sea; for the deeds of fair-wreathed Kytherea are a care to all. But three minds she cannot persuade or deceive: the daughter of aegis-bearing Zeus, grey-eyed Athena... Nor does laughter-loving Aphrodite ever tame in love loud-crying Artemis of the golden bow... Nor do the deeds of Aphrodite bring joy to the reverent maiden, Hestia, whom crafty-minded Kronos begot first... Of these three goddesses she cannot persuade their minds nor deceive them. But for the rest there is no escaping Aphrodite, neither for blessed gods nor mortal men.

(Homeric Hymn 3 to Aphrodite, translated by Professor Susan C. Shelmerdine)

Fearing this disaster, the king of the dark [i.e., Hades] had left his shadowy realm, and, drawn in his chariot by black horses, carefully circled the foundations of the Sicilian land. When he had checked and was satisfied that nothing was collapsing, he relinquished his fears. Then Venus, at Eryx, saw him moving, as she sat on the hillside, and embraced her winged son, Cupid, and said ‘My child, my hands and weapons, my power, seize those arrows, that overcome all, and devise a path for your swift arrows, to the heart of that god to whom the final share of the triple kingdom fell. You conquer the gods and Jupiter himself, the lords of the sea, and their very king, who controls the lords of the sea. Why is Tartarus excepted? Why not extend your mother’s kingdom and your own? We are talking of a third part of the world. And yet, as is evident to me, I am scorned in heaven, and Love’s power diminishes with mine. Don’t you see how Pallas, and the huntress Diana, forsake me? And Ceres’s daughter too, Proserpine, will be a virgin if we allow it, since she hopes to be like them. But you, if you delight in our shared kingdom, can mate the goddess to her uncle.”

(Ovid's Metamorphoses, Book 5, translated by Anthony S. Kline)

This extravagant bestowal of the honours due to heaven on a mere mortal girl roused Venus herself to violent anger. She shook her head impatiently, and uttered these words of indignation to herself with a groan: “Behold me, the primal mother of all that is, the source of the elements, the whole world’s bountiful Venus, driven to divide my imperial honours with a lowly human! Is my name, established in heaven, to be traduced by earthly pollution? Am I to suffer the vagaries of vicarious reverence, a share in the worship of my divinity? Is a girl, destined to die, to tread the earth in my likeness? Was it nothing that Paris, that shepherd, whose just and honest verdict was approved by almighty Jove, preferred me for my matchless beauty to those other two great goddesses? But she’ll reap no joy from usurping my honours, whatever she may be: I’ll soon make her regret that illicit beauty of hers.”

(Lucius Apuleius' Metamorphoses, Book 4; translated by Anthony. S. Kline)

‘Queen of Heaven, whether you are known as bountiful Ceres, the primal harvest mother, who, delighted at finding your daughter Proserpine again, abolished our primitive woodland diet, showed us sweet nourishment, and now dwell at Eleusis; or heavenly Venus, who at the founding of the world joined the sexes by creating Love, propagating the human race in endless generation, and worshipped now in the sea-girt sanctuary of Paphos... ’

(Lucius Apuleius' Metamorphoses, Book 11, translated by Anthony S. Kline)

Heavenly, smiling Aphrodite, praised in many hymns, sea-born revered goddess of generation, you like the night-long revel, you couple lovers at night, O scheming mother of Necessity. Everything comes from you: you have yoked the world, you control all three realms, you give birth to all, to everything in heaven, to everything upon the fruitful earth, to everything in the depths of the sea, O venerable companion of Bacchos. You delight in festivities, O bride-like mother of the Erotes, O Persuasion, whose joy is in the bed of love, secretive giver of grace, visible and invisible, lovely-tressed daughter of a noble father, bridal feast companion of the gods, sceptered, she-wolf, beloved and man-loving, giver of birth and life. Your maddening love-charms yoke mortals, they yoke the many races of beasts to unbridled passion. Come, O goddess born in Kypros: you may be on Olympos, O queen, exulting in the beauty of your face, you may be in Syria, country of fine frankincense, you may be driving your golden chariot in the plain, you may lord it over Egypt’s fertile river bed. Come, whether you ride your swan-drawn chariot over the sea’s billows, joining the creatures of the deep as they dance in circles, or on land in the company of the dark-faced nymphs as light-footed they frisk over the sandy beaches. Come lady, even if you are in Kypros that cherishes you, where fair maidens and chaste brides throughout the year sing of you, O blessed one, as they sing of immortal, pure Adonis. Come, O beautiful, O comely goddess, I summon you with holy words, I summon you with a pious soul.

(Orphic Hymn 55 to Aphrodite, translated by Apostolos N. Athanassakis)

Long had Jove seen this, watching from his lofty seat, and to Venus he thus enfolded the secrets of his heart: "Goddess of Cythera, I will impart to thee my hidden troubles; long ago I decided that fair Proserpine should be given in marriage to the lord of Hell; such is Atropos' bidding, such old Themis' prophecy. Now that her mother has left her is the time for action. Do thou visit the confines of Sicily, and armed with thy wiles, lead Ceres' daughter to sport in the level meads what time to-morrow's light has unfolded the rosy dawn; employ those arts with which thou art wont to inflame all things, often even myself. Why should the nether kingdoms know not love? Let no land be free and no breast even amid the shades unfired by Venus. At last let the gloomy Fury feel the sting of passion and Acheron and the steely heart of stern Dis grow tender with love's arrows."

(Claudius Claudianus' De Raptu Proserpinae, Book 1, translated by Maurice Platnauer)