Delia, the name given to Tibullus’ mistress in five of the poems in the first book of his elegies (1.1, 1.2, 1.3, 1.5, 1.6), has long inspired curiosity. Two approaches have dominated discussion.Footnote ¹ The biographical approach takes its cue from the Apology of Apuleius (10), which regards Delia as a pseudonym:

The identification of Delia with Plania is assumed to rest upon the association of Delia with the Greek adjective δῆλος, one Latin equivalent of which would be planus. The second approach associates her name with the island of Delos, the birthplace of the god of poetry, Apollo, and so evokes poetic inspiration; the names of Gallus’ Lycoris and Propertius’ Cynthia similarly evoke geographical features associated with cult names connected with Apollo.Footnote ² Delos was also the birthplace of Apollo's sister Diana, goddess of the countryside, which the Tibullan lover wishfully imagines as the location of his idealized affair.Footnote ³ It is not the purpose of this brief article to reopen or review these discussions, rather to add a third approach that seems hitherto to have escaped attention, and is based upon Delia's introduction in the opening poem of the collection.

Delia is not named in Tibullus 1.1 until line 57, though she is then apostrophized again in lines 61 and 68. The poem's speaker contrasts military life in pursuit of wealth with the idealized bliss of the life of the humble rusticus he dreams of being. It seems he now even regrets having joined a campaign himself in search of riches (iam modo, iam possim contentus uiuere paruo | nec semper longae deditus esse uiae, 1.25-6; cf. diuitias alius fuluo sibi congerat auro, 1.1), a pursuit he is prepared to leave to those prepared to brave the hardships involved (sit diues iure furorem | qui maris et tristes ferre potest pluuias, 1.49-50). He does not reveal any erotic preoccupations until 1.45-6, when he fantasizes about lying in bed listening to the winds outside while holding a mistress, not named, in a tender embrace: quam iuuat immites uentos audire cubantem | et dominam tenero continuisse sinu! As Guy Lee has noted,Footnote ⁴ continuisse is a technical military term for hemming in the enemy, and is part of a complex series of plays on military terminology that runs throughout the poem, and eventually grows to contrast the life of the impoverished lover and that of the potentially wealthy soldier, the familiar theme of militia amoris, in 1.73-8:

The consequences for his reputation have been willingly embraced as early as line 5, which Lee renders ‘let my general poverty transfer me to inaction’ (reading me mea paupertas uitae traducat inerti).Footnote ⁵ Lee sees in traducere a military term of transferring a soldier from one company to another. Maltby (ad loc.) objects that ‘the normal construction in such contexts is with ad or in with the accusative rather than the dative’, and against the main manuscript tradition reads the ablative uita … inerti with traducere in ‘its more literal sense of “lead through”, perhaps with the suggestion of being paraded in a procession or exposed to disgrace’. For present purposes, the exact reading and the precise interpretation of traducere we may leave to one side. The adjective iners that the speaker uses here to characterize his preferred lifestyle is one with strong connotations of cowardice in the face of the enemy, which are explicitly called to mind in the previous couplet describing the hardships facing one who would go to war in pursuit of wealth: quem labor adsiduus uicino terreat hoste | Martia cui somnos classica pulsa fugent (1.3-4). A few examples will suffice to indicate the stark contrast with the courage expected of a soldier.Footnote ⁶ Cicero contrasts the followers of Catiline with the Roman citizens they would plot against (Cat. 2.10): hoc uero quis ferre possit, inertes homines fortissimis uiris insidiari, stultissimos prudentissimis, ebriosos sobriis, dormientes uigilantibus? When Turnus attacks the Trojans, his companions Teucrum mirantur inertia corda, | non aequo dare se campo, non obuia ferre arma uiros, sed castra fouere (Verg. Aen. 9.55-7). Horace asks quid non ebrietas dissignat? operta recludit, | spes iubet esse ratas, ad proelia trudit inertem (Epist. 1.5.16-17). Caesar berates his troops for their lack of spirit: tremuit saeua sub uoce minantis | uolgus iners (Luc. B.C. 5.364-5). In Tibullus, the behaviour of Messalla, together with the material rewards and renown that accompany it, is set up as an exemplar of all the speaker's lifestyle is not (1.1.53-4): te bellare decet terra, Messalla, marique | ut domus hostiles praeferat exuuias. In contrast, the speaker, in the guise of the locked-out lover (exclusus amator) characteristic of love elegy, is portrayed as a slave (me retinent uinctum formosae uincla puellae, | et sedeo duras ianitor ante fores, 1.1.55-6), a trophy set at the door of his puella, just as the spoils of the enemy adorn the door of Messalla.

It is only at this point that the elusive puella is named, and the phraseology of the couplet repays close attention (1.1.57-8):

The speaker rejects the fame and reputation (cf. laudari) he has associated with the soldiering of Messalla, gladly preferring, so long as he can be with ‘my’ Delia, to be called segnis inersque.Footnote ⁷ segnis, like iners, is a word that connotes an absence of military spirit; Maltby ([n. 1], ad loc.) cites Livy 29.1.6, segnes atque inutiles milites. Dēlia may well evoke δῆλος or Δῆλος and their various associations, but consider also that in her name can be heard the Greek word for ‘cowardice’, δειλία, of which it is a transliteration. The soldier's life, which he would wish to reject, he has associated with terror in the face of the enemy (quem labor assiduus uicino terreat hoste, 1.1.3). It is only in the context of the militia amoris, breaking down doors and brawling, that he can imagine himself a ‘good soldier’ (hic ego dux milesque bonus, 1.1.75), though the distinctly craven behaviour he displays as a lover in the following poem serves to suggest retrospectively that this is yet more of the wishful thinking that characterizes the speaker.Footnote ⁸ The name of his puella sounds like an ironic reflection of his dealings with the world, whether as soldier or as lover.

The phraseology of quaeso … uocer (58) is also worthy of note. Guy Lee aptly translates ‘they can call me slack and ineffective, if only I'm with you’.Footnote ⁹ The names of poet-lovers and their beloveds are frequently associated when they are referred to in erotic literature. In successive couplets in Propertius 2.34, as the poet seeks to construct a tradition to which his work can be added, Varro's name is juxtaposed with that of Leucadia (Varro Leucadiae maxima flamma suae, 2.34.86), Catullus’ with Lesbia (haec quoque lasciui cantarunt scripta Catulli, | Lesbia quis ipsa notior Helena, 2.34.87-8), Calvus’ is associated with Quintilia (haec etiam docti confessa est pagina Calui, | cum caneret miserae funera Quintiliae, 2.34.89-90) and Gallus’ is set alongside Lycoris (et modo formosa quam multa Lycoride Gallus | mortuus inferna uulnera lauit aqua, 2.34.91-2). In succession to these pairings, Propertius hopes that his name and that of Cynthia will live on (Cynthia quin uiuet uersu laudata Properti, | hos inter si me ponere Fama uolet, 2.34.93-4). As laudata and Fama in this final couplet suggest (and cf. too notior used of Lesbia in 2.34.88), the issue of fame and reputation is central to the association of names. The topos may go back to Gallus. In Am. 1.15, like Propertius 2.34 the concluding poem of an elegiac book in which poetic reputation is the point at issue, Ovid remarks (29–30):

The similarity of this couplet to Ars am. 3.537 (Vesper et Eoae nouere Lycorida terrae) makes direct allusion to something Gallus himself wrote about the worldwide fame their linked names would enjoy very likely. The topos of names joined in fame through their love is familiar enough that Ovid can make it the source of humour in Am. 1.3, where it is used in the final couplet as the climax to a series of ploys of seduction, the phraseology perhaps a nod to Gallus (25–6):

The joke is that no named beloved has appeared yet in the collection (Am. 1.3 refers only to quae me nuper praedata puella est, 1). Is Tibullus 1.1.57-8 another humorous debunking of the elegiac theme of iuncta nomina? The phrasing of the couplet emphatically juxtaposes ‘I’ and ‘you’: non ego laudari curo, mea Delia; tecum | dum modo sim, quaeso segnis inersque uocer. His close association with mea Delia, ‘my’ Δειλία,Footnote ¹⁰ is the source of his (lack of) reputation, and runs as far as even the willing suppression of his own name.Footnote ¹¹ Or, perhaps, the oblique suggestion of it?Footnote ¹² Hor. Epist. 1.4 is addressed to an Albius, who since antiquity has been regularly identified with the poet Tibullus. Horace seemingly puns on his name when he addresses him as Albi , nostrorum sermonum candide iudex (1.4.1). candidus is usually a term of approbation, albus not always so. In general, paleness is the colour appropriate to a lover (cf. Ov. Ars am. 1.729, palleat omnis amans: hic est color aptus amanti), in contrast with a sailor, farmer or athlete (cf. Ov. Ars am. 1.723-8), who would be subject to prolonged periods in direct sunlight,—or a soldier, as Tib. 1.1.25-8 implies: iam modo, iam possim contentus uiuere paruo | nec semper longae deditus esse uiae, | sed Canis aestiuos ortus uitare sub umbra | arboris ad riuos praetereuntis aquae. In particular, albus is used of the paleness caused by blood draining from the skin—the complexion associated with overpowering emotional responses, whether of guilt (cf. Hor. Epod. 7.15, tacent et albus ora pallor inficit)Footnote ¹³ or of fear (cf. Pers. 3.115, alges, cum excussit membris timor albus aristas).

One further consideration. Tibullus’ predilection for etymological wordplay has been the focus of intensive scholarly study for a generation now.Footnote ¹⁴ Thus in Tib. 2.3.3-4, seruitium sed triste datur, teneorque catenis, | et numquam misero uincla remittit Amor, Francis Cairns has suggested an etymological play on catenae and teneo, citing Isid. Etym. 5.27.9, catenae … quod capiendo contineant. Αlso, in that Amor suggests Venus, he detects an etymological connection between Venus and vincire, citing Varro, Ling. 5.61-2, … et horum uinctionis uis Venus. hinc comicus: ‘huic uictrix Venus, uidesne haec?’ non quia uincere uelit Venus, sed uincire … . Footnote ¹⁵ Many ancient etymologies sound eccentric to the modern philologist's ear, but often have a rationale in their particular contexts. Indeed, David Sedley has written of the remarkable catalogue of etymological analyses in Plato's Cratylus that ‘considerations of philosophical profundity and complexity are assumed to outweigh those of philological obviousness’, and ‘[etymology] can … offer us a whole range of decodings which any Platonically attuned reader will recognize as philosophically correct’.Footnote ¹⁶ And it is to the Cratylus that we can look for an etymology that, mutatis mutandis, any attuned reader of Tibullus will see as psychologically correct and thoroughly in harmony with what we have just seen of his practice. Among the terms for virtues and vices that Socrates analyses is δειλία, which he explains as ‘the violent tying down of the soul’: ἡ δειλία τῆς ψυχῆς σημαίνει δεσμὸν ἰσχυρόν (415c). Socrates sees the word as a combination of the verb ‘to bind’ (δεῖν) and the adverb ‘excessively’ (λίαν) in the explanation he goes on to give: δεσμὸς οὖν ὁ λίαν καὶ ὁ μέγιστος τῆς ψυχῆς ἡ δειλία ἂν εἴη.Footnote ¹⁷ Look now once more at the couplet that immediately precedes the one in which the name of Delia is first introduced (Tib. 1.1.55-6):

In addition to the verbal plays on restraint, binding and chains in line 55, a doorkeeper (ianitor, 56) was the most menial of slaves and often depicted as chained to his post.Footnote ¹⁸ The notion that, as in line 46 (dominam tenero continuisse sinu), the lover might be the one who would be doing the restraining seems increasingly in retrospect yet more wishful thinking on his part.Footnote ¹⁹ Delia is named at last in 1.1.57, and her name linked to that of the lover. What's in a name, then? As Plato's Cratylus reminds us, the function of etymology can be to help us assess the ‘correctness’ of names—and to decode the significance that may be locked up within them.