What slender boy, Pyrrha, drowned in liquid perfume, urges you on, there, among showers of roses, deep down in some pleasant cave? For whom did you tie up your hair, with simple elegance? How often he’ll cry at the changes of faith and of gods, ah, he’ll wonder, surprised by roughening . . .
Her Apology
Let me not be such a feverish passion to you, my love, as I seem to have been a few days ago, if I’ve done anything in my foolish youth which I’ve owned to regretting more than leaving you, alone, last night wishing to hide the desire inside me. —Sulpicia Sulpicia 6, translated by A. S. . . .
The Hateful Journey
My hateful birthday’s here, to be spent in sadness, in the wretched country, and without Cerinthus. What’s sweeter than the city? Is a villa fit for a girl or the chilly river that runs through Arretium’s fields? Peace now, Messalla, from over-zealous care of me: journeys, dear relative, aren’t . . .
Treacherous Love
If you were to wound my wretched love, why did you give me your word before the gods, only to break it secretly? Ah sadly, even if perjury is hidden at first, punishment will come later, on silent feet. Spare him, gods: it’s right that beauty should offend your divinity, once, and go . . .
Marathus in love with Pholoe
No one can hide that lover’s nod from me those soft words spoken with a gentle sound. Yet I’ve no lots or entrails that show gods’ will, birdsongs don’t call to me of things to come: Venus herself tied my arms with magic knots and taught it me, and not without many blows. Stop your pretence: . . .
- 1
- 2
- 3
- …
- 5
- Older Posts