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 . . .