There was, simply put, a huge information dump in this first novel for the series. Many, many characters were introduce, their back stories touched upon and, as a result, many tiny mysteries left unsolved, presumably kept in the dark for subsequent novels.https://nesstingzingturnmil.cf/toward-an-integrated-science-of.php
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Unfortunately, because there was so many side stories hinted at, the original story became muddied and, at times, it made the reading of this novel labor intensive. Coupled with this problem was the love story that built between Andrew and Lance. As the story goes on, it is revealed that the shifter race is a matriarchal society—in other words, girls rule! By giving Andrew a gift of his own making, Lance becomes the more dominant one in the relationship, the wife, so to speak.
But he is also wounded beyond belief, having been abused horribly by another man, and unable to barely allow anyone beyond Andrew to even touch him. I was so confused as this point. How could this slip of a man who was haunted by such fears that he regularly had panic attacks that caused him to phase into a catatonic state be the more dominant partner?
Then there was the sex, or lack there of, due to his recurring nightmares abut being forced. All in all, I felt that the author had set up a really good premise for a story but then let her imagination run wild and began stringing along too many plot points in order to set up her upcoming series. This was a good novel made weak by too little restraint. I felt as though the author was on a mission to set up the entire series in her first book, rather than taking her time to reveal bits and pieces over the course of many installments.
On top of that, she need to make this couple a super strong and stable pairing for the series to continue. I will be interested to see what happens in the next book and how much this author is able to reign herself in. I feel Sui Lynn had the makings of a solid novel in The Pauper Prince and if she can find it within herself to edit and maintain focus I think the next novel will have quite a few more stars behind its rating marker. Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.
Email Address. Please comment! We'd love to hear from you. Cancel reply. Site Search. Sort by Relevance Newest first Oldest first. Ashton and Justice. Collecting lovers everywhere was never their inclination: to be chaste was great enough beauty for them. Might I not be afraid now, that I might be worth less than these? If she pleases one man a girl has enough refinement: and Phoebus grants, to you above all, his gifts of song, and Calliope , gladly, her Aonian lyre, and your happy words never lack unique grace, all that Minerva and Venus approve of.
If only those wretched luxuries wearied you, you would always be dearest to my life for these. Now I freed the garlands from my forehead, and set them on your temples: now I delighted in playing with your loose hair, furtively slipping apples into your open hands, bestowing every gift on your ungrateful sleep, repeated gifts breathed from my bowed body.
And whenever you, stirring, gave an infrequent sigh, I was transfixed, believing false omens, some vision bringing you strange fears, or another forced you to be his, against your will. At last the moon, gliding by distant windows, the busy moon with lingering light, opened her closed eyes, with its tender rays.
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Alas for me, where have you spent the long hours of this night, that was mine, you, worn out now, as the stars are put away? O you, cruel to me in my misery, I wish you the same long-drawn out nights as those you endlessly offer to me. That was my last care, amongst my tears. Why do you urge me to alter, and leave my mistress, Bassus , praising so many lovely girls to me? Why not allow me to spend the rest of my life in increasingly familiar slavery? Still less would she be slighted, or thought less, by severe critics, if she were compared with inferior forms.
The more you try to weaken our love, the more both disappoint with acknowledged loyalty. You will not escape with impunity: the furious girl will know of it, and will be an enemy to you with no unquiet voice. Cynthia will no longer look for you after this, nor entrust me to you. She will remember such crimes, and angrily denounce you amongst all the other girls: alas, you will be loved on never a threshold. She will slight no altar of her tears, no stone, wherever it may be, and however sacred. No loss hurts Cynthia so deeply as when the god is absent, love snatched away from her: above all mine.
Let her always be so, I pray, and let me never discover cause in her for lament. Envious man, quiet your irksome cries at last, and let us travel the path we are on, as one! What do you wish for, madman: to feel my passions? Unhappy man, you are hastening to know the deepest hurt, and set your footsteps on hidden fires, and drink all the poisons of Thessaly.
She is not like the fickle girls you collect: she is not used to being angered mildly. Even if, by chance, she does not reject your prayers, how many thousand cares she will bring you! Ah, how often, scorned, you will run to my door, your brave words turning to sobbing, a trembling ague of bitter tears descending, fear tracing its hideous lines on your face, and whatever words you wish to say, lost in your moaning, you, you wretch, no longer able to know who or where you are. Your high birth will do you no good in love. Love does not yield to ancient faces.
But if you show the smallest sign of guilt, how quickly your good name will be hearsay! So stop asking what my Cynthia can do, Gallus , she does not come without punishment to those who ask. All night she goes on about passion, and complains there are no gods, if she is forsaken. Let that Boy never burden you with my labours, and all the marks of my tears! Let me, whom Fate always wished to level, give up this life to utter worthlessness. Many have been lost, willingly, in wearisome love: earth buries me also among that number.
This the way of life I suffer, this is my fame. Let my only praise be that I pleased a learned maid, Ponticus, and often bore with her unjust threats. Let scorned lovers, after me, read my words with care, and benefit from knowing my ills. Love come late will not fill your song. Love that comes late often charges a high rate. Are you mad, then, that my anxiety does not stop you?
Am I less to you than chilly Illyria? Can you hear the roar of the furious seas unmoved, and lie down on hard planks; tread the hoarfrost under your tender feet? Cynthia , can you bear unaccustomed snow? Oh, I wish that the days till the winter solstice were doubled, and the Pleiades delayed, the sailors sitting idle, the ropes be never loosed from the Tyrrhenian shore, and the hostile breezes not blow my prayers away! Yet may I never see such winds drop when your boat puts off, and the waves carry it onwards, leaving me rooted to the desolate strand, repeatedly crying out your cruelty with clenched fist.
She is here! She stays, she promised! Let eager Envy relinquish its illusory joy. My Cynthia has ceased to travel strange roads. I could not dissuade her from it with gold or Indian pearls, but by the service of flattering song. I rely, like this, on the Muses in love, nor is Apollo slow to help lovers. Cynthia, the rare, is mine! No rival steals my certain love from me: this glory will crown my old age. A service of pain and tears has made me an expert: though I wish I could leave it, be called an innocent in love!
Gentle Love seeks sweet songs. I beg you, go, put away those serious books, and sing what every girl wishes to know! Yet you, you madman, look for water mid-river. You are still not pale, even, truly untouched by the fire: this is the first spark of the evil to come. Then you will prefer to go near Armenian tigers, or know the bonds of the infernal wheel, than feel the frequent darts of the Boy in your marrow, and be powerless to deny your angry one a single thing.
Love grants no one an easy passage, without pushing them back with either hand. Whoever you are, run from endless charms! Flint and oak might give in to them, much less you, yourself a frail spirit. So, if there is honour, confess your error as soon as you can. In love it often helps to say who it is you die for. O sweet dream, when I saw your first love: witness, there, to your tears! Though sleep pressed on my weary lids, and the Moon blushed, drawn through mid-heaven, I still could not draw back from your play, there was so much ardour in your exchanges.
But, since you were not afraid to let me, accept your reward for the joy of trust. Is there a place where the least of love remains? Has some unknown rival, with false pretences of passion, drawn Cynthia away from my songs? Away from watching eyes a girl slips into faithlessness, not remembering the gods we share.
Not because your reputation is not well known to me, but that in that place every desire is to be feared. So, forgive me if my writings have brought you annoyance: my fears are to blame. I do not watch over my mother now with greater care, nor without you have I any care for my life. You are my only home, my only parents, Cynthia: you, every moment of my happiness. I pleased once: at that time there was no one to touch us who could compare for loyalty in love.
We were envied. Surely a god overwhelmed me, or some herb picked from Promethean mountains shattered our bond? I am not who I was: distant journeys alter girls. How quickly love flies! Now I am forced to endure long nights alone, for the first time, and be oppressive to myself. Or he who, rejected, can change his desire: there is joy in a new slavery as well. But is it impossible for me ever to love another, or part from her. May no girl ever let you down, Gallus. Even now with your growing reputation for deceiving them, never seeking to linger long in any passion, you begin to pale with desperation in belated love, and fall back, tripped, at the first step.
No wicked rumour, or augury, told me this: I saw it: can you deny me, as a witness, I pray? Desire spurs you on. Since you are sure to die of love once and for all: no other threshold was worthy. May she be kind to you, since new madness strikes, and, whatever you wish for, may she be the one for you. Love is unable to bow down to great wealth. For who can enjoy wealth if Love is against him? No riches for me if Venus is sullen! What comfort is dyed silken fabric? See with what trials Fortune drags me down! Alphesiboea was revenged on her own brothers for her husband Alcmaeon , and passion broke the bonds of loving blood.
Yet none of these alters your existence, that you might also be known in story. Cynthia, stop now revoking your words by lying, and refrain from provoking forgotten gods. And can you raise them to the vast sun, and not tremble, aware of your guilty sins? Who forced your pallor of shifting complexion, and drew tears from unwilling eyes? Nor can I save my lady from infamous nights, honour surrendered in obscene singing. Nor does she repent as yet, to cease her notoriety: stop living more sinfully than this dissolute age. He never allows my columns to rest, renewing his sly insinuating song:.
Why do you never unfasten and admit my desire, unable to feel or tell her my secret prayers? Will there be no end assigned to my sadness, and sleep lie, unsightly, on your cool threshold? Midnight , the stars sinking to rest, and the icy winds of chill dawn , grieve for me. Then she would never be able to check herself, and a sigh would surface amongst reluctant tears, though she were more unyielding than flint or Sicilian stones, harder than iron or steel. But to me, threshold, you are the one, great cause of my grief, never conquered by gifts.
No petulant tongue of mine has ever offended you, used to calling out angry drunken jests, that you should make me hoarse with endless complaining, guarding the crossroads in anxious waiting. Yet I have often elicited new lines of verse for you, and printed deep kisses on your steps. How often before now have I turned from your columns, treacherous one, and with hidden hands produced the required offering. So with this and whatever you helpless lovers invent, he drowns out the dawn chorus. Yes, even in your absence, Cynthia , the winds promote your cause: hear what savage threats the sky sounds.
Will good fortune ever come to calm the storms?
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Will that little beach hold my ashes? Change your fierce complaints to something kinder, and let night and the hostile shoals be my punishment. Would you, dry-eyed, require my death, and never clasp my bones to your breast? O, perish the man, who-ever he was, who first made ships and rigging and journeyed over the reluctant deep! If the Fates had buried my grief at home, and an upright stone stood there to my last love, she would have given dear strands of hair to the fire, and laid my bones gently on soft rose-petals: she would have cried out my name over the final embers, and asked for earth to lie lightly on me.
But you, the sea-born daughters of lovely Doris , happy choir, loosen our white sails: if ever love glided down and touched your waves, spare a friend, for gentler shores. Truly this is a silent, lonely place for grieving, and the breath of the West Wind owns the empty wood. Here I can speak my secret sorrows freely, if only these solitary cliffs could be trusted. What cause shall I attribute your disdain to, my Cynthia?
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Cynthia, what reason for my grief did you give me? I who but now was numbered among the joyous lovers, now am forced to look for signs of your love. Why do I merit all this? What spell turns you away from me? Is some new girl the root of your anger? You can give yourself to me again, fickle girl, since no other has ever set lovely foot on my threshold. Is it because I show few signs of altered complexion, and my faith does not shout aloud in my face? Beech-tree and pine, beloved of the Arcadian god , you will be witnesses, if trees know these passions.
Oh, how often my words echo under gentle shadows, and Cynthia is carved in your bark! How often has your injustice caused me pains that only your silent threshold knows? I am used to suffering your tyrannous orders with diffidence, without moaning about it in noisy complaints. For this I receive sacred springs, cold rocks, and rough sleep by a wilderness track: and whatever my complaining can tell of, must be uttered alone to melodious birds. I do not fear the sad shadows, now, my Cynthia , or care about death, destined for the final fires: but this fear is harder to bear than my funeral procession, that perhaps my corpse would lack your love.
Cupid has not so lightly clung to my eyelids, that my dust can be void, love forgotten. The hero, Protesilaus , could not forget his sweet wife even in the dark region: the Thessalian came as a shade to his former home, longing with ghostly hands to touch his delight. Whatever I am there, I will always be known as your shadow: a great love crosses the shore of death. Let the choir of lovely women of old, come to greet me there, those whom the spoils of Troy yielded to Argive men, none of whose beauty shall mean more to me than yours, Cynthia, and O allow this, Earth, and be just though a destined old age keeps you back, your bones will still be dear to my sad eyes.
May you, living, feel this when I am dust: then no place of death will be bitter to me. How I fear lest you ignore my tomb, Cynthia, and some inimical passion draws you away from my ashes, and forces you, unwillingly, to dry the tears that fall! Constant threats will persuade a loyal girl.
The wretched wanderer Hercules suffered this misery, and wept by the wild River Ascanius, on an unknown shore. Here the band of heroes landed on the quiet shore, and covered the ground with a soft layer of leaves. The two brothers, Zetes and Calais , the sons of the North Wind , chased him, pursued him, both above, with hovering grasp, to snatch kisses, and alternately fleeing with a kiss from his upturned face.
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But he hangs concealed beneath the edge of a wing, and wards of their tricks in flight, with a branch. Sadly, off goes Hylas, going to the Hamadryads. At last with outstretched palms he prepared to drink from the spring, propped on his right shoulder, lifting full hands. Inflamed by his whiteness, the Dryad girls left their usual throng to marvel, easily pulling him headlong into the yielding waters. Then, as they seized his body, Hylas cried out: to that Hercules replied, again and again, from the distance, but the wind blew the name back, from the far waters.
O Gallus, warned by this, guard your affairs, in entrusting handsome Hylas to Nymphs. You ask, always in friendship, Tullus , what are my household gods, and of what people am I. Book II. You ask where the passions come from I write so much about, and this book, gentle on the tongue. Neither Apollo nor Calliope sang them to me. The girl herself creates my genius. I would remember the wars of your Caesar , his doings, and you, under mighty Caesar, would be my next concern.
The sailor talks of breezes: the ploughman, of oxen: the soldier counts wounds, the shepherd counts sheep: I in my turn count sinuous flailings in narrowest beds: let every man spend the day where he can, in his art. If I am right, she finds fault with dubious women, and disapproves the whole Iliad because of Helen. Medicine cures all human sorrows: only love loves no doctor for its disease. I was free, and thought to enjoy an empty bed: but though I arranged my peace, Amor betrayed me.
Why does such human beauty linger on Earth? Jupiter I forgive you your rapes of old. I wish that the years might never touch that beauty, yet that she might live the ages of the Sibyl of Cumae. When you were born, mea vita , did Love , dressed in white, not sneeze a clear omen for you, in your first hours of daylight? The gods granted these heavenly gifts to you: in case you think your mother gave them to you: such gifts beyond the human are not inborn: these graces were not a nine-month creation. You are born to be the unique glory among Roman girls: you will be the first Roman girl to sleep with Jove , and never visit mortal beds amongst us.
The beauty of Helen returns, to Earth, a second time. Why should I marvel now that our youths are on fire because of this? It would have been more glorious for you, Troy , to have perished because of this. I used to wonder that a girl could have caused so mighty a war, Asia versus Europe at Pergama. But Paris , and Menelaus , you were both wise, Menelaus demanding her return, Paris slow to reply. That face was something: that even Achilles died for: even to Priam it was a proven cause for war.
If any man wants to outdo the fame of ancient paintings, let him take my lady as the model for his art: If he shows her to the East , if he shows her to the West , he will inflame the West, he will inflame the East. At least let me keep within her bounds! Or if it should be that another love comes to me, let it be fiercer and let me die. Just as the ox at first rejects the plough, but later accepts the yoke and goes quietly to the fields, so spirited youth frets at first, in love, but takes the rough with the smooth, later, when tamed.
And often chew your innocent fingernails in your teeth, and tap the ground nervously with your foot, in anger! My hair was drenched with scent: no use: nor my departing feet, delaying, with measured step. He walks about — and suddenly his funeral startles his friends. What deceitful fortune-teller have I not been victim of, what old woman has not pondered my dreams ten times?
If anyone wants to be my enemy, let him desire girls: and delight in boys if he wants to be my friend. You go down the tranquil stream in a boat in safety: how can such tiny waves from the bank hurt you? Often his mood alters with a single word: she will scarcely be satisfied with your blood.
Is it true all Rome talks about you, Cynthia , and you live in unveiled wantonness? Did I expect to deserve this? While you can take your neck from the unjust yoke. But, by the gentle laws of our lady Juno , mea vita , stop hurting yourself on purpose. Let some ignoramus look for quarrels as shabby as these, a man whose head no ivy ever encircled. Nor for Phryne , rich from so many lovers, she might have rebuilt the ruined walls of Thebes.
The faces of young men in your paintings, and their names, annoy me, even the tender voiceless boy in the cradle. The same craziness made the Centaurs smash cups violently fighting Pirithous. Why seek Greek examples? The hand that first painted obscene pictures, and set up disgraceful things to view in innocent homes, corrupted the unknowing eyes of young girls, and denied them ignorance of sin itself. Oh, let him groan who sent abroad, through art, the trouble latent in silent pleasures! Not without cause cobwebs wreathe the shrines, and rank weeds clothe neglected gods.
What guards shall I set for you, then, what lintel that no hostile foot shall ever cross?
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For a sad imprisonment will achieve nothing against your will. No wife or mistress will ever seduce me: you will always be my mistress, and my wife. Cynthia was delighted, of course, when that law was repealed: we wept for ages in case it might divide us. Ah, what sleep my flute would sing you to then, a flute sadder than a funeral trumpet! It was in fact through this that my glory gained such a name, glorious as far as the wintry Dneiper. Often, great leaders, great tyrants have fallen: and Thebes stood once, and there was noble Troy.
So, cruel girl, through all of the years now, have I, who supported you and your household, have I ever seemed a free man to you? So, will you die, like this, Propertius , you who are still a young man? Then die: let her rejoice at your death! Let her disturb my ghost, and harass my shade, insult my pyre, and trample my bones! But you, also, man, will not escape: you should die with me: both our blood will trickle from this same blade. However much my coming death is shameful to me, shameful though it be indeed, you will still die it. The Theban princes fell in no less dire a struggle for a kingdom, their mother torn between them, than if we fought, with my girl between us, I, not fleeing my own death if I could achieve yours.
Even Achilles , left abandoned, his mistress snatched away, allowed his arms to lie there in his tent. Grief rages, so deeply, when love is torn away. Then when his captive girl was returned later in retribution, he dragged that same brave Hector behind his Thessalian horses.
No wonder that Amor triumphs over me, since I am so much the lesser by birth or arms. Penelope was able to live un-touched for twenty years, a woman worthy of so many suitors. Briseis , too, clutching dead Achilles , beat at her own bright face with frenzied hands, and, a weeping slave, bathed her bloodstained lord, as he lay by the yellow waters of Simois , and besmirched her hair, and lifted the mighty bones and flesh of great Achilles with her weak hands.
Peleus was not with you Achilles, nor your sea-goddess mother, nor Scyrian Deidamia , bereaved in her bed. So it was that Greece , then, was happy in its true daughters: then honour was respected even among the camps. Why, you both drank from the cup, laughing away: and perhaps there were wicked words about me.
You even chase after him, who left you once before. The gods grant that you may enjoy being slave to that man! Were they for this the vows I undertook for your health, when the waters of Styx had all but gone over your head, and we friends stood, weeping, round your bed? Where was he, by the gods, faithless girl, what was he then to you?
What if I was a soldier, detained in far-off India , or my ship was stationed on the Ocean? Now, since this wilfulness pleases you, I concede. I beg you, Boys , bring out your sharper arrows, compete at shooting me, and free my life from me! My blood will be a great honour to you. Now, I want to set off with a more serious aspect: now my Muse teaches me, on a different lute. Surge, mind: vigour now, away from these low songs, Muses : now this work will be large-voiced, so:. Let other men write about you, or yourself be all unknown. Let the man who sows his seed in barren soil praise you.
He was the first to see that lovers live without sense, and that great good is lost in trivial cares. What joy is it for you, Amor, to inhabit my thirsting heart? If you know shame, transfer your war elsewhere: better to try those innocent of your poison. If you destroy me, who will there be to sing like this?
This slender Muse of mine, is your great glory. Who will sing the face, the hands, or the dark eyes of my girl, or how sweetly her footsteps are accustomed to fall. Erythra is not armed with as many Persian shafts, as the arrows Love has fixed in my chest. When I sample that, goodbye to the muddled talk of the people: since I will be secure with my lady as my judge. When death closes my eyes at last, then, listen what will serve as my funeral. No long spread-out procession of images for me, then: no empty trumpeting wailing my end.
Leave out the line of perfumed dishes for me: put in the limited offerings of a plebeian rite. Enough for me, and more than enough: if three little books form my procession that I take as my greatest gift to Persephone. Then when the fire beneath turns me to ashes, let the little jar receive my shade, and over my poor tomb add in a laurel, to cast a shade on the place where my flame went out, and let there be this couplet:. So the fame of my tomb will be no less than that of the grave of blood, of Achilles the hero.
And when you too come near your end, remember: come, grey-haired, this way, to the stones of memory.
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For the rest, beware of being unkind to my tomb: earth is aware and is not wholly ignorant of the truth. How I wish that any one of the Three Sisters had ordered me to give up my breath at the first, in my cradle. Why is the spirit preserved, still, for an unknown hour? Witness the fierce wild boar that once struck down white Adonis , hunting the ridge of Ida ; there in the marsh, they say, his beauty lay, and you, Venus , ran there with out-spread hair.
But you will call back my voiceless shade in vain, Cynthia : what power will my poor bones have to speak? I wish her peace terms had not been made known to me so late! The path was under my feet and I was blind: no one of course can see when crazed with love. This attitude I have found the best: lovers, show disdain! She comes today, who said no, yesterday. Now, mea lux , shall my ship preserved come to your shores, or sink, fully laden, in the shallows?
Because if you change towards me, perhaps through some fault of mine, may I lie down dying at your threshold! O happy me! O night shining for me! And O you bed made blessed by my delights! How many words thrashed out when the lights were near us, what striving together when light was taken away! Now with naked breasts she struggled against me, now, tunic gathered, demanding delay. Our arms were varied in how many changing embraces!
How long my kisses lingered on your lips! No joy in corrupting Venus to a blind motion: know, if you do not, the eyes are the guides of Love. They say, Paris himself was ruined by the Spartan , Helen , as she rose naked from the bed of Menelaus. And Endymion , they say, was naked, when he aroused Diana , and lay with the naked goddess. And I wish you might tie us like this, clinging together, in chains that no day might ever unloose! Let doves, coupled together in love, be your image, male and female wholly joined.
Earth will sooner taunt farmers with false spring; Sol the sun-god drive with black horses; streams start calling waters back to their fountains; the fish be stranded, the deep dry land; sooner than I can transfer my pangs to another: hers am I living, hers will I be in death. But if she will grant me such nights with her as this, one year will be as long as a lifetime. This at least those that come after us can justly praise: our cups of wine offended none of the gods.
Just as the leaves fall from dried garlands: you see them scatter in cups and float there: so we, now, the lovers, who hope for great things: perhaps fate, tomorrow, will end our day. A praetor came just now from the land of Illyria : the greatest prize for you, the greatest worry for me. But you, Venus , O, help me in my pain, let his incessant lusts destroy his member! Can anyone then buy her love with gifts? The shameful girl is undone by money.
And I wish that no one in Rome was wealthy, and our Leader himself would live in a thatched cottage. You would never lie seven nights apart, your gleaming arms around so vile a man, and not because I have sinned you are the witness but because everywhere lightness was always the friend of beauty. A barbarian, excluded by birth, stamps his foot, and now, suddenly blessed, he holds my kingdom! See what bitterness Eriphyla found in gifts, and with what misfortunes Creusa burned as a bride. Is there no insult sufficient to quench my tears?
Surely this grief will never be far behind your sins? So many days have gone by since desire for the theatre or the arena stirred me, and food gives me no joy. I should be ashamed, oh, ashamed! But perhaps as they say sinful love is always deaf. I whom envious admiration once considered happy, I too am hardly allowed in, now, one day out of ten.
Continual complaints cause dislike in many: a woman is often moved by a silent man. Or if anything happens to pain you, deny the pain! She often fondled him, descending into her waters, before she bathed her yoked horses with care. She, when she rested in his arms, by neighbouring India , lamented that day returned too soon.
Her joy was greater that old Tithonus was alive, than her grief was heavy at the loss of Memnon. A girl like that was not ashamed to sleep with an old man, or press so many kisses on his white hair. But you even hate my youth, unfaithful girl, though you yourself will be a bowed old woman on a day not so far away.
Still, I let care fade, since Cupid is often inclined to be harsh on the man, to whom he was once kind. Now do you even imitate the Britons , stained with woad, you crazy girl, and play games, with foreign glitter painting your cheeks? May there be many an evil for that girl, in the underworld, who, false and foolish, dyes her hair!
No games will have the power to corrupt you there, no sanctuary temples giving the most frequent chances for your sins. Why cry more than Briseis when she was led away? Why weep more sadly than Andromache , the anxious prisoner? Why do you weary the gods, crazy girl, with tales of my deceit? Why complain my faithfulness has fallen away?
But if your name or your beauty did not hold me, the gentleness of your demands might hold me. Many men sought to be yours, you have sought me only: can I fail to remember your qualities? As many times as Panthus has written a letter to you,. That handsome lover of yours has a wife!
So many nights wasted? Let me be ruined, if he seeks anything else but glory from you: he, the husband gains praise from this. So Jason, the stranger, once deceived Medea of Colchis : she was thrown out of the house and next Creusa had it. So Calypso was foiled by Ulysses , the Ithacan warrior: she saw her lover spread his sails. O girls too ready to lend an ear to lovers, having been dropped, learn not to be thoughtlessly kind! You know that before today many girls pleased me equally: you know, Demophoon , many troubles come to me. O, the theatre was made to be my constant downfall.
Whether some girl spreads her white arms in a tender gesture, or whether she sings in various modes! Meanwhile our eyes search out their own wound, if some beauty sits there, her breast not hidden, or if drifting hair strays over a chaste forehead, hair that an Indian jewel clasps at the crown: so that, if she says no to me, perhaps with a stern look, cold sweat falls from my brow.
Why do some men slash their arms with sacred knives, and are cut to pieces to frenzied Phrygian rhythms? Nature at birth gave every man his fault: fate granted me always to love someone. Did the Trojans run from the Greek javelins less? One or the other could destroy ships or walls: in this I am Achilles, in this I am fierce Hector. Why take pleasure in dealing out pointless words? This one pain, above all others, is sharpest for a lover, if she suddenly refuses to come as he hoped.
What great sighs hurl him round his whole bed, as he kills some unknown man, who has been admitted! I who was persuaded to keep away from the public roads, now water fetched from the lake tastes sweet to me. What it costs us, that night that comes just once in a whole year! Let them perish, those who take pleasure in closed doors! So let it be no surprise to you, my seeking common girls: they bring me into less disrepute: surely not a trivial reason? Is this what at first you ordered me to take delight in?
A moment ago you praised me, and read my poetry: does your love so rapidly avert his wings? Let that man contend with me in ingenuity, contend in art, let him be taught how to love in one house first. I believe that not a few have been undone by your figure, but I believe that many men have not been true. Theseus took delight for a brief space in Ariadne , Demophoon in Phyllis : both unwelcome guests.
But no old age would draw me away from loving you, not even if I were Nestor , or I were Tithonus. But I will still endure. More: the lover pleads, when despised: and when wronged confesses sins: and himself returns with reluctant step. Does anyone perform his vows in mid-storm, when often a ship drifts shattered in the harbour? Or demand his prize before the race is run, and the wheel has touched the post seven times? The favourable breeze plays us false in love: when it comes late, great is the ruin that comes. You, meanwhile, though she still delights in you, contain imprisoned joy in your silent heart.
Though she often calls for you, remember, go only once: that which is envied often fails to last. But this age should still not change my habits: let each man be allowed to go his own way. But you, that recall service to many loves, if so, what pain afflicts your eyes! You see a tender girl of pure white, you see a dark: either colouring commands you. You see a form that expresses the Greek , or you see our beauties, either aspect seizes you.
I saw you, in my dreams, mea vita , shipwrecked, striking out with weary hands, at the Ionian waters, confessing whatever ways you lied to me, unable to raise your head, hair heavy with brine, like Helle , whom once the golden ram carried on his soft back, driven through the dark waves. How frightened I was, that perhaps the sea would bear your name, and the sailor would weep for you, slipping through your waters!
What gifts I entertained for Neptune , then, for Castor and his brother, what gifts for you Leucothoe , now a goddess! At least, like one about to die, you called my name, often, barely lifting your fingertips above the deep. And already I was trying to hurl myself from a high rock, when fear woke me from such visions.
Let them admire the fact, now, that so lovely a girl serves me, and that they talk of my power throughout the city! Loyalty is great in love: constancy greatly serves it: he, who can give many gifts, can have his many lovers. One shore will calm us, and one tree overspread us, and we will often drink at a single spring. Let Jupiter himself set our boat on fire, so long as she is never absent from my eyes.
The god redeemed his pledge for that embrace, and the golden urn poured out a celestial stream. And Orithyia , though raped, denied that Boreas was cruel: this god tames the earth and deep oceans. Believe me Scylla will be gentle to us, and huge Charybdis who never ceases from her changing flow: no shadows will hide the stars themselves, Orion will show clear, and the Kids.
What does it matter if my life is laid down upon your body? It will not be a dishonourable death. You mortals, then, enquire for the uncertain funeral hour, and by what road death will come to you: and you enquire of the cloudless sky, by Phoenician art, which stars are good for man, and which are evil!
You weep again that your head is threatened by war, when Mars joins the wavering ranks on either side: and by your burning house, by your house in ruins: and no cup of darkness to lift to your lips. That time has come when the scorching air burns, and Earth starts to blaze under the torrid Dog-star. This undoes girls, this has undone them before: what they promise, the winds and the waves carry away.
Was Venus annoyed that you were compared to her? You beauties have never learned to be sparing with words. Your tongue was harmful to you in this: your beauty gave it to you. Ino strayed as a girl over the earth: she the wretched sailors call on, as Leucothoe.
Andromeda was given to the sea-monster: even she was the honoured wife of Perseus. Callisto , a she-bear, wandered Arcadian pastures: now she rules sails of night with her star. Now, as best as you can, comply, stricken, with fate: the god and the harsh day itself may both change. Juno , the wife, might even forgive you: even Juno is moved if a young girl dies. The chanting of magic, the whirling bullroarers cease, and the laurel lies scorched in the quenched fires.
Now the Moon refuses as often to climb down from heaven, and the dismal night bird sounds its funeral note. One raft of fate carries both our loves, setting dark-blue sails to the lake of Hell. But take pity on both of us, not just on one! Down there with you is Iope ; with you shining Tyro ; with you is Europa , and wicked Pasiphae ; and whatever beauty old Troy and Achaia bore, the bankrupt kingdoms of ancient Priam and of Apollo ; and whoever among that number was a Roman girl, perished: every one of them the greedy fire possesses.
No one has endless fortune, or eternal beauty: later or sooner death awaits us all. Since you have escaped, mea lux , out of great danger pay Diana the gift of the song and dance you owe her, and keep vigil as well for that heifer, now a goddess; and, for my sake, give her the ten nights you vowed. But all were naked. Saying this, in a moment, a rope was round my neck. Stop, now, brothers, now he promises true love, and look, now, we have come to the house as ordered. It was dawn, and I wanted to see if she slept alone: and alone she was, in her bed.
So she looked to me, shedding recent sleep. Oh, how great is the power of beauty in itself! There are no traces deep in the bed, signs of wallowing about, or of mutual slumber. Look, no breath panting from my whole body, confessing adultery. Now, you get ready to go to Phrygia , cruel one, now, over the waves, and seek by ship the shore of Hyrcanian seas. Where are you going, O, mad one? Even if winds, divided, snatch you on winged sandals, the highways of Mercury will do you no good.
Love always pursues overhead, pursues lovers, and himself sits heavy on the neck that was free. Let hard old men denounce the revels: mea vita , let us wear out the path we chose. Should I be ashamed to live serving one mistress? Cynthia , be pleased to lie with me, in caves of dew, in mossy hills. Then, when they put you in the front rank of the circling dance, Bacchus there in the middle with his cunning wand, then I will let the sacred ivy berries hang from my head: since without you my genius has no power.
You ask why I come to you late? Then in the midst, the temple reared up in bright marble, dearer to Phoebus than his Ortygian land. Right on the top were two chariots of the Sun, and the doors of Libyan ivory, beautifully done. Next the Pythian god himself was singing, in flowing robes, between his sister and mother.
He who seemed to me, more beautiful than the true Phoebus, lips parted in marble song to a silent lyre. O Cynthia , why else do you search out dubious oracles at Praeneste , or the walls of Aeaean Telegonus? Why do chariots take you to Herculean Tibur? Why the Appian Way, so often, to Lanuvium?
But the crowd tell me not to trust you, when it sees you rush faithfully, carrying a torch, on fire, to the sacred grove, and bear light to the goddess Trivia. Lately a rumour spoke evil in my ear, and nothing good was said about you in the city. Helen abandoned her country for a foreign lover, and was brought home again alive without being judged.
They say that Venus herself was corrupted by libidinous Mars , but was always honoured, nevertheless, in heaven. Who gave it? Where did his gifts come from? Lesbia did all these things before, with impunity: anyone who follows her is surely less to blame. So if you imitate Greek and Roman women, I sentence you to be free for life!
This goddess, whoever she was, who so often separates lovers, was always ill-natured. Surely Io you learnt from hidden couplings with Jove , what it is to go many ways, when Juno ordered you, a girl, to wear horns, and lose your speech to the harsh sound cows make. Oh, how often you galled your mouth on oak-leaves, and chewed, in your stall, on once-eaten strawberry leaves! Why take such a long journey to Rome?
What good is it to you that the girls sleep alone? You drink, indifferent: are you not wrecked by midnight, and is your hand not weary throwing the dice? Perish the man who discovered neat wine, and first corrupted good water with nectar! Icarius you were rightly killed by Cecropian farmers, you have found how bitter the scent is of the vine. You, Eurytion the Centaur , also died from wine, and Polyphemus , you by Ismarian neat. Let your table be drenched with more jets of Falernian , and foam higher in your golden cup. No girl ever willingly goes to bed alone: something there is that desire forces us all to search for.
Mine was nearly stolen away like that. That god corrupts families, separates friends, and makes sad calls to arms to those in happy agreement. Lynceus , you traitor, then, how could you lay hands on my darling? Could you have lived with the shame? Kill me with daggers or poison: just take yourself off, away from my mistress.
But the frown of strict morality will never fool me: everyone knows by now how good it is to love. My Lynceus, himself, insane at last with love! What use now the wisdom of Socratic works, or being able to talk of the nature of things? Old men are no help with a great love. Stop composing tragic Aeschylean verse, stop and let your limbs go, in soft choric dancing. Begin to turn your verse on a tighter lathe, and come to your own flames, hardened poet. You shall not go more safely than Homer , or than Antimachus : a virtuous girl even looks down on the gods.
Nor will you be able to suffer harsh love on your own. First, your truculence must be quelled by me. Look at me, with hardly any wealth left to my family, with no ancestral triumphs long ago, but here I rule the fun, among the crowd of girls, by the intellect you disparage! Give way you Roman authors! Give way you Greeks! Under the pine-trees of shadowed Galaesus , you sing, of Thyrsis and Daphnis , with the practised flute, and how the gift of ten apples, or an un-weaned kid, can corrupt a girl.
Happy who buys their love cheaply with apples! Tityrus herself, the unkind, might sing for that. Happy that Corydon who tries to snatch virgin Alexis , delight of his master, the farmer! And you sing the precepts of old Hesiod , the poet, what plains crops grow well on, what hills should grow vines. You make such music as Apollo mingles, fingers plucking his cunning lyre.
The swan dies, melodious, with no less spirit, though with less effrontery than the ignorant song of the goose. And but now, in the waters of Hell, dead Gallus washed multiple wounds, from lovely Lycoris! Book III. Ghosts of Callimachus , and shrines of Coan Philetas , I pray you, allow me to walk in your grove. I am the first to enter, a priest of the pure fountain, to celebrate Italian mysteries in the rhythms of Greece. Tell me in what valley did you both spin out your song?
On what feet did you enter? Which waters did you drink? Away with the man who keeps Phoebus stuck in battle! Let verse be finished, polished with pumice — because of it Fame lifts me high above Earth, and, born of me, a Muse goes, in triumph, with flower-hung horses, and young Loves ride with me in a chariot, and a crowd of writers hangs at my wheels. Why struggle, vainly, against me, with slack reins? Muses grant your poet gentle garlands: a hard crown would never suit my head.
Their own soil would scarcely know Deiphobus , Helenus , Pulydamas , or Paris embracing any kind of arms. Nor would Homer , himself, who wrote your fall, not feel his work made greater by posterity. And Rome will praise me among later generations: I foresee that day myself, after the fire. Let me return, meanwhile, to the world of my poetry: let my girl take delight, moved by familiar tones.
No wonder if, befriended by Bacchus and Phoebus , a crowd of girls cherish my words? My poems are so many records of your beauty. Who asked you to meddle with epic song? Why is your page wrenched from its destined track? He said it, and showed me a place with his ivory plectrum, where a new path had been made in mossy ground. This one chose ivy for a wand, that one tuned the strings for a song, and another planted roses with either hand. And one of this crowd of goddesses touched me it was Calliope , I think, by her face , saying:.
So Calliope said, and, drawing up liquid from her fountain, sprinkled my lips with the waters of Philetas. Caesar , our god, plots war against rich India , cutting the straits, in his fleet, over the pearl-bearing ocean. Men, the rewards are big: far lands prepare triumphs: Tiber , and Euphrates will flow to your tune. Go, get going, prows expert in battle: set sail: and armoured horses do your usual duty! I sing you auspicious omens. And avenge that disaster of Crassus! Go and take care of Roman history! O primal earth shaped badly by Prometheus! He set to work on the heart without enough care.
He laid the body out with art, but forgot the mind: the right road for the spirit should have been first. It pleases me too to cloud my mind with much wine, and always have spring roses round my head. Every messenger should be without deceit: a fearful servant should be even truer. So, did you see her weep with dishevelled hair, vast waters pouring from her eyes? Did you see no mirror, Lygdamus, on the covers, on the bed?
No rings on her snow-white fingers? And a mourning-robe hanging from her soft arms, and her letter-case closed lying by the foot of the bed. Was the house sad, and her servants sad, carding thread, and she, herself spinning among them, and pressing the wool to her eyes, drying their moisture, and going over our quarrel in querulous tones?
If that pleases him, let him mock at my death, Lygdamus. The spider will weave corruption in his empty bed, and Venus will sleep, herself, on their nights together. While he was chasing you, the poor man was cut down in his prime, and floats an alien food for far-off fish. Paetus, the seabirds hover over your bones, and you have the whole Carpathian Sea now for a tomb. Cruel North-Wind , whom ravished Orithyia feared, how great are the spoils to be won from him?
Why do you find joy in shipwreck, Neptune? That ship carried righteous men. The waves have no gods. Though your cables were fastened to rocks, the storms in the night fell on them: frayed them all: tore them away. Return his body to earth: his spirit is lost in the deep. Worthless sands, of your own will, cover Paetus.
Go, and shape curving keels, and weave the causes of death: these deaths come from the actions of human hands. Earth was too small for fate, we have added the oceans: by our arts we have added to the luckless paths of fortune. Can the anchor hold you, whom the household gods could not? Nature lying in wait has paved the watery paths of greed: and it can scarcely be that you can, even once, succeed. The cliffs of Caphareus shattered a triumphant fleet, when the Greeks were shipwrecked drawn down by the salt mass. Ulysses wept for his comrades hurled down one by one: his wiliness was worth nothing confronting the sea.
From him, still living, the surge tore away his nails, and unwillingly, poor man, his throat swallowed the waters: then the wild night saw him carried on a piece of plank: so many evils gathered for Paetus to perish. Are these guilty hands I bring to your seas?
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