Never on any maiden, the golden sun shall shine, Never on any maiden whose wisdom matches thine.
When anger stirs thy breast, Speak not at all (For words, once spoken, rest Beyond recall).
Ah for Adonis! (Where the willows sigh The call still comes Through spring's sweet mystery.)
They say, 'neath leaf and blossom Leda found in the gloom An egg, white as her bosom, Under an iris bloom.
Now Love has bound me, trembling, hands and feet, O Love so fatal, Love so bitter-sweet.
Come to me, O ye graces, Delicate, tender, fair; Come from your heavenly places, Muses with golden hair.
If love thou hast for me, not hate, Arise and find a younger mate; For I no longer will abide Where youth and age lie side by side.
From heaven returning; Red of hue, his chlamys burning Against the blue.
Upstanding, as the Lesbian singer stands Above the singers of all other lands.
Voiceless I speak, and from the tomb reply Unto Æthopia, Leto's child, was I Vowed by the daughter of Hermocleides, Who was the son of Saonaiades. O virgin queen, unto my prayer incline, Bless him and cast thy blessing on our line.
Bride, around whom the rosy loves are flying, Sweet image of the Cyprian undying, The bed awaits thee; go, and with him lying, Give to the groom thy sweetness, softly sighing. May Hesperus in gladness pass before thee, And Hera of the silver throne bend o'er thee.
Ambrosia there was mixed, and from his station Hermes the bowl for waiting gods outpoured; Then raised they all their cups and made oblation, Blessing the bridegroom (by the bride adored).
Tender Adonis stricken is lying. What, Cytherea, now can we do? Beat your breasts, maidens, Adonis is dying, Rending your garments (the white fragments strew).
With eyes of darkness, The sleep of night.
Thy form is lovely and thine eyes are honeyed, O'er thy face the pale Clear light of love lies like a veil. Bidding thee rise, With outstretched hands, Before thee Aphrodite stands.
Joy born of marriage thou provest, Bridegroom thrice blest, Holding the maiden thou lovest Clasped to thy breast.
Those unto whom I have given, These have my heart most riven.
Upon thy girl friend's white and tender breast, Sleep thou, and on her bosom find thy rest.
A NEW RENDERING OF OVID'S HEROIC EPISTLE, XV.