To see a commentary note, click on a blue square. To see the Latin text, click on a green square.
It
was the Springtide of the year and of the month, in the fresh part
of the day and the sweet Springtide of your life, Sybilla, and
as I saw you plucking the fresh blossoms with a snow-white thumb,
I said “You will be the goddess of Spring,” and speaking,
flattering Echo gave back “You will.” This mimic-nymph dealt
playfully with my desires. She imitated my sighs, scarce drawn
as I gazed upon your beauty and Love greatly struck me. If I fell
silent, so did she, but in my silence my breath scorched me. If
I spoke, I was offended by the goddess’ chatter. With her
flames Venus, that friend of the Springtime, treacherously set
afire the blood in my teeming veins. Love, no less cruel than she,
shot his sharp arrows into my breast with a cruel hand. “Alas,
poor me,” I exclaimed, “I am not wounded by a single cause.”
“A single,” answered Echo. “Who do you mean, goddess?”
I asked. “Is this Sybilla?” “It is she,” she responded.
And soon I learnt that she was a truthful prophetess, all too fatally
so. For I have perished, for me the fire kindled in the Springtime
will not be extinguished by any Winter chill.
When
you offered me fair and honeyed words, disdaining others, I was first
and foremost. In your vanity do you imagine that I have stored up
warmth for you in a reviving heart? Is this is how womankind is known
to me? You are mistaken. I confess I felt no genuine fires, for me
there grows no love so quickly mutable. In my heart I hatch
elephants, sturdy, bound to see many centuries, whereas your mind,
variously buffeted by gales blowing from all quarters, knows not how
to stay fixed on its accustomed shore. The day that saw you joined me
by a sacred pact dawned again, and found no pact at all. Ottalus, my
successor, you are able to possess a kingdom unbegrudged by me - but
not forever. If, once promised, she always cleaved to her lover, now
she would not crave to be yours, but mine. In the past, having
pledged herself, she clung in my embrace, her seductive grace is well
known to me. But previously it was known to others, and, as me, she
has banished them all. Our injuries await you too, Ottalus. Nor will
it avail that you are handsome, for a woman will not always hang from
the lips of a man who ought to be retained. Delicacies rejected, some
are wont to eat coals or fouler, if such there be; I myself have seen
one who gobbled ashes with greedy tongue, saying “how sweet this is for me now in this sour time!” A
woman
feels much which runs against her wishes, wishes which no lady can
accomplish because of her inconstancy. Ottalus, you will be naught if
you are an honest lover. Unless you are naughty and deceitful,
Ottalus, you will be naught. For who can hold her, whose fickle
affection runs backward before it can settle in a heart made
firm?
If
you did not know me well, Calvus, none of my friends knows me better,
I would forgive you this. Nor am I sure what name to give this,
whether I should call it your error or your folly. And what burns me
more, I am outraged at an old friend, for we are linked by no common
affection. My wrath compels me to say against you this thing, harsher
than I would wish: you are heedless, Calvus, nor do you use your
brain. For when you had held your mistress, unwitnessed (who was
rarely more fetching, I must confess, and who deserved to be dearer
to you than your own eyes, for whom, my friend, you possibly vowed to
die), were you so stupid as to entrust her to me, whom you know full
well? Thus to entrust such a woman to me, you insensitive man? What
was I to do? Who could have acted otherwise? Immediately captivated,
displaying my nature, I fell insanely in love. I tempted her with
gifts, plying each of Cupid’s arts, which, as you know full well, are
more familiar to me than all others. I conquered and now (let the
chorus of all the Loves bear witness) I kissed her against my will,
for she should be yours alone. This scruple deprived me of every
pleasure, and I was exceedingly angry at you, Calvus, because this
fault of yours made you less trustworthy to your friend. Unless you
apologize, my ire will not abate.
Unhappy
is he who goes unenvied for his love affairs, who loves safely with
no bile or fear, who is served days and nights by a willing girlfriend, awed by his dignities, his power, his name. For in view of
such servility, who will call you a mistress? Who will be reduced to
astonishment by the beauty of such a debased creature? The woman
desirous of constant love must order and issue commands, and in any
event obsequiousness is all-destroying. By which means (for she had
high hopes) Penelope cleverly fended off her lovers, employing
skilled delay, and in this way she made them burn all the more, more
intensely scorching the lustful lads. And the goddess laughed when
she was deceived by her own art, though she herself detected the
trickery, the canny thing, and wanted to be bested by her own
misrepresentation, but still she wished to dissimulate. Learn, fair
ladies, not to indulge your happy menfolk; let any man desirous of
love become accustomed to weeping. Let not sad tears nor swift sighs
be absent, let him hear his mistress’ pronouncements with trembling.
But let there be a limit to your squabbles, let a happy night and
peaceful bed refresh him, wearied by his suffering. Then let her bite
the fair lips that have issued threats at the poor man and,
victorious, restrain her hard heart. Then, lightly reclining on her
snow-white breasts, let him plant bloody love-bites upon her with
teeth and mouth. Thus let him exult like a knight riding through
gladsome meadows, and let the woman alone now play the role of his
steed. But as soon as the dawn disrupts night’s repose, let her don
her erstwhile spirit along with her garment. Let him fetch her mirror
and gown, let him furnish water for her hands, slippers for her feet.
Let him sit down afterwards, if he seems weary. If he refuses all
this, he is to be thrown out immediately. Love is the kingdom’s
guardian, let cruelty and fear preserve domineering love, no
consideration of justice barring the way. I hate it that I am
over-powerful, I hope that my mistress will be petulant, as long as
she is comely, as long as she pleases me. As many bees as drive a
thief from their disrupted hive, just so many of my rivals I would
hope she has displeased. It is sweet to have snatched a not unwilling
girl from the midst of a throng of young men, to be able to clasp to
myself one who pleases the eyes and hopes of so many. Pursuing the
name and reputation of a Spartan girl, Paris was the first who dared
love her among the Greeks; and though he was her lover openly, with
timidity the Greek youths had sought her, so although he was the sole
adulterer they all suffered from equal guilt. Or with what spirit do
you fancy noble Paris entered Troy’s portal with his abducted bride?
The king and queen willingly drove up in their gilded car, and lo,
his brothers came riding up on horseback; the populace, lads and
gaffers, came thronging, and many a rival maiden approached. One and
all gazed at Helen alone, one and all gave a gratulatory ovation for
Helen alone, but Paris congratulated himself. His brothers envied him
such a one, but it was pleasant for him that the affair was
invidious. Oh happy he, to wed amidst such an uproar, to have a
marriage worthy of a war! Would that such a fair prize would yield to
my endeavors! Paris, I would wish your battles and your
destiny.
The
first age of the world, Fannus, favored its handsome children, and
their only rustic battles were fought over appearance; next might
prevailed over beauty, and gold over might, and nowadays strength and
comeliness count for nothing in gold’s absence. Wherefore you are
wise to stash your coins in a triple-bound box, so you may always
have something to bestow, but hang on to that which remains. Lads and
lasses seek you out, rivals fight dire wars over you. But your color
is no more pleasant than that of a plowed field, but your lips are
rougher than untamed brambles, and your teeth are either nonexistent
or black with tartar, and now your ancient soul smacks of the Styx
and tombs. Perhaps you attract lovers by your amiable wit - but hey,
this consideration too is a trifle. But suppose it suffices of
itself: in your case there would have been no girl friend, for in no
respect do you have any more wit than does your huge wallet.
Nevertheless, my Adonis, you are cultivated as if you were handsome
and urbane, and no elegant girl shuns your embrace. Not a few
approach you whom you push away, madman, and (as is reasonable) the
rejected things shed copious tears. Oh happy man, if only you were
untroubled by the hateful gout, atrophied muscles, an old man’s
feeble frame, if afflicted foot and hand did not pay the girl the
penalty of unpleasant venery! But scarce any pains can prevent you
when a beloved woman seeks your arms. Would that love could achieve
more - truth to tell, if Mellea sniffed out your gold, she’d stroke
your beard.
Has
my patience merited so many penalties, Caspia? Was my loyalty,
cleaving to our first love, a sin? Do you shun me because I tolerate
your commands? Because, being a brave lover, I do not succumb to all
the ills you can inflict? Troilus, it did not harm you, at length
Cressida pitied you and did away with delays; not only in those lands
has a girl complained while a fickle breeze was snatching away her
faithful man. Inconstancy often harms others, I am hurt by my
constancy; my steadfastness and kindness fear retribution. Perhaps
some avenger of unhappy lovers will arise, to whom you will pay
forfeit for your protracted cruelty. Ah, I recall my limbs slackening
with unfamiliar sorrow, my splendor all but stolen by you. After my
fashion, I danced attention as your loyal servant, and you were made
gentler by your wicked deeds towards me. Straightway I humbly
appealed to your unfeeling divinity, and suddenly my salvation was
restored in accordance with my prayers. This will be the value of
having moaned in my frenzy, so great was the peacefulness, alien
amidst all these troubles. Your steely heart knows how strong I am in
prayer, and would know better, if my destiny did not prevent. But may
I desire to undergo many perils for you; command much, for every
labor will be a pleasure. It will be pleasant, but still a labor.
Alas, have mercy on my laboring love, my love labors overmuch on this
score. Nature has bestowed savagery on the beasts, but also bodies
fit for their ways, and weapons, on paw, brow, and maw. She bade
human hearts be caged in fair breasts, love alone is to be sought in
this beauty. The fairer you are, the gentler you should be but, poor
me, the more savage your wrath. Aware of your beauty, you take on
high spirits, for each lady knows her virtues. If you wish, confer
your mercy on others, so that you may bear off the palm by my
bestowal, unrivaled. You surpass all others in gifts of mind and
body; think it base to be bested on this one score alone.
Me
desert you? Does a careful mother wish to betray her son, a loving
sister her like-minded brother? Shall I banish such sweet hours from
my mind, forgetful? Pleasures, play, skilled kisses, and jests? Cease
spoiling your tender eyes with weeping: heat will desert the flame,
waves the sea, the stars will abandon Mistress Moon, before my faith
deserts you and I violate my trust. This hand, which in your
suspicion you now bathe with tears, sealed a pact equally binding on
the both of us. You are always nursing some dread in your timorous
breast, for many are a woman’s anxieties in love. You often remind me
of Theseus’ fleeting sails, of how Dido burned on an undeserved pyre.
Of all the things that are wont to injure unhappy, neglected lovers,
none of them have yet inflicted pain on your damaged heart. What have
I done? You bemoan my wrongs, though they do not exist. Is this my
loyalty? Have my habits deserved this? Though perchance trust
deceives unhappy lovers, insane fear can harm them more. You are
familiar with Cephalus’ sad tale: beware, my love, lest you suffer
the fate of Procris.
Spare
me, son of Venus; spare me, imperious Cupid, for now you thrust your
torches in my face overmuch. Ah, I am ashamed, I am abjectly
prostrated, pity me as I lie. Fear, who lately harmed me, be now my
protector. “Previously he was uncouth and unwelcome to the girl, but
now he displays the symptoms of a penitent.” The sun’s first beams
had scarce brought the day when I entered your chamber, fair Sybilla.
Wild (though not fearful) countryside detained her husband, making
room for a rival in town. She reclined on her couch in solitary
beauty and seemed at first to welcome my arrival. Dissimulating, she
spoke thus, “What’s this? In a husband’s absence should a young man
stand at his bride’s bedroom door?” But I, suffusing a chaste blush
on my face, pleasantly replied at Cupid’s dictation. A lengthy hour
then passed in varied conversation, while her serving-girl was the
only obstacle to my desires. Silently I hoped (though the girl was
hardly unamiable) that the poor thing’s limbs might be given to wild
animals for the rending. May the servants leave, making the place
ripe for love, may they not stop in their tracks, even if their
mistress recalls them! If anyone hinders Mistress’ lover, she earns
herself dislike and dire strife. Have I the time to supply etiquette
lessons to others when I stand accused of untaught boorishness?
Perhaps the serving-girl had spun out her delaying because she was
set on going, staying so long so she could long stay away. But she
did not leave straightway, having a just cause for lingering, though
I, on the part of departure, had none. To be forbidden to address
her, see her naked arms, and all the rest, these considerations also
had their weight, while I in my naivete did not wish to trouble the
seemingly annoyed lady or kindle her hatred against me. But grant
your bard this pardon, Cupid. I swear by your torches, those flaming
weapons of yours, henceforth words will not deter my easy advances,
no woman will escape my snares. Be she fair or dark, soft or hard,
modest or gay, young or long in the tooth - whatever manner of woman
opportunity offers, be she comely I shall not fear to ask for her
favors and solicit her with my protracted entreaties. She
who refuses will be able to reject her suitor; she who is willing, though, will
yield after frequent attempts. But will she,
won’t she, a girl is always to be attempted again. This welcome duty
is wont to be paid to girls of both sorts. If she be perverse, yet it
shall be good to have delighted in her beauty; if she be agreeable,
she suits her longed-for man. And so now, a happy lover, I march
along with new vigor. But I tell you this, my naughty audience, while
asking you not to reveal my guilt to any girl.
So
will he marry my darling? Will he remove the girl from the city, this
man whose face is disfigured, scorched by the glowing Dogstar?
Can
Mellea bid farewell to my love and dwell in the vile countryside, putting
the city behind her? Have faith and common sense died a
mutual death? After so many youthful lovers will she cleave to his
senile yoke? “I would rather be a pauper’s wife than a royal
mistress.” Thus you said. Ah, scrupulous one, you are foolish in your
wisdom. Know the truth: what worse thing could I wish for you,
faithless one, than that you be worthy to make your bed with such a
fellow? And may you bear children like to you both: may your spawn
have his father’s face, but your character and habits. And so will
your husband reap my life from its fertile field, this refuge for my
miserable soul? Can any night witness such sad marriage-torches; can
the moon, charmed by Endymion’s cheeks? Let a fiery typhoon bring
horrid gales, let a profane breeze blast the sacred flowers; let the
hounds of Hell howl dire hymns, let a forked flame announce the
estrangement of your wedding flamboys. When the bride pulls back the
coverlet of her marriage bed may she find her couch all a-swarming
with monsters. And you, little household sprites, you silly sprites
of the night, an earthy race born of dwarfish Oberon,
a merry band who with shaven heads, eyebrows, and chins mock unworthy
mankind, who bear off bodies stolen in sleep and dump them in deep
ditch or damp lake, hasten hither: this business merits your mirth.
Hey come, you elegant creatures, come quick, you sprites. Snatch the
fair bride with the unlovely husband, scarce anybody will witness
your tricks. When she expects my embrace and my love, let her gather
a scarecrow into her arms or a worn-out Priapus with a rotten prick,
so that all the countryside may laugh at the poor creature.
Throughout the world let no tale be better known, to this may the
pleasant sins of the limping god take second place. As
for myself, though grief and anger rage seethe within, I don’t
know whether to dissolve in tears - or in laughter.
Justly
I am to mark down as unlucky that night on which my mistress spurned
my longed-for bed of love. Is this the faith she vowed? Has the
wicked girl thus dared agree on a return, saying she was scarce to be
called from my embrace? I had trusted her, Love had persuaded me,
when I possessed her I had been convinced by the lengthy kisses she
gave upon her departure. Therefore I lay awake in silence on my part
of our couch, so there would be room for this disloyal oath-breaker.
I added feathers and laid out sheets, so that more softly she could
stretch out on her side. No lady came, though often she seemed to be
coming, but this was a shadow that deceived my desirous eyes. How
often I heard a whisper and joyously exclaimed “now she’s come!” I
stretched out my arms, but no lady came. The beasts in their lairs
cheated me with their hubbub; rattled by the winds the window gave me
hope. And so at length my marrow started to languish with yearning,
it was consumed by fires hitherto unknown. And now, Prometheus, it
was as if I hoped to hang on your chill crag, awaiting your bird,
your fresh wound. But how much lighter my punishment would have been,
had I been snatching at the apples that teased that starveling old
man. So will anyone be unhappy? Can anyone find a girl he can love,
who will eagerly stay on the appointed night? Let anyone who does not
know a wife’s perjuries look at me. See how my eyes and pallid visage
are swollen with weeping, how my sleepless limbs are a-bristle, while
perhaps she is lying, oblivious and overcome by sweet slumber. She
had no fear for her promises: she broke her faith - and me. Nor did
she fear the gods, whose powers she has abused. Babylonian Thisbe
decreed a forest tryst with her ardent lad, but came early and died
with her man; but if he had been able to stay away, I scarce know if
for her that might not have been yet sadder. You faced no woodland
journey, you had no concern about eluding your guardians; my entire
household was at your disposal, if you had wanted, if you had not
been a liar, if your kisses had been tokens of real warmth. For what
detained you? You have the connivance of your servants. What then?
Six or seven steps? An open door? The bed, and he who unhappily
tarried, searching for you? Was it unpleasant for you to undergo
these things? How I would wish you could invent even some hollow
excuse that you were compelled to act thus out of reluctant fear. But
nothing happened, the business is unworthy of you, a crime.
Unfaithful one, you have gravely sinned against love, inexpiable by
any tears or entreaties, unless you are willing to make sacrifice to
me for six nights.
Let
he who is wise fear to look upon strange girls, the pastime of a huge
throng of men young and old. Flawed beauty allures the incautious by
its novelty and Love does not quickly release the man he has seized.
What is fair is variable, and one kind of beauty is not approved by
all; nor is a single Venus to be seen in all paintings. Whether her
rosy charm resides in her eyes or face, or if a fitting allure is in
her well-disposed limbs, or grace lightly moves her foot or arm,
everywhere Love spreads his nets for the man who gazes upon her. Let
not pomp, golden raiments, painted carriages, or marble portals
captivate a lad, let him rarely wander the city in the wee hours, for
night allows many untoward things to transpire in its shadows. If any
be pleasing by day, at night she is at her fairest. Add wine, and
even her father-in-law would fall in love with Phaedra. So say I, but
Love has issued a threat that if I do not hold my peace, with his
weapons and torches he will trebly wound my heart.
Who
conducts his business according to auspices and does nothing without
inspecting the entrails, he has no idea that our fleeting days are
passing. Delay is suspect, Fortune mocks the slothful, giving and
taking away all with her hasty hand. While Menelaus was away, Priam’s
son pressed his suit, and divine Chance and Love favored the suitor.
All the lads yearned equally for Hero’s bedchamber, but with Venus as
his guide Leander alone conquered and loved. He
alone trysted with the girl in the twilight, exhausted as she was
by her priestess’ duties. Often an importune desire falls out well,
the desired good fortune comes according to your hasty prayers.
Pyramus’ small delay, but one forgetful of his bride, put Thisbe and
himself on the road of darkness. One day takes away what no century
can restore, and that which no century will have provided is given by
a single day. If you do not pluck your roses in the morning, in the
evening you will see them wilted, drooped upon their thorns. While
you want, while it is allowed, seize the present: the future is
wholly uncertain, the past is useless.
And
so will your sister’s shade cause you perpetual mourning? Will her
skeleton rout the gentler goddesses? Will thus your Muse, Edward,
shudder at the burial plot and renounce her erstwhile sallies and
delights? Funeral poems have no effect on the dead, with better
point you could sing to jagged rocks. Spare your pious soul this
torment; if your soul survives, loving to your departed sister, let
it not be unfriendly to yourself. See how Elegy, exhausted, her hair
unkempt, is prostrate, drained dry by her weeping. See how she
presses her eyes in a vain attempt to force out tears, which she has
profusely shed, though now she is arid. Thus she is said to have lain
prostrate by the chill Ister’s high waves, setting down her ancient
head; she was thus worn out by her holy bard singing dolefully of his
exile, and of how the gods were slow to better his lot. Now,
Edward, it is enough; have pity on yourself and this goddess, for the goddess
is exhausted, troubled too long. Let your wonted
spirits return, your consolations, your sportiveness; let your Muse
put off her black dress of mourning. Do not be captivated by bygone
beauty’s image: your sister has joined the shades, not to return. Nor
brood on her final words, they serve you ill as a talisman. Her words
only whet your sorrow, while oblivion dissolves cares, though care
and sorrow try to banish forgetfulness of mind. But if your piety
refuses to heed my injunctions, and your suffering mind is constant
in its frenzy, let no place in this world, no region, no age be
unaware of your lamentation, my insatiable friend. Let he Hyades,
those shining stars in the sky revived by love for a brother,
commemorate their loss as much as Reputation no more than do your
tears, the loss of your sister - o sister, worthy of a well-mourned
funeral! So, Edward, if it pleases you, indulge in your sorrow, feed
your heavy spirits on a sobbing heart. Let the passing days lighten
your sadness; of its own volition your mind will rejoice at length,
luxuriating in jests, of which it will then approve.
Those
who are gloomy, depart. I warn you, depart, those who are austere. My
page mocks grave censure. Depart, you aged, unless one of you with a
chill marrow believes fires to inhabit my songs. A more blooming age
is fitter for gentle pastimes; let some lad or lettered lass read
these. Let Brutus’ namesakes celebrate the bard who first devised
tender elegies and wrote of his own amorous intrigues.
Nor, Phoebus, let your torch always be removed from my sinning; let
its flame shine the brighter thanks to its innate ardor. For Neptune
has softened our chill airs, cherishing our broad shores in his
embrace. Phoebus loves us too: the more he retreats in Winter, the
more he regards us with a friendly countenance, our father. What
should I recall about the nymphs in your holy waters, Thames, or in
yours, Severn? A thousand nymphs pass through our forests, and a like
number of valley sprites, Venuses, and native English goddesses. That
I might remain silent about Chaucer, who
by his wonderful art taught our Muses to speak throughout the world! He painted
Palaemon’s loves in various colors, and Cressida,
unfaithful to her Trojan husband. At his dictation the plowman sang
his remarkable song of a carpenter feuding with a miller. In the same
way he touched upon the rituals of pilgrimage (fit for silly old
women!) and even managed to curse a God-rivalling Pope. What
god, oh bard rescued from great shadows, so illuminated your great brain? Neither
popular tale, nor Roman pomp, nor that Roman
wolf’s painted theater escaped your notice. As the Pope’s empire
reeled he invented honors by which crafty Rome controls the masters
of this world. Only England, living under its own law, laughs at the
nations thrusting their free necks into the Roman yoke. We possess
our sacred freedom with a divinity for our governess, who alone can
now offer us peace. Now everything, our mountains, our cities,
together with Venus and her Love, who dances with naked feet, bear
witness to peace. Cupid is a peace-loving god; though waging savage
wars in our hearts he always summons us to arms. Fostering child, may
your grace attend our gentle Muses, whether they sing the peaces of
our goddess or your own wars.
While
in a fair rose-garden my Mellea, fairer still, was picking tender
strawberries from the shady ground, Love came, and now, his quiver
and arrows set aside, was wielding bored-out irons with fire-belching
muzzles. Soundlessly, his powder propels ball when it takes fire, and
there is a snowy whiteness to his silent powder. Oh, brave boy! Oh
clever Cupid! Were you not aid to be blind? And yet you see,
menacingly taking aim with keen eyesight. I was watching, though you
preferred to hide under this leaf. Caught out, Love blushed. With a
smile he eluded me in my softness, saying “You will be my soldier.
If, as is the custom, you demand your King’s Shilling, this golden
maiden will give you five kisses. And after them, so she may enter my
camp, she will take five golden kisses from you.” “Indeed, from me
she may take a hundred, nay a hundred thousand, and you will please
me the more if you want me to be a spendthrift.” I spoke, Love fled,
his particolored wings a-whirring, and we, fearing this god, offered
each other our lips. Thereupon we waged war with Cupid our general,
and the new day found us fighting new battles.
Whom
should I desire in my joy? Whom should I address? Will my love touch
one of the handsome gods? Or would it more safely kiss the silent
shades of the dead? Excessive good fortune will become an object of
envy. Then neither Shore will dare reveal her sportings, nor Rosamund
her household, caught up in sin.
In a single night Caspia made me an immortal, no day will expunge
such joys. How eagerly I gazed upon and touched her breasts!
How soft her sides, enclosed within those fair arms! What kisses she
breathed on my clinging lips! What - but these are things not to be
divulged to chaste men. Even Cupid himself marveled at such delights,
hoping to have in turn what he had granted me. Thus I was miserably
compelled to keep careful watch, folding my arms around her, pressing
her to my breast. But it was my delight long to remain miserable, I
would like often to be in that position, having a rival. The girl who
came to me, coaxed by my protracted exertions, is not to be kept save
at the cost of great anxieties. If I should die, this single night
suffices me in my happiness; if I continue to live, a thousand
thousand are insufficient.
I
was indisposed, the grape could not ease my pains, nor grain
laboriously grown in manifold ways, nor pleasant jests or my friends’
sallies. My mind was dulled by sickness of spirit. The lute dropped
from my hands, nor could my wind come in nimble breaths to sustain
the notes of its song. I shuddered at the dark night’s nearness, nor
did my soft couch ease my weary limbs. I grumbled that the unhappy
days were passing so slowly, night weighed more heavily on me than
day, day than night. Dire insomnia robbed me of sleep, thenceforth
slumber would have no trustworthiness. Armed bands often attacked me,
brazen monsters roared with their sulfuric muzzles. A rough-skinned
serpent confronted me, stranded in the desert, or I encountered a
lion with roaring maw. And I saw monstrosities such as no age of the
world has produced, vague dread made its sallies at me from this
much-varied world. Now I suspected that massive weights hung over my
head, bound to fall, or that the ground underfoot was quaking. Next I
feared sea and winds, sharp reefs frightened me, I saw the shattered
masts and spars of ships. I bewailed lost comrades stranded on the
shore, shedding genuine tears. Just now, amidst the heaving waves I
saw you, Hatcliffe,
swimming through the brine with worn-out arms. And now I gathered up
your contorted limbs, Stanford, and also yours, Thurbarne, washing
lifeless at water’s edge. Lamenting, I held them collected in
my arms, the whole region resounded with my tearful complaints. No
wonder dreaming displeases me, since wild horror grips the poor
afflicted. The mind terrified by dreams in the night has no less
unpleasant waking visions during the day. But you, dear friends,
farewell, while I am in my wretchedness born off to foreign parts.
The road which separates loving friends is a hateful one, nor am I
permitted to be a comrade to my companions. In truth, I see you in
your absence and dream of you, a solicitous crew in my dreams, but
scarce a troublesome one. Even in my dreams I have mourned your
deaths; and if I should die you too must tearfully visit my tomb.
After
Vulcan had detected Venus’ loves, the gentle goddess’ face is said
to
have hardened; with
her shame abolished, she learned how to conceal her misdemeanors, and then the
designer came to loathe his creations. “Ah
Venus,” he exclaimed, “freer than the foamy wave which everywhere
commingles the unmarriageable waters, Hymen joined us, together with
the festive assembly of the gods, the Graces, and your faith, not to
be violated. Why do we not love each other mutually? Why does my
realm lie open to foreign foes? Will shaggy Mars, bringing back his
bloodied spear from battle, enter your embrace, Cyprus-born? Will the
victor gain by betrayal that citadel which Hymen entrusted to me by
right of marriage? Hang me if that malefactor who cast a dark pall
over our marriage-torches does not die!” Speedily he donned a
monk-like hood and his shaved-off hair fell from his swarthy pate. He
put on an honest face, and entered his sister’s chamber looking
like a simple fellow, as least sinister as possible. But once inside
he worked his trickery, opening her forbidden secrets, her rites
hidden in a cave of Mt. Etna. He takes the gleaming lightning,
weapons of Jove of the Stars with which he strikes the gods above and
deep Tartarus, and, out of his mind, hurls them against us poor
mortals, out of his mind and ardently burning with sulfurous fire and
hate. “And what,” he says, “will shield or spear avail the Thracians
among a barrage of the missiles of lightning-wielding Jove?” Behold
the French encircle the fortress of Naples with their works; Venus
urged the weapons of Mars upon them, though Love is their companion. But when
they caught sight of the notorious lightning and
of the brazen balls flying by means of fire, the piles of corpses on
this side and that, our intrepid adulterer soaked all the fields with
foul gore. The goddess laughed at her husband’s tricks, enfolding her
proud lover on her snowy breast. The Lemnian Father let out a roar,
gathering smoke from Etna’s crater and Tartarus’ Styx. With this he
covered the sleeping pair, for the Fates forbade him to touch the
blessed gods with foul poison. But with the air corrupted a contagion
beset the French, and a plague broke out inside Naples, which neither
woman nor man could escape, until the evil ran its course. It should
at least have spared the handsome, but color and strength failed them
too. Finally Venus looked back and, pitying the girls, routed the
black toxin with sacred bark. She restored strength to sinews, color
to limbs, and milky and ruddy splendor to cheeks. Thus when Mars’ weapon-maker
perceived that her wiles had not ceased and that his powers were unequal to hers,
he held his peace, indulging Venus and
his rivals in love: if one out of ten of her nights belonged to him,
he possessed her in joy.
Table of Contents