 When your epistle violated my chaste eyes, it seemed no small glory to write back my resentment. Dare you, a stranger, in defiance of the most sacred rites of hospitality, presume thus to invade the just allegiance of a lawful wife? Was it for this that our Laconian harbours sheltered you from stormy winds and seas? Were our palace gates frankly open to you, though from a foreign court, that you might return this injury as the reward of so much good usage? Was it a stranger or an enemy whom we received with so much kindness and friendship? These just complaints, I doubt not, will to your partial judgment appear rustic. Of what consequence is the imputation of rusticity while my chastity is unstained, and the whole tenor of my life above reproach? Though I have not a countenance severe with dissembled looks, nor form my eyebrows into an artful frown, my fame is yet unspotted. My easy frankness never rose to a crime, nor can any vain seducer boast the spoils of my virtue. I therefore may reasonably be astonished at the bold scheme, and wonder whence your hopes came to share of my favours. Was it because the hero of Neptune's race forced me away? Did you conclude that, being once compelled, I was fit to be made a second prey? Mine would have been the crime had I been enticed to a compliance, but as I was carried off by violence what could I do more than show reluctance? Nor did he ultimately obtain the desired reward of his boldness. I returned unhurt by anything but fear. The forward youth, matched by rude force a few reluctant kisses, but that was all he ever had of me. You, wicked as you are, would not have been thus satisfied. But the gods were more favourable. He was of a temper very different from you. He restored me untouched, and by a modest usage atoned for his crime. It is evident that the young man repented the bold insult. Did theseus repent that Paris might succeed, and my name never ceased to be the object of busy tongues? Nor am I yet displeased for who was ever offended with love, if the affection you profess is sincere and undissembled. But that I doubt. Not that I suspect your honour or distrust the power of my own charms, but because I know that a too easy faith often proves fatal to our sex, and a dissembling man ruins us by feigned professions. What if others yield, or matrons are seldom chased? May not my name occur among the rare instances of virtue? My mother's story seems at the first view a fit example to soften me to a compliance, but my mother was deceived by a borrowed shape, and harmless feathers covered the unsuspected ravisher. If I offend, what have I to plead? By what error can I excuse the darling sin? Her frailty was happily redeemed by the dignity of the ravisher, but what Jupiter will take from the infamy of my crime? You boast your dissent from a race of kings and heroes. What, then? Our line, too, is sufficiently ennobled by illustrious names, not to mention my father-in-law Atreus, the great-grandson of Jupiter, or the honourable pedigree of Tindarese, and Pilops, the son of Tantalus, leader deceived by a borrowed shape who fondly cherished in her bosom the unsuspected bird, gives me Jupiter for my father. Go, then, and boast your frigid dissent and the honourable race of Priam, which I am far from undervaluing, but Jupiter, who ennobles your line, is the fifth from you, from me the first. The scepter of Troy I am apt to believe powerful, but still I fancy that our own is not less so. If you exceed us in riches and number of people, yet yours is only a country of barbarians. Your letter is filled with ample promises, such as might move even goddesses to yield, but if ever I violate the laws of chastity, yourself shall be the more powerful cause of my crime. For either I will always retain my honour without a stain, or follow you, rather than the higher hopes you give, not that I despise or slight them, for those gifts are always most acceptable which derive a value from the giver. But it is still more that you love me, that you run such hazards for my sake, and follow hope through all the dangers of the main. Nor do I overlook the signs you make at our table, though I artfully dissemble all notice. I observe your ardent, wistful looks and those meaning eyes that almost dazzle mine. Sometimes you sigh, and snatching the cup, fix your lips where mine had been before. Ah, how oft have I marked the hidden signs wafted from your fingers, and the lively language expressed in your eyebrow. I often dreaded that my husband might observe it and blushed at the two open signs you made. Oft I said murmuring to myself, this man will stick at nothing, nor was my conjecture erroneous. I have also upon the edge of a table, red, marked with wine under my own name, I love. I, with a frowning eye, seemed not to believe, but now, alas, I have learned to speak the same language. Where I, capable of being one, it must have been by those soft allurements, these only could have made an impression upon my heart. You have, it must be owned, an enchanting face, and charms that may make any one gladly fly to your embraces. A more fortunate maid may possess you with innocence, but my engagements forbid a foreign love. Learn by my example to live without the desired beauty. It is the highest degree of virtue to abstain from unlawful pleasures. How many youths wish for the same happiness as you, who make no advances? Or do you fancy that Paris only has eyes? It is not that you see better, but that you rashly venture more. Your passion is not greater, but your confidence. Oh, that you had then visited our coasts in a nimble bark when a thousand rivals solicited my virgin love. Had you appeared you would have triumphed over the thousand, nor could my husband have just de-blamed my choice. Now, alas, you come too late, to joys that are the right of another, and your slow hope invades a plighted love. But although it would have been more to my wish to live with you, yet does not menelares possess me against my will? Cease, then, for heaven's sake to urge a too sensible heart, nor strive to injure one whom you profess to love. Suffer me to live contented with the lot which fortune has given me, nor aim at the ruin of my unspotted fame. But Venus, you say, promised this reward, and three goddesses offered themselves naked to your judgment in the veils of towering Ida. One offered you a kingdom, another the glory of successful war, and the third promised to make you husband to a daughter of Tindereus. But I can scarcely believe that heavenly nymphs would have submitted to your decision in the case of beauty. And were this even true? Yet the other part is undoubtedly feigned, where you pretend that I was offered to bribe your judgment. I am not yet so vain of my own charms as to fancy myself the greatest reward, even in the opinion of the goddess. I am fully contented with my share of human praise. The applause of Venus can only produce envy. But I deny nothing these flatteries are also grateful, for why should I reject what I so fondly wish? Nor be you too much displeased that I am rather incredulous, for things of moment are not credited with ease. My chief joy is to have the applause of Venus, and my next, that I was esteemed the greatest reward by you, that neither the honours offered by Palas nor those of Juno were preferred to the famed beauty of Helen. You therefore chose me, in place of Valar, in place of a noble kingdom, it would be in human not to receive a heart so holy mine. But trust me I am far from being in human, and only struggle against loving a man whom I scarcely can hope ever to possess. Why do I vainly strive to tear up the thirsty sand with a bending plow, and cherish a hope which everything conspires to defeat? I am a stranger to the artifices of love, witness heaven that I never yet by any deceit abused my faithful husband. And now that I privately commit my thoughts to writing, my hand engages in a new and unusual task. Happy are they whom practice a friended expert, I, unskilled in intrigue, imagine the way device hedged round with thorns. This fear perpetually haunts me. Even now I am covered with blushes, and imagine the eyes of all fixed upon me. Nor is this apprehension wholly grandless, for already the rumour spreads among the crowd, and Aethra accidentally overheard some whispers. It is fit you dissemble all, unless you think it better to desist. But why desist you who can so well dissemble? Love still, but secretly. The absence of menelaus gives more freedom, but does not allow of all. He is gone upon a long journey called by urgent affairs. A great and weighty concern occasioned his sudden departure. At least so it appeared to me. I, seeing him, unresolved what to do, said, Go, and return with all possible dispatch. He, pleased with the omen, fondly kissed me. To your care, says he, I recommend my palace, my kingdom, and the Trojan guest. Scarcely could I refrain from laughter, and while I strove to stifle it I would only answer, It shall be so. He, it is true, spread his sails for Crete with a favourable wind, yet do not, from this, fancy yourself, wholly secure. My husband, though absent, has still watchful eyes over me. Are you unacquainted with the proverb that princes have long hands? My fame, too, is a great obstacle. For the more lavish you are in my praise, the more reasonable ground has he for suspicion. That glory once so grateful is now my bane. Far better it had been to be less known to fame. Nor wonder at his absence, all that I am left here with you, he trusted to my virtue and unspotted life. My beauty and shape implied danger, but my probity and fame made him secure. You desire me not to lose so fair a season or neglect the opportunity given by the simple good-natured man. I am willing, but afraid, my resolution is still unfixed, and my breast glows with all the anguish of suspense. My husband is absent, you pine in a solitary bed, and we are each blessed with a form that mutually pleases. The nights are long, we often converse, one house contains us, and you are kind and pressing. Let me die if all things do not conspire to crown our loves, and yet I do not know what fear still holds me back. It would be better to employ force than caught with words. My bashfulness might have been overcome by a gentle violence. Wrongs are sometimes grateful even to those who suffer them. It is thus I would be made happy by a seeming force. But let us strive rather to suppress in its birth the growing flame. A little water easily extinguishes the kindling spark. Strangers are incapable of lasting love, their passion wanders like themselves, and while we fondly believe it to be sure and unchanged, all is over. Hipsipilly and the Minoan maid are examples of this, who both were left to mourn their deserted beds. You, too, faithless man, are said to have abandoned Oinone, who had been dear to you for so many years. You must not attempt to deny it, for know that it has been my care to search narrowly into all. Add that were you inclined to a constant, faithful love, it is not in your power. Already the impatient Trojans prepare your sails. While you are yet in discourse with me while the wished for night is assigned, a propitious gale calls your way to your own country. You must abandon the unfinished pursuit and break asunder our new-felt joys. The relentless winds will bear away my love. Shall I then follow, as you advise, and visit the famed towers of Troy? Shall I become a wife to the grandson of mighty Leomedon? I am not yet so indifferent to the reports of spreading fame as to suffer it thus to fill the earth with the sound of my reproach. What may Sparta say of me and all Greece? What the nations of Asia, and even your own Troy? What will Priam, Hecuba, and your brothers think, and what will all the modest Trigian matrons? And even you? What confidence can you have in my fidelity, or how avoid an anxiety from my compliance in your own case? Every stranger who may arrive upon the Frigian coast will be a fresh cause of fear on my account. In your rage you will not fail to upbrade me with my crime, forgetting the part you bear in it yourself. You, who are the author of my guilt, will be the first to approach me. Oh, may the earth rather overwhelm me for ever. That I shall shine in Trojan riches and all the ornaments of a happy dress. You tell me that I shall meet with the reception far beyond even your promises, that purple and embroidered garments shall be given me, and that I shall be enriched by a mass of gold. But forgive the frank confession. These gifts have no chance for me. The ties that bind me to my own country are far more powerful. Who among the Frigians will resent the injuries which may be offered? What aid from brothers or a father could I there implore? Deceitful Jason won Medea by his unbounded promises, but was he less ready to banish her from the house of his father Eson? She had then no Aedes to whom she could fly for a leaf, no mother, Epsaea, or sister Calciope to hear her complaints. I indeed fear none of this, but neither did Medea fear. Love often contributes to its own deceit. What ship now tossed by stormy waves did not sail first from the port with a favourable wind. I am terrified, too, where the flaming torch which in your mother's dream seemed to spring from her womb before your birth. Add to this the prophecies which foretell that Ilium shall be consumed with Grecian fire. It is true that Venus favours us because she carried off the prize, and by your judgment triumphed over two. But then I fear again the resentment of the two, who in this contest so much to your honour lost their cause by your sentence. Nor can it be doubted if I follow you that troops will be raised to recover me. Our love, alas, must make its way through sword and slaughter. Did Hippodamia of Atrax instigate the Thessalian heroes to that cruel slaughter of the Centaurs? And can you fancy that Menelaus will be slow to revenge in so just a cause, or that my brothers and father will not contribute their aid? You boast highly of your valour and recount your noble acts, but your face gains no great credit to your words. Those limbs are better formed for the delights of Venus than the rude encounters of Mars. Let heroes distinguish themselves in war, Paris will shine in the softer pursuits of love. Hector, whom you so much commend, may bravely defend you against the foe. A different warfare suits those graceful motions. Where I, bold and daring, as many of my sects, I would throw myself into your soft embraces. But time and you may at last bring me to yield, when laying aside this foolish shame, I will gladly extend my consenting hand. You demand a private meeting, that you may acquaint me fully with all. I know your meaning and what you aim at by this conference, but you are too forward. Now is your harvest not yet come to ripeness. This short delay may perhaps promote the object of your hopes. Thus far my epistle bears the secret message of my heart, but the betraying pen has tired my tender hand. The rest you will learn of Eithra and Climany, my faithful companions and counsellors. End of Helen to Paris. In the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Andrew Coleman. Section 18 of Ovid's Heroides. Translated by an Unknown Translator. First published in 1813. Leander to Hero. Leander of Ovidus. Sends to his girl of Cestus those wishes for her health, which he would rather bring himself if the rage of the sea should abate. If the gods are favourable and wish well to my love, you will run over this with discontented eyes. But they, alas, are far from being favourable. Why else are my hopes deferred? Why am I forbidden to swim over the known seas? You see that the heavens are dark as pitch. The bellows swell with the wind, too fierce to be stemmed by the hollow ships. One mariner, more daring than the rest, who brings you this epistle, venture to leave the harbour. Here I intended to embark. If, when he weighed anchor, all Ovidus had not viewed us from the eminences, I could not, as before, have dissembled with my parents. And that love which prudence requires us to conceal would no longer have been unknown. Writing being now my only relief, I wrote, Go, said I, happy epistle, soon with a graceful smile will she extend to thee her fair hand. Perhaps, too, there may as to be pressed to her ruby lips, as with her ivory teeth she eagerly breaks the seals. After muttering this in gentle whispers, my ready right hand quickly marked down the rest. How much would I rather it should dash through the swelling flood than thus in languishing accents write my complaints? How much rather it should bear me sedulous through the well-known waves, for better does it indeed serve to lash the foaming deep, yet it is no unfit minister of my warmest thoughts and wishes. It is now the seventh night, a space to me more tedious than a year, that the raging sea has tossed her sounding bellows. May the angry sea prolong her rage with tenfold heat, if in all these lingering nights my distracted breast has tasted the sweets of soothing rest. Mounted on some rocky cliff, I pensive view the beloved shore, and am carried in thought wither I cannot convey myself in person. My eyes too behold, or seem to behold, upon the tower's top, the watchful light that is to guide my course. Thrice I stripped, and laid my clothes upon the dry sand. Thrice I attempted naked the threatening watery way, but the swelling sea opposed my bold youthful attempts, and, as I swam, overwhelmed me with adverse waves. But you, North, the most inexorable of all the raging winds, why do you obstinately raise up against me a malicious opposition? If you are not already aware, know that it is against me, and not the seas that you thus terribly rage. What would you do? Were you wholly a stranger to love? Cold as you are, perverse boreus, you cannot deny that you were once warmed by acty and fires. When keen to snatch the joys of love had anyone shut up the aerial way, how would you have taken it? Pity me, then, for heaven's sake, and blow more mildly the gentle gales, so may Eolus lay no harsh commands upon you. In vain I beg, he murmurs, and rages at my petitions, nor offers to smooth the billows which he has so violently agitated. Oh, that deedilus would gift me with daring wings, the acaryon shore so near causes no terror in me. I will boldly venture, whatever be the issue, let me only mount my body aloft in air, as it has often hovered upon uncertain waves. Meantime, while the winds and waves thus cross all my hopes, I revolve in my mind the first moments of our stolen delights. Night was coming on, but there is a pleasure in calling to remembrance past enjoyments. When, full of love, I left the gates of my father's house, then without a lay pulling off my clothes, and casting away at the same time all fear, I, with pliant arms, cut the yielding tide. The moon, like a faithful attendant to direct my way, furnished a trembling light as I traversed the flood, regarding her with a wishful look. Bright goddess, I said, favour my design, and call to mind the happy Latmian cliffs. Endymion cannot allow that you should be of an unrelenting mind, favour therefore with a friendly look these my stolen delights. You, though a goddess, left heaven in quest of immortal. Why should I not speak the truth? She whom I pursue is a very goddess. For not to mention her manners, the truest tokens of a heavenly mind, a beauty so exquisite can only fall to the share of a goddess. No face, Venus, and you accepted, can equal hers, nor trust entirely to my words, but view her yourself, as all the stars of heaven disappear before your superior brightness, when you shine out in the full splendour of your silver rays. In like manner, when she approaches, all other beauties are overlooked. To doubt of this Cynthia would be owning yourself destitute of sight. Having addressed her thus, or in words to the like purport, I, in the silent night, bore through the yielding waves. The surface of the deep, shone with reflection of the moon's rays, and in the dead of night, was a light clear as that at midday. No voice, no sound reached my ears, but the deep murmurs of the broken waves. The kingfish is alone, mindful of the once dearly-loved sea-ex, uttered in the softest strains, I know not what moving complaints. And now, my arms from each shoulder being spent with toil, I raise myself high upon the surface of the waves, and discerning at some distance a light, my flame, cried I, is there! These shores point out the darling light. Swift as thought, my wearied arms feel the returning vigour, and the billows seem to bear me up more gently than before. The love that warms my panting breast prevents me from feeling the coldness of the briny sea. The more I advance, the nearer I come to the wished foreshore. In fine, as the distance lessens, I feel my strength greater to proceed. But no sooner had I come within sight than, observing you a spectator from the top of your tower, I felt a new accession of spirits, and a fresh tide of vigour flowing in upon me. I studied to please my mistress, by showing a dexterity in swimming, and tossed my arms graceful in her sight. Scarcely was your tender nurse able to restrain you from rushing into the sea. I saw this also, nor was it an artifice to deceive me. Even all her endeavours could not wholly keep you back. You pressed forward to meet me till your ankles were covered by the dashing waves. You received me into your embraces, and almost smothered me with fragrant kisses. Kisses create guards, more than a full reward for the dangers of crossing the sea. You gave me the robes which you had taken from your own shoulders, and smoothed by locks wet with blinding dew. You, ourselves, the night, the tower, and that shining light which guided my way through the uncertain deep, were conscious of the rest. The joys of that happy night are no more to be numbered than the seaweed cast upon the shore by the raging waves of the helispot. The less the time allowed us for these stolen pleasures, the greater was our care, that not a moment should be lost. And now, the wife of Tithonus preparing to drive away the night, Lucifer, the forerunner of Aurora, rose above the earth. We rushed into each other's arms, and mutually snatched the ardent kisses. We complained of the night, that her stay was so short. At length, after many admonitions from your rigid nurse, and as many delays, I left the tower, and took my way to the cold beach. We parted in sadness. I entered the virgin sea, often looking back while my mistress remained in view. If any credit is due to truth, when making for your coast, I swim with ease. But as I return, I am threatened to be overwhelmed. Believe me further when I tell you, that the way to my hero is by a gently declining path. But in leaving you, I seem to climb an immovable mountain of waves, who can believe it. I return to my native country with reluctance. It is now against my will that I remain in my own city. Alas, why, when thus conjoined in inclination, are we separated by the waves? Why, as we have the same mind, do we not inhabit the same soil? Let me either dwell in your cestus, or you in my abidus. For the earth which you tread is as dear to me, as that which I tread is to you. Why am I thus troubled as often as the sea is disturbed by storms? Why are the winds an unstable cause of anxiety to me? The bending dolphins are now conscious of our tender loves, nor are the fishes of the sea strangers to my flame. The cause of the well-known waves is now distinctly marked, like a highway paved by the frequent attrition of the chariot wheel. I have often complained, that there was no way given but this. But now I complain, that this also is shut up by the cruel winds. The straits of the helispont foam by the breaking of the enormous waves, nor are the ships secure even within their harbours. Such, I imagine, was this raging sea when it first bore the name of the unhappy virgin. This spot is already too infamous by the fate of Healy, and, though I am spared, the name will be a monument of its crime. I envy Frixus, who safely crossed those stormy seas upon the ram that yielded the golden fleece. Nor do I yet require the aid of ram or bark. Let me have only a smooth sea, that with nimble joints I may plow the yielding deep. I depend upon no art. Let me only have leave to swim. Let me only have leave to swim. I will at once be ship, mariner, and pilot. I mine not heliké and arktos, the constellations that guide the Tyrion mariner. A love like mine asks no aid of vulgar stars. Let others observe Andromeda, or the bright diadem of Ariadne, and the Arcadian bear that shines from the frozen pole. Nymphs loved by Perseus, Jupiter, and Bacchus, I by no means wanted to guide my uncertain paths. I trust to another light, whose directions are much safer. While this points out the way my love can never wander in darkness. By observing this I may sail to the Caughtian realm, the remotest regions of Pontus, and all the coasts visited by the famed Thessalianship. In swimming I would bear away the prize from young Plymon, and from Glaucus, who was suddenly transformed by powerful herbs into a sea-god. My arms often languished through the continued agitation, and, nearly exhausted with toil, are scarcely able to bear me over the wide sea. But when I tell them, you shall soon receive the glorious reward of your labour, and encircle the snowy neck of your amiable mistress. Instantly they gather strength, and eagerly strive to obtain the reward, as when a fleet-horse starts from the Elian lists. It is mine, therefore, to observe the flames that glow within my breast, and follow you, my charming fair, who better deserve a place among the stars. You merit indeed to be translated into heaven, yet leave not these earthly abodes, or teach me in what manner I also may be exhorted among the gods. You are still here, and yet how seldom in the embraces of your wretched lover the seas and my mind are in equal disorder. What avails it that I am not separated from you by a vast ocean? Does this narrow strait less oppose our coming together? I doubt whether it would not be better, that, divided from you by earth's whole extant, I might be equally removed from hope, and my mistress. The nearer you are, the more violent is the flame that rages within me, and though the object of my hope is often absent, yet hope itself never ceases to haunt me. I almost touch with my hand some nearer are abodes, the darling of my soul, but alas, this almost often fills my eyes with sorrowing tears. Wherein does this differ from catching at the flying apples, or following after the deceitful flood? Shall I then never hold you in my arms, but when the unstable waves permit? Must storms ever be a bar to my happiness, and while nothing is more uncertain than the winds and waves, must my happiness ever depend upon the winds and waves? It is now too, the warm season. What am I to expect when the Pleiades, Arctophylax, and the goat deform the sea? Either I mistake in judging of the rash attempts of love, or even then, thoughtless, he will urge me to plunge into the waves. Nor imagine that I promise this because the time is distant. You shall soon have a proof of the reality of my design. Let the sea continue to rage for a few nights longer. I will again attempt to force my way through the opposing billows, either happily daring I shall safely reach your beloved shore, or a speedy death will put an end to all my anxieties. Yet I could wish to be cast where my hero lives, and that my shipwrecked limbs might be born into your ports. You will mourn my fate, and honour my breathless body with a last embrace. Then, sighing, say, Alas, I have been the cause of his death. Perhaps you will be offended with this threatening omen of a sudden fate, or alarmed by the suspicions which my letter betrays. But I desist. Dispel therefore your fears, and join your prayers with mine, that the rage of the sea may abate. It is requisite that it should be calm for a time, till I convey myself to yonder shore. When once I have reached the coast of my hero, let the storm return in all its violence. There is the fittest asylum for my shattered bark. There my ship may with a greatest security ride at anchor. Let the north wind shut me up there, where delay is sweet. Then, if ever, I shall be averse to swimming, and cautiously avoid danger. No reproaches will be thrown out against the unrelenting waves. No complaints made that the sea forbids a return to my native shore. Let me be alike detained by the winds and your folding arms. Let both these causes conspire to prolong the sweet delay. When the storm abates, my arms shall cut the liquid way. Only remember always to place in view the guiding torch. Till then, let this epistle supply my place, and heaven grant that I may follow it without delay. End of Leander to Hero Section 19 of Ovid's Heroides This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Anshulee van Wallachem. Section 19 of Ovid's Heroides, translated by an unknown translator, first published in 1813. Hero to Leander Come, my Leander, that I may really enjoy that welfare which you so kindly wish me in your letter. Every delay that stands in the way of our happiness seems doubly tedious. Pardon the confession, but I love not according to the common measure. We glow with an equal flame, but my strength is unequal to yours. For I imagine that men are endured with more steady and resolute souls. In women the mind is weak as well as the body. Delay a little longer, and I sink under the weight of your absence. You can elude the tedious hours by differently dividing your time. Sometimes intend upon hunting, sometimes employed in cultivating the prolific earth. The forum perhaps may interpose all the inviting honours of the palestra. Perhaps you are busy informing the generous deed, and teaching him to bathe rain. Now snares are laid for the fethers' tribe, now hooks are baited for the finny prey, and the lingering hours of night are lost in copious goblets of wine. As for me, to whom all these relieves are denied, what remains? Where I, even less the slave of a headstrong passion, but to love and endure. It is so. I indulge this so relief, and love you, my only happiness, above expression or return. Either I engage with my faithful nurse and silent discourse about you, and wonder what course can so long delay your coming? Or casting a look upon the sea, I chide, almost in your own words, the waves tossed by spiteful winds, or when the angry sea remits little of its rage, I complain that you might, but have no desire to come. Amidst these complaints, the tears flow in streams from my lovesick eyes, and are wiped away by the trembling hand of my aged nurse. I often search if I can find the print of your feet upon the shore, as if sand could retain the deepening mark. Eager to hear of you, or write to you, I am always inquiring whether any one has arrived from Ebertas, or who thinks of going thither. Why should I mention the many kisses I leverage upon the clothes you put off, when about to plunge into the waters of the Hellespont? But when light vanishes, and the more friendly hour of night, in chasing away the day, exhibits the sparkling stars. For, Swiss, we plound the watchful light upon the town's top, as a known guide and mark of your watery way, and, lengthening by the swiftly turning spindle, the twisted threads elude the tedious hours in feminine employment. Perhaps you may inquire what I am talking all this while. No name but that of Leander is in your hero's mouth. What do you say, my nurse? Do you think that my only hope has yet left his father's house, or are all awake, and is he afraid of being observed by his parents? Do you think that he is now pulling the clothes from his shoulders, and anointing his limbs with oil? She gives a knot of assent, not that she is moose by my embraces, but sleep gently stealing upon her shakes her aged head. Then, after short delay, I say, it is certain now that he swims, and tosses his pined arms amidst the yielding waves. Then, after finishing a few threads, in letting the winding spindle touch the ground, I ask whether you may have yet reached the middle of the strait. Sometimes I look wishfully forward. Sometimes I pray with the faltering voice that propitious gales may give you an easy run. I greedily catch at every sound, and fondly imagine I hear the noise of your approach. When thus the greater part of the eluded night is past, sleep insensibly steals upon my wearied eyes. Then, in dreams, I find you by my side, and perhaps much against your will you are induced to come. For sometimes I seem to behold you swimming near the shore. Sometimes you recline your humid arms upon my shoulders. Now I reach you the robe to throw round your yet moist limbs, an on-night clasp you shivering to my pounding breast, with much more besides, not fit to be mentioned by a modest pen, what in doing may give great pleasure, but which, when done, delicacy forbids me to name. An heavy wretch, it is but a short and fleeting pleasure, for you always vanish with my dream. Grant, heaven, that such ardent lovers may at length be joined together by sureer bonds, nor let our enjoyments be destitute of a firm basis. Why have I passed cold and comfortless so many solitary nights? Why, my dear swimmer, are you so slow? Why so often absent from me? The sea I own is rough and intractable, but last night it blew with gentle gale. Why was that opportunity lost? Why did you not dread that following storms might hinder you? Why was so fair an offer suffered to escape and no attempt made? Should a like opportunity of crossing with Cays invite you? Yet the other, as versed in time, was far the best. Soon, it is true, was a phase of the trouble deep changed, but when eager you have accursed across it in a shorter time. If you are detained here by storms, or this to make you complain, no tempestuous sea can hurt you when locked to my embraces. I could then calmly listen to his loud threatening winds, nor fatigue heaven whispers to smooth the swelling deep. But what has lately happened to cause his unusual dread of the sea? Why do tremble at those waves you formerly despised? For I remember your coming when the sea was no less obstinate and threatening, or at least not much less so. Then I conjured you to be wisely daring, that I might not have cause to lament the fatal effects of your boldness. When surrises of this new fear, which has your former courage fled, where is it of that illustrious swimmer who nobly despised the threatening waves? Yet rather continues thus, than again exposes yourself to former hazards, and to plunge secure into a calm and fighting sea, provided only you are unalterably the same, provided you love with the same ardour with which you ride, and this noble flame never changes into cold, lifeless ashes. I am not so much afraid of the winds that disappoint my earnest wishes, as of your love, that it may prove like the wind changeable and inconstant. I fear there not being held in the same esteem, that the dangers may be sought greater than the reward, that I am accounted to mean recompense of your toil. Sometimes I am uneasy, from an idea that my country may detract from me, and that attrition girl may seem an unequal match for a citizen of Ebitus. Yet I can patiently bear any affliction whatever, sooner than the apprehension of your being detained by another flame. Ah, let me rather perish than suffer under so cruel a distress, may fate end my days before I hear of the dreadful crime. Nor do I mention this from any reason you give me to suspect approaching grief, or because I am alarmed by some new-spreading rumour. But I am subject to every fear, for when did love yet settle in the quiet mind? Distance and absence feed my anxious thoughts. Happy they who always together know at once what they have to fear, nor feel the peace and grief of false alarms. We are as much disturbed by unjust fears as ignorant of real injuries, and each error begets equal anxiety. Oh, how I wish that you were here, that either the wind or your parent, and no rival there may be the cause of your long stay. For believe me, to hear of a rival would kill me with grief, and it is now long that you have been in thought, if you thus aim at my destruction. But you are not in thought. These might-arrows, I know, are grandlars. The envious wind alone oppose your desired approach. Dreadful how the shores are lashed by the vast bellows, how the day is hidden by gathering clouds. Perhaps the disconsolate mother of hell hovers over the deep, and her unhappy daughter is lamented in distilling drops. A dust-a-step mother, changed into a sea-guard, has deformed the channel that bears the hated name of a daughter-in-law. This sea, such as it is now, is far from being propitious to tender-mates. Here hell perished. I also am crossed by these obstinate waves, but you surely Neptune, if you call to mind your many flames, can never be an enemy to gentle-love? If neither Ammon, nor Tyria of exquisite form, are vain rumours of your guilt. If fair Arcyon, Sirse, and the daughter of Alamone, Medusa, her hair not yet breathless with serpents, blooming Loudes and Silano, ranked among the stars with many other names I remember to have read, were ever dear to you. These, Neptune, with many more, are sung by the poets to have lain in your embraces. Wise and, having yourself so often felt the power of love, do shut up the accustomed way by rough whirlwinds. Be mild, stern father, and reserve your tummels for the wide ocean. This is merely an arm of the sea that disjoint two neighbouring tracts. It is yours, triumphant, to toss the vast bulk of ships or sternly boisterous disperse whore fleets. It is below the court of the ocean to terrify an adventurous youth. A praise unworthy the boast of the meanest lake. He, indeed, is a noble offspring of an illustrious line, but arrives not as pedigree from Ulysses of hated memory. Permit him then to come and save the life of two. He only enters through swims, but my hope hangs upon the same waves with Leander. Hark! The tape crackles, for it burns beside me as I ride. It crackles and gives propitious signs. See, my nurse pours wine upon flames that yield a favourable omen. She cries, Tomorrow we shall be more and bears a goblet to her mouth. O Leander, whose image only fills my heart, strive to surmount the dividing waves and add in yourself another to our number. Return to your own camp thou deserter of social love. Why am I limp single in the midst of the bed? Nor is there any ground of fear. Venus herself will favour the attempt, and sprung from the sea will smooth the sea green way. I have doffed myself resolved to plunge amidst the waves, but this stormy strait is more favourable to the other sex. For why, when attempted by Frixes and his sister, did she only give name to this vast bulk of water? Perhaps you fear there will be no opportunity of returning, or you cannot bear a weight of double toil. Let us then, setting out from opposite shores, meet in the midst of the sea, and snatch the mutual kisses upon the surface of the waves. Let us then each return home, a small enjoyment indeed, but still better than none. How could I wish that powerful shame, which obliges us thus to conceal our love, which yielded desire, or trembling love give way to the dictate of fame? Honor and passion, things last incompatible, combat each other. Which shall I follow? Aware and my suspense? On one side is decency, on the other pleasure. Jason of Thessaly, soon after entering Colchise, bore away Medea in his nimble bark. When the faithless Trojan, that once arrived at Lesser Damon, he quickly returned triumphant with a spray. As often as you grasp the object of your love, you abandon her, and swim even then when it is dangerous for ships to cut the liquid way. But yet remember, O daring youth, who have so often raved the swelling waves, that you so despise the threatening deep, as not to venture rashly in times of danger. Ships formed with exquisite art are often massed by the foaming sea. Can your feeble arms cut the deep like laboring oars? You, Leander, fondly spring forward to swim, an attempt that snarled us with the daring mariner. This is their last resource when compelled by shipwreck. Alas, how unhappy I want to dissuade you from what I yet earnestly wish, and pray you may be bolder than my own admonitions allow. Yet so, that you may still come safe, and clasp my exulting shoulders with your worried arms, often plunged in the foaming waves. But as often as I turn my eyes towards the blue extent of the sea, I know not what coldness spread over my panting breast, nor am I less disturbed by the vision of last night, although expiated by many sacred rites. For about the approach of morning, when the taper gave a faint and glimmering light, at the time when dreams are usually counter-true, my fingers, dead and with sleep, had dropped the lengthening threads, and my neck was gently reclined on the barren ridge. Here I spied a dolphin glide through the raging waves. I saw it a real spectre, a no-deluding phantom, which, after being dashed by the waves upon the bubbling sand, was at once abandoned by its element in life. Whatever it may pretend, I am full of fears. Despite not the ominous dream, nor trust your limbs but to a calm, unruffled sea, if you are regardless of yourself, yet think of your dearer half who will never be able to survive your untimely fate. But I hope for a sudden calm to the troubled ways, then plunge with safety, and glide along the level tides. Meantime, as the threatening waves orbit your desired cause, let this episode soften the hated delays. End of Hero to Leander This is a LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox Recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jerry Dixon Section 20 of Ovid's Heroids Translated by an Unknown Translator First published in 1813 A Contious to Chidipi Banish all fear. You shall not hear again swearing favor of your lover. It is enough that you have once solemnly vowed yourself to me. Read. So may that painful illness which spreads over all your joints and racks my soul with a thousand fears leave every affected part. Why does the blush kindle in your cheek? For I fancy I see your color change, as in the temple of Diana. I demand nothing criminal. I only ask the affinity and allegiance which you promised in the temple of Diana. I love you as a lawful husband, not an infamous adulterer. Ah, only repeat yourself to those binding words, which the unthinking fruit thrown by my hands presented to your chaste eyes. There you will find yourself to be bound by that vow, which I could wish you had rather remembered than the goddess. But now I tremble even for that, while this hope has already gathered strength, and my flame increases every moment. For that love, which was always violent, is now increased by tedious delays, and by the hope you have cherished in my breast. You gave me hope. My love rested upon this foundation. Nor can you deny a thing that was done in the presence of the goddess. She was present and overheard your vow, and her statue was seen to give a nod of approbation. I allow you to accuse me of having deceived you by an artful management, if, at the same time, you own it was love that prompted me to the ingenious deceit. What did all my artifice aim at, but to be joined to you alone? What you complain of should render me rather doubly dear to you. My ingenuity came neither from nature nor from long practice. It is only you, dear girl, that can make me thus inventive. Love, fertile and expedient, furnish the form of words by which I bound you so close to myself, if indeed I really bound you. I inscribed a marriage contract and words dictated by him. It was by following his suggestions that I became so expert in the law. Let this stratagem then bear the name of fraud. Let me be called cunning and deceitful. If it can be called a fraud to aim at the possession of what we love. See, I write a second time, and send you my prayers and entreaties. This too, no doubt, is a fraud. You have in this also a ground of complaint. If it is a crime to love, I own it, and must still be guilty without end. I must still pursue you, should even you yourself avoid my eager hopes. Others have carried away by force the virgin whom they loved. And can it be a crime in me to write a few words with artifice? How earnestly do I wish I could bind you by a thousand other ties, that no liberty might remain to plight your faith to another. A thousand stratagens are still left. I struggle hard to mount the difficult steep, nor will my ardent flame leave any expedient unassayed. It is uncertain perhaps whether you can be gained, but assuredly you shall. True, the event belongs to heaven, still you shall be mine. Should you escape some, it will be impossible to elude all my snares. Love has spread more than you are well aware of. If artifice be unsuccessful, recourse must be had to violence, and ye shall be borne by force into the arms of your eager admirer. I am none of those who blame the brave attempt of Paris, or of any who have shown themselves men of steadiness and courage. I also will. But I am silent, or death to be the punishment of the daring rape, yet that is still less than to be deprived of you. Were you moderately fair, you would be pursued with a moderate impatience. But a form so enchanting makes us rash and resolute. You and your diluting eyes do ale this, those eyes that eclipse the sparkling stars, and have raised the flame that rages in my breast. Why lay you not the blame upon your golden locks and ivory neck, and those fair hands which, oh, how happy, were they finally circled round my neck? Why not upon your comely looks, and that enchanting face, where modesty shines without resticity? Your feet, which I can scarcely imagine are equaled by those of Thetis. Were I able to command the rest also, I should be much happier. Nor do I question that the whole frame is uniformly beautiful. What wonder, then, if overruled by so many powerful charms, I was anxious to have your promise as a pledge of your love? Let it be so, then, provided you are forced to own that you are deceived. I shall grant likewise that you were deceived by my address. Let me bear the envy, but let not the sufferer go without his reward. Why do I not reap the harvest of so great a crime? Telemann forced away Hesion, and Achilles Bressaeus, each captive followed her conqueror. Blame me as much as you will. I allow you even to be angry with me. If, though angry, I may be yet permitted to call you mine, I, who have raised this storm, will do all in my power to appease it. Let me only have some opportunity of softening and quieting your resentment. Let me stand before you, drowned in tears, and second my tears with the language they will naturally dictate. And, as as usual with slaves, when they are afraid of the whip, let me clasp my suppliant hands round your knees. You seem not to know the right you have over me. Summon me before you. Why am I accused in my absence? Command me to appear in the right of one that has been long my mistress. Though full of resentment you tear my hair, and disfigure my face with your nails, I will patiently suffer all. I may indeed perhaps be apprehensive that those fair hands may be heard in taking revenge. It will be needless to secure me with chains and fetters. Love is a bond that will retain me beyond the power of an escape. When your resentment is fully satiated, you will be forced to say, how patiently he loves. When you observe me submissively and do all, surely you cannot avoid saying, who serve so well? Let him continue to serve. Now I am accused in my absence, and my cause, though highly just, is lost for one of an advocate. But if it be allowed that the words I wrote, induced by love, are an injury, you have cause of complaint only against me. Does Diana also deserve to be deceived? If you will not perform the promise made to me, perform your promise to the Goddess. She was present and saw your blushes on finding yourself deceived. She treasured up your words with a recollective ear. May all the omens vanish in air. Yet it is certain that no one takes a severe revenge when, which heaven forbid should be your case, she thinks the homage due to her neglected. As an instance of this, the Caledonian bore may be mentioned. For we know that a mother was found more barbarous towards her son than even the savage beast. Other examples may be found in Actaeon, who appeared a savage to those very dogs, with which he had formerly hunted down savages. And in that haughty mother turned into a stone, who now stands disconsulent in the Macdonian Plains. Alas, Cytope, I am afraid to speak the truth, lest you should think I admonish you falsely for my own sake. Yet I must speak. It is on this account, believe me, that you are so often seized with sickness when preparing to wed. Diana herself wishes you guiltless, and strives to hinder you from running into perjury. She desires that, with faith unsustained, you may avoid giving offense. Hence, as often as you are in danger of being perfidious, the Goddess prevents the fatal crime. Cease them to provoke the deadly bow of the Implacable Goddess. She may yet be softened, if you will not obstinately persist. Forbear, amiable nymph, to enfeeble your tender limbs by praying fevers. Preserve that blooming face for the sake of a contious. Preserve those enchanting looks formed to raise a flame in my breast, and the lively bloom that varies your snow-white face. If any enemy interposed to obstruct my happiness, may he feel the same torments under which I languish when sickness threatens you. I am equally upon the rack, whether I hear of your intended marriage or illness, nor is it easy to determine which apprehension gives most anxiety. Sometimes I am distracted to think that I should be the unhappy cause of your grief, and fear that my innocent artifice may have fatal effects. Grant, heaven, that side of peace pejorics may be upon the head of her lover, and that the punishment may be transferred to me alone. Yet always restless till I know how it is with you, I creep silently to your gate full of anxiety. There, whispering privately to someone of the slaves, I inquire whether you have been relieved by gentle slumbers or refreshing food. Oh, were I blessed as the physician to reach out the cordial droughts, press your soft hand or lean gently upon the bed. But how hard, and yet more than wretched is my fate, to be thus banished from your presence, while he, whom most I fear, sits perhaps close by you. Hated alike by the gods and me, he is yet allowed gently to squeeze your hand and lean over your fading cheeks. Fond of every pretense to fill the beating vein, he slides his daring hand along your snowy arm, hides it in your bosom, and snatches the fragrant kisses, a reward too great for his officious care. What right have you to reap the harvest of my bliss, or how are you empowered to encroach upon another's bounds? Aye, that bosom is mine, you basely rob me of my kisses. Take off your hand from a body promised to me, traitor, take off your hands. You touch a bosom that will soon be mine. In doing this, hereafter, you will become an infamous adulterer. Choose from among others, where no prior right is claimed, for know that another Lord commands that breast, nor trust in my testimony, read the form by which she engaged herself, and, to prevent a possibility of deceit, make even sight of me repeat the binding vow. Again, then, I say depart from another's bed. What brings you here? Be gone. This bed is already possessed, for even if it be allowed, that you also have a promise of the butchess prize. Yet the justice of your claim comes far short of mine. I rely upon a promise made by herself. You claim the promise of a father. Surely she is to herself in a degree nearer than that of father. Her father barely promised. She hath vowed herself to her lover. He called men to witness, but she bound herself in the presence of a goddess. He fears a breach of promise. She dreads the guilt of perjury. Can you doubt after this, which has the gesture ground of concern? In fine, that you may be the better able to compare the danger on both sides, reflect only upon the events that threaten each. He enjoys perfect health. She lies in hazard of her life. We also enter the list unequally matched. Neither our hopes nor our fears are alike. You unconcernedly solicit the fair. To me a repulse is more insupportable than death. I am at present deeply enamored of what you perhaps may love some time hence. If you have any regard to right and justice, you ought frankly to yield to my superior flame. And now, when he inhumanly contends in an unrighteous cause, be attentive, side of me, to the counsel my epistle gives you. It is he that brings on your present illness and makes you suspected by Diana. Forbid him therefore, if you are wise, any more to approach your gate. It is your compliance in this case that subjects you to these painful calamities of life. Why is not he who occasions all these disasters punished in your stead? Banish him only from you, nor show an affection to one disapproved by the goddess. You will instantly recover your health and restore me to myself and happiness. Banish therefore fear, amiable maid. You shall enjoy an established health, only neglect not the temple conscious to your sacred vow. The heavenly powers are not appeased by slaughtered beasts. Truth only, and a faithful regard to our vows, can avert their anger. Let others to recover health, run through fire and sword. Let them hope for relief from bitter droughts. You have no need of these. Avoid only the guilt of perjury, perform the promised vow, and preserve both yourself and me. The not knowing that you are in fault will excuse what has passed. The form by which you bound yourself may have slipped out of your mind. But now you are fully admonished, both by my words and those fetters, which as often as you endeavor to break from them, bind you the faster. But could you get happily clear of even these? Still remember that you must invoke her aid in the pressing hours of child-bed. She will attend, and calling to mind the promise you made, inquire to what husband the birth belongs. If then you make a vow for your recovery, the goddess will disregard it, knowing you to be false. If you confirm it by an oath, she still knows you can forget your promise. As you can forget your engagements to the gods themselves. I am not so much concerned for my own fate, as still greater care burdens my mind, and fills me with fear and anxiety for your life. Why do your trembling parents mourn your doubtful fate, while you keep them in ignorance of your daring crime? And why are they kept in ignorance? It is proper that you disclose all to your mother. There is nothing, side-upy, of which you need be ashamed. Repeat all to her in order. Say that I first saw you, as you were engaged in the solemnities of the Buscan goddess. Tell her that as soon as I saw you, if perhaps you gave any attention to what I then did, my eyes were immovably fixed upon every limb and feature, that while I was thus lost in admiration, the sure sign of a growing love, my cloak insensibly dropped from my shoulders, and that afterwards you perceived an apple. Uncertain wints come rolling towards you, but cunningly marked within snaring words, which, as they were read in the sacred presence of Diana, made the goddess a witness that your faith is tied down to me. But that she may not be ignorant of what was contained in the writing. Repeat to her the words you at that time read in the temple. Mary without hesitation. She will say, the youth to whom the gracious gods have joined you, let him only be my son-in-law, whom you have solemnly sworn to accept in that character. Whoever he may be, as he has already made himself agreeable to Diana, he is agreeable also to me. Such will be your mother's behavior, if she really acts the part of a mother to you. Yet you may admonish her to inquire who and what I am, nor will she find the goddess to have been wholly regardless of your happiness. An isle, by the name Seos, formerly ennobled by the Caretian nymphs, is surrounded by the Aegean sea. This is my native country, and if you are pleased with illustrious names, my ancestors will not fall below your hopes. I have also riches, my morals are without reproach, and, if no other recommendations existed, love makes you mine by the justice-claim. You might even be pleased with such a husband, had no vow passed your lips. Such in one might be acceptable, did no prior engagement intervene. These words the illustrious huntress dictated to me in my sleep. These two wakeful love commanded me boldly to write, I am already deeply wounded by Cupid's darts. It is yours, fair nymph, to beware of being pierced by the arrows of Diana. Our welfare is inseparable. Have compassion, both on me and yourself. Why do you delay the only cure that remains for both? If I should accomplish this object, I will when the sacred salinity begins, and Delos is sprinkled with votive blood, consecrate a golden image of the happy apple, and upon it inscribe our fates in the following district. Ocantius proclaims, by the consecrated image of this apple, that the inscription engraven upon it was fulfilled to his desire. But not to fatigue you, already too much exhausted by a long epistle, and to end all in the usual terms of concluding, farewell. End of Ocantius to Cytopee. Recording by Jerry Dixon, Zephyr Hills, Florida. Section 21 of Ovid's Heroides. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kalinda. Section 21 of Ovid's Heroides, translated by an unknown translator, first published in 1813. Cytopee to Ocantius. I read over your letter in silent fear, nor suffered so much as a murmur to escape me, lest my tongue might rashly swear by some of the gods. I even think you would have ensnared me again, but that, as you own yourself, you knew it was enough I was once promised to you. Nor would I have read it over, but from a fear that my obstinacy might have increased the anger of the two cruel goddess. Although I forget nothing to appease her, and adore her with the smoke of pious incense, yet the partial goddess still remains your friend, and according to your own wish leaves no room to doubt that the injury with which you are threatened is the cause of her resentment. Scarcely was she so favorable to her own Hippolytus. It is surely more proper for our virgin not to shorten a virgin's years. I am afraid she has only allotted a few to fulfill my fate. For the wasting illness remains, the cause lies hidden, and I languish without hope of relief from the physician. You can scarcely conceive how thin and feeble I am when I write you this, or with what difficulty I support my wasted limbs in the bed. I am also full of apprehensions that some beside my faithful nurse may know of the art thus conversing with each other. She always sits by the door, and that I may write to you with the greater security, tells everyone who inquires after me that I am asleep. But when sleep, the best pretense in the world for long privacy, ceases to be a plausible excuse for the tedious retirement, and when she observes persons coming to whom she can hardly with a good countenance deny admittance, she coughs and warns me of the danger by some known sign. Intent as I am, I leave the half-ridden words, and slip the well-dissembled epistle into my beating bosom. I take it out thence when alone, and it again fatigues my moving fingers. Judge only yourself what pain and anxiety it costs me, and yet, to be honest, let me die if you deserve it, but I am kind beyond what is due, or even what you could in reason expect. Have I then on your account so often hazarded my life? Have I suffered, and do I still suffer the punishment of your too successful artifice? Is this the fruit I reap from a beauty that made you an admirer? And must I pay so dearly for appearing agreeable to you? Had it been my good fortune to seem ugly, how happily might I have escaped this train of disasters? Now, because I am admired, I groan in anguish, now I am undone by your rival contentious, and perished by the wounds I receive from my own beauty. For while you refuse to yield, and he imagines himself in no respect your inferior, each stands an invincible obstacle to the other's desires. I, in the meantime, am tossed like an uncertain ship, driven by a strong north wind to the open sea, but forcibly kept back by the tide and waves. When now the nuptial day, so earnestly wished by my dear parents, is at hand, a burning fever spreads over all my joints, and at the very time appointed for the threatening solemnity, stern prospering knocks hideous at the palace gate. I blush, and though conscious of no crime, dread that I may be thought to have in some respect merited the wrath of heaven. Some imagine that my illness is merely from chance, others pretend that the present nuptials are not favoured by the gods. Nor think that you have wholly escaped censure on this occasion, for many believe it brought on by your dark contrivances. The cause is unknown, my sufferings appear to all. You, banishing peace, are engaged in restless opposition. I bear the punishment of all. It is now indeed my desire that you continue to deceive me in the manner usual to you, for what will you do in your hatred, if where you love you create so much mischief? If you thus bring misery upon everything you love, it will be wise in you to love your enemy. Pray, make it your wish that I may be undone, for this only I find can save me. Either you have lost all regard for the girl you so much loved and coveted, and thus cruelly suffering her to perish by an undeserved fate, or, if you in vain supplicate the unrelenting goddess in my behalf, why do you boast of her concern for you? It is evident that you have no farther power with her. Choose which you will. If you were not inclined to mitigate the goddess, this is being forgetful of me. If you cannot, she has then abandoned you. I could wish that Delos, surrounded by the Aegean Sea, had remained ever unknown to me, or at least had not been visited by me at that time. The ship that carried me sailed through an inauspicious sea, and in an unhappy hour I entered upon the intended voyage. With what foot did I first set out? With what step did I leave the gate of my father's house, or touch the painted texture of the nimble bark? Twice our sails drove us back, swelled by adverse winds. Adverse, did I say? Far from it. That indeed was the favourable gale. That, I say, was the favourable gale which retarded my unhappy steps, and struggled to prevent an ill-fated voyage. How I wished that it had continued obstinately to oppose the spreading sails. But it is ridiculous to complain of the inconstancy of the wind. Attracted by the fame of the place, I was eager to come within sight of Delos, and seemed to traverse the deep with languid pace. How often did I chide the oars as slow in bearing us along? How often complained that our sails were not stretched by the stinted blasts? And now I had passed my Coney, Tenos, and Andros, and bright Delos was within view. Which I no sooner saw that I cried out, Why does the island seem to fly me? Do you, as in time, pass fluctuate in the vast ocean? Nor reached I land till towards the close of day when Phoebus was preparing to unharness his purple horses. When these had been recalled to their accustomed way, my mother gave orders to dress my flowing locks. She adorned my fingers with gems and my tresses with braids of gold, and threw over my shoulders the embroidered robe. We then walked towards the temple, and offered frankincense and wine to the guardian deities of the island. While my mother was engaged in sprinkling the altars with votive blood and throwing the sacred entrails upon the smoking fuel, my officious nurse led me through the several courts of the temple, and we traversed the sacred place with wandering steps. Sometimes I walked under magnificent porticoes, sometimes admired the rich gifts of kings, and the finished statues that adorned every part. I admired too the famous altar made of innumerable horns wonderfully, darefully joined together, and the tree that supported the pregnant goddess. With whatever other curiosities, for I cannot now recollect them, nor am I inclined to mention all I then saw, Delos boasts. While I was thus busy in viewing everything, you, a contious, by chance, aspired me, and my simplicity made me seem fit to be ensnared. I returned to the temple of Diana, placed high on rising steps. What place should yield a sureer defense from harm than this? The apple with the insidious lines is thrown at my feet. Ah, me, I had almost sworn to you a second time. My nurse first took it up, and wondering what it might be desired me to read it. I read, too successful poet, your ensnaring words. At the name of Wedlock, overwhelmed with shame, I felt a blush spread over all my face. My eyes remained fixed upon my bosom, those eyes which had been so subservient to your deceit-belames. Traitor, why do you triumph? What glory will this add to your name? Or where can be the praise to have diluted an unsuspecting maid? I did not stand fenced with a buckler, and armed with an Amazonian axe like Penthecilia, when she traversed the Illian plains. No girdle adorned with studs of gold as that gained from Hippolyte, remains the prize of your victory. What cause of boasting that I was deceived by your well-framed words, or that an unthinking, imprudent girl should fall into the cunning snare? Psy-dippy was deceived by an apple. It was an apple that deceived also at Elanta. You are now become a second Hippomanese. Doubtless it had been better, if urged by the little boy, who you say, wounds with, I know not what, dangerous arrows, according to the rule, inviolable with men of honour, not to debase your hope by fraud. I ought to have been openly solicited, not artfully circumvented. Why did you not think of asking me in marriage, and urging those considerations that might have made you appear worthy of being solicited by me? Why did you prefer deceit to persuasion, if the knowledge of your rank was sufficient to have gained me? What advantage can you expect from the form of oath you tendered, or my tongues invoking the present goddess? It is the mind that swears, but no oath binds me there. It is that only can give authority to what we say. Design and a soul conscious of its own views can alone give validity to an oath, nor can any chains bind us but those of the judgment. If my consent accompanied the promise I made to be joined to you in wedlock, you are at liberty to insist upon the rights of an uptual bed. But if all amounted only to a few sounds without will or meaning, it is in vain to depend upon your words destitute of validity. I took no oath, I barely read a form, nor was that a decent way of choosing a husband. Endeavour by the same artifice to deceive others, let the apple be followed by an epistle. If a promise thus made binds, make over to yourself the large possessions of the rich. Make kings swear that they will resign to you their dominions, and artfully secure whatever on earth is to your liking. Believe me, this would make you more considerable than even Diana herself if every letter you write commands the care of so powerful a goddess. And yet, after all I have said, after this peremptory refusal to be yours, and fully weighing the case of my extorted promise, I must own that I still dread the wrath of avenging Diana, and suspect that the present calamity comes from her hand. For why, as oft as the nuptial rites are to be solemnized, do the languid joints of the bride sink under a load of sickness. Thrice-glad hymen approaching the sacred altar's fled. Thrice, he turned away, frighted from my chamber door. The lamps, too, Thrice filled up by the wearied hand, are with difficulty lighted. Scarcely are they to be lighted up by the flaming torch. Ointments often distill upon his hair crowned with garlands, and his mantle of bright saffron dye sweeps the ground. But no sooner did he reach our gates than not was to be seen but tears, a dread of my approaching fate, and everything the reverse of his joyful rites. Instantly he tears the crown from his mournful forehead, and wipes the rich essence from his flowing tresses. He is ashamed to appear joyful and so disconsolate a crowd. And the red that was in his mantle mounts into his face. But my limbs are wasted by the raging heat of a fever, and the coverings seem to press upon me with double weight. I see my parents weeping over me with earnest looks, and instead of the nuptial I am threatened with the funeral torch. Compassionate my sufferings, O goddess that delight us in the painted bow, and grant me relief by the health-restoring aid of your brother. It is a reproach upon you that he should ward off the causes of death, while you bear the blame of my untimely fate. Did I ever, as you bathed in a shady fountain, impertinently gaze at you in your retirement? Did I neglect to offer sacrifice to you alone of all the heavenly powers, or did my mother ever treat Latona with contempt? I have offended in nothing but reading what led me into an unwilling perjury, and understanding too well the force of those ensnaring lines. But do you also, Acanteus, if the love you pretend is not mere dissimulation, offer incense for me, and let the hands that have done me so much hurt be now employed for my relief? Why does the goddess, so much incense that the maid promised to your embrace has not yet fulfilled her vow, herself obstruct the execution of that promise? Everything is to be hoped from the living. Why does the cruel goddess threaten to take away my life and blast all your promising hopes? Nor would I have you imagine that he to whom I am destined for a wife is suffered to cherish my sickly limbs with his gentle hand. He sits indeed at my bedside, for that has allowed him, but he at the same time remembers that mine is the bed of a virgin. Besides, he seems to be sensible of my coldness, for tears often fall from him without any apparent cause. He caresses me with less boldness, and seldom snatches kisses. When he calls me his dear, it is with a faltering tongue. Nor do I wonder that he perceives my repugnance to his addresses, when I myself have betrayed it by manifest signs. If he approaches the bed, I turn upon my other side. I refuse to speak, and close my eyes as if inclined to sleep. Or if he offers to touch me with his hand, reject it with some warmth. He groans in sighs within himself, and though far from deserving such usage, observes me cold and averse to him. Ah, me, how you rejoice! What pleasure this confession gives you! How silly to own thus frankly my thoughts of him! If I were to speak like myself, you who contrived these snares for me were far more deserving of my disdain. You write for leave to visit me in my present illness. You are far from me, and yet distant as you are, you wound deeply. I wondered with myself how you came to be named Acontius, but find now that you can dart wounds from far. It is certain that I have not yet recovered from this wound, pierced from far by your letter as by a javelin. But to what end should you come here, to see my feeble body, the double trophy of your ingenuity? I am a-wasted to a skeleton. My color has become pale, such as I remember to have observed in the apple you threw at me. My fair cheeks are no more adorned with a becoming red, but have rather the appearance of a newly polished marble, or silver at a feast, when deadened by the chillness of water. Were you to see me now, you would deny me to be the same with her you first saw, nor think me worthy to be sought by so many artifices. You would gladly release me from the promise I made of being joined to you forever, and wish that the goddess herself might also cease to exact the performance. Perhaps, too, you might endeavor to make me swear the contrary of my former oath, and throw at me another form of word, to be in like manner read over. Yet I could wish that according to your request you might see me, and learn the feeble condition of one whom you wish for your bride. Had you a heart, acontious, more hard than steel, yet you could not forbear addressing the gods in my behalf. But not to keep you ignorant of the only means left to restore me to my health, recourse has been had to the god who predicted futurity at Delphi. He also, as fame reports, complains of broken vows. This a god, this a poet, this even my own lines proclaim. But nothing of that kind is wanting to give force to your wishes. Whence all this favor to you? Unless perhaps you have found the secret to bind the gods themselves by a new form of words. If you thus find the gods propitious, it is fit that I submit to their will, and as they have made you their choice, make you also mine. I have already acquainted my mother with the vow into which you artfully betrayed me. Keeping my eyes full of shame fixed all the time upon the ground. The rest must be left in your care. It is even more than becomes a virgin, that I have thus ventured to make known my sentiments to you by a letter. My feeble fingers are now sufficiently tired by the pen, and my sickly hand is unable to bear longer fatigue. What remains for me to write, but that it is now my wish to be forever thine. Farewell.