Amores 1.12
Flete meos casus: tristes rediere tabellae;
infelix hodie littera posse negat.
omina sunt aliquid: modo cum discedere uellet,
ad limen digitos restitit icte Nape.
missa foras iterum limen transire memento
cautius atque alte sobria ferre pedem.
ite hinc, difficiles, funebria ligna, tabellae,
tuque, negaturis cera referta notis,
quam, puto, de longae collectam flore cicutae
melle sub infami Corsica misit apis.
at tamquam minio penitus medicata rubebas:
ille color uere sanguinulentus erat.
proiectae triuiis iaceatis, inutile lignum,
uosque rotae frangat praetereuntis onus.
illum etiam, qui uos ex arbore uertit in usum,
conuincam puras non habuisse manus;
praebuit illa arbor misero suspendia collo,
carnifici diras praebuit illa cruces;
illa dedit turpes raucis bubonibus umbras,
uolturis in ramis et strigis oua tulit.
his ego commisi nostros insanus amores
molliaque ad dominam uerba ferenda dedi?
aptius hae capiant uadimonia garrula cerae,
quas aliquis duro cognitor ore legat;
inter ephemeridas melius tabulasque iacerent.
in quibus absumptas fleret auarus opes.
ergo ego uos rebus duplices pro nomine sensi:
auspicii numerus non erat ipse boni.
quid precer iratus, nisi uos cariosa senectus
rodat, et inmundo cera sit alba situ?
Ovid
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Amores 1.12
Mourn for my misfortunes: the dismal tablets have returned
With the wretched message saying she is unavailable today.
It seems there is something in omens: just now as Nape was leaving
She caught her toes on the threshold and stumbled.
Now that you are sent out again, remember to cross the doorway
Cautiously and to soberly lift your foot high.
Be off with you, surly tablets, firewood fit only for funerals
And you, wax crammed with refusing marks which,
I suppose, a Corsican bee collected from the long-stemmed hemlock flower
And sent here in its infamously bitter honey.
You were even coloured red, as if dyed deeply with cinnabar,
But that colour was in truth the colour of blood.
Lie banished at the crossroads, useless firewood
And let passing wheels roll over and shatter you.
As for the man who changed you from a tree into a useful object,
I shall prove that he did not have pure hands;
That tree offered gallows for a wretched neck,
It supplied harsh crosses for the executioner.
It gave disgraceful shelter to raucous horned owls
And bore in its branches the eggs of vultures and screech-owls.
Did I insanely entrust my love to these tablets?
Did I give them messages of love to be carried to my mistress?
It would be more fitting for these waxed surfaces to bear babbling lawsuits
For some attorney to announce in strict tones;
It would be better for them to lie amongst the records and tablets
In which a miser mourned for his ruined wealth.
Thus I judge you, double tablets, to be also double-crossing:
Even your number is not well-omened.
What shall I pray for in my anger but that withering age will gnaw you
While your wax grows white with filthy decay?
Translated
from the Latin by Caitlin Spencer |
