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Like the weary Cnossian maid that lay on the desolate shore while Theseus's sail faded far in the distance away; like Cepheus's daughter, when first she gave herself to sleep, Andromeda, freed at last from her flinty crag;
Waylaid by Love
Last night, light of my life, while wandering drunkenly, without attending slaves to lead the way, I met a throng of tiny boys - I do not know how many (fear forbade me number them) .
That trust is empty, woman, you place in your beauty's power, long since grown overproud by my admiring. Such honors once were paid you, Cynthia, by our love: I feel ashamed my verse exalted you.
An early visit
It was dawn, and I decided to visit and see if she slept alone: Cynthia lay alone in her bed. I stood amazed: she never had seemed more lovely to me, not even when, dressed in a gown of deep sea-blue,
Persephone, may this your mercy last, and you, Persephone's consort, be not over-cruel. There are so many thousands of lovely ghosts in Hell: let one fair girl, please, stay among the living.
An early summons
The middle of night, and a letter has come from my mistress to me, commanding my presence at Tibur without delay, where the gleaming hills display their double towers on high, and Anio's Naiad dives to the spreading pools.
Comments about Propertius
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Like the weary Cnossian maid that lay on the desolate shore
while Theseus's sail faded far in the distance away;
like Cepheus's daughter, when first she gave herself to sleep,
Andromeda, freed at last from her flinty crag;
like some exhausted Maenad, fallen from the endless dance
to collapse on the grassy bank of Apidanus's stream,
so Cynthia seemed to me to breathe out quiet repose,
her head reclining on her random hands,
when heavy with wine I had trudged homeward my weary way,
and the slaves whirled their torches in dead of night;
and I -...