The Amores; or, Amours: Literally Translated into English Prose, with Copious NotesOvid
General
The Amores; or, Amours: Literally Translated into English Prose, with Copious Notes
Ovid
Latin poetry -- Adaptations; Latin poetry -- Translations into English
Ah! how nearly was Pelops [522] falling by the lance of him of Pisa,
while, Hippodamia, he was gazing on thy face! Still did he prove the
conqueror through the favour of his mistress; [523] let us each prove
victor through the favour of his charmer. Why do you shrink away in
vain? [524] The partition forces us to sit close; the Circus has this
advantage [525] in the arrangement of its space. But do you [526] on the
right hand, whoever you are, be accommodating to the fair; she is
being hurt by the pressure of your side. And you as well, [527] who are
looking on behind us; draw in your legs, if you have _any_ decency, and
don't press her back with your hard knees. But your mantle, hanging too
low, is dragging on the ground; gather it up; or see, I am taking it
up [528] in my hands. A disobliging garment you are, who are thus
concealing ancles so pretty; and the more you gaze upon them, the more
disobliging garment you are. Such were the ancles of the fleet Atalanta,
[529] which Milanion longed to touch with his hands. Such are painted
the ancles of the swift Diana, when, herself _still_ bolder, she pursues
the bold beasts of prey. On not seeing them, I am on fire; what would be
the consequence if they _were seen?_ You are heaping flames upon
flames, water upon the sea. From them I suspect that the rest may prove
charming, which is so well hidden, concealed beneath the thin dress.
But, meanwhile, should you like to receive the gentle breeze which
the fan may cause, [530] when waved by my hand? Or is the heat I feel,
rather that of my own passion, and not of the weather, and is the love
of the fair burning my inflamed breast? While I am talking, your white
clothes are sprinkled with the black dust; nasty dust, away from a body
like the snow.
But now the procession [531] is approaching; give good omens both
in words and feelings. The time is come to applaud; the procession
approaches, glistening with gold. First in place is Victory borne [532]
with expanded wings; [533] come hither, Goddess, and grant that this
passion of mine may prove victorious.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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