Poenitet artis Pygmaliona suae, Quod felix opus esset, Infelix erat artifex; Sentit vulnera, nec videt ictum. Quis credit? gelido veniunt de marmore flammae: Marmor ingratum nimis Incendit autorem suum. Concepit hic vanos furores, Opus suum miratur atque adorat. Prius creavit, ecce nunc colit manus; Tentantes digitos molliter applicat; Decipit molles caro dura tactus. An virgo vera est, an sit eburnea; Reddat an oscula quae dabantur, Nescit; sed dubitat, sed metuit, munere supplicat, Blanditiasque miscet. Te, miser, poenas dare vult, hos Venus, hos triumphos Capit a te, quod amorem fugis omnem. Cur fugis heu vivos? mortua te necat puella. Non erit innocua haec, quamvis tua fingas manu; Ipsa heu nocens erit nimis, cujus imago nocet. TRANSLATION. ON PYGMALION. Grief for work his hands have done Harroweth Pygmalion; Happy reach of art! yet he The artificer, unhappily, He feels the wounds: what deals the blow? Can it be true? can flames from gelid marble flow? Marble, treacherous and to blame To burn your Sculptor with such flame! What madness in his heart is hid? He wonders at, he adores the work he did. First he made, and next his hand With wandering fingers softly tries The mystery to understand. Ah, surely now the hard flesh lies! Is it a living maiden, see! O treacherous blisses! Is it no marble? can it frail flesh be? Does it return his kisses? He knows not, he. He doubts, he fears, he prays; what mean All these sweet blandishments between? Venus, wretched Sculptor, wills You should suffer these sad ills; This is her triumph over you, Because at love your lips would curl; Your will not living overthrows yet this dead girl. Weep, ah, weep, Pygmalion! Though you shap'd her with your hands, With your chisel, out of stone, Not innocuous here she stands. O image of a maiden! If you so strangely baneful prove, With what despair will you come laden, Coming alive to claim his love! A. ANOTHER VERSION (_more freely_).