P. Ovidius Naso, The Epistles of Ovid

But ah! Sicilian nymphs, beware, and banish from your isle this deceitful wanderer. Be not deceived with the fictions of an insinuating tongue; those faithless vows have all been made to Sappho. You too, Erycina, who range the Sicilian hills, think that I am thine, and pity the sorrows of your poetess. Shall cruel fortune still pursue the same sad tenor, and obstinately persist in heaping woes upon me? Scarcely had I completed my sixth year, when the ashes of a deceased parent drank my tears. My brother next, despising wealth and honor, burned with an ignoble flame, and rashly plunged himself into shameful distresses. Reduced to want, he traversed the blue ocean in a nimble bark, and basely hunted after those riches which he had foolishly lost. My many good counsels he repaid with hatred; such was the reward of my piety and plain-dealing. And, as if fortune had determined to oppress me without ceasing, an infant daughter has been lately added to my cares. Yet adverse fate still pursues me, and sends you, the last and greatest of my woes. Alas! How much is this tempestuous voyage of life agitated by unfriendly gales? My locks no more hang curled in ringlets round my neck; nor do the glowing gems adorn my joints. I am clad in homely weeds; no braids of gold bind the flowing tresses, nor do Arabian unguents breathe their sweet perfumes. For whom shall I adorn myself, unhappy wretch? whom shall I thus study to please? The only object of my tenderness is gone. The light darts of Cupid easily wound my gentle heart; and still there is some cause, why Sappho still should love. Whether the Sisters have so fixed my doom from the birth, and formed my life to the softer ties of Venus; or my manners are fashioned by my studies, and those arts in which I excel; the Muse certainly forms my mind to answer the molting notes of my tongue. What wonder, if my tender age yields to the gentle violence, and those years that recommend to the addresses of men? How was I afraid that Aurora might seise you for her Cephalus? And she would have done it, had she not been detained by her

first love. If Cynthia, whose eye extends over all, should chance to fix it upon you, Phaon would be commanded to prolong his sleep. Venus would have borne you off in a chariot of ivory to the skies; but she foresaw that you would no less charm her beloved Mars. O scarcely a youth, and yet not a tender boy; useful age for lovers! O pride and glory of thy age, come to these arms; return, darling of my soul, to my soft embraces. I ask not your love, but that you will kindly receive mine. I write, and, as I write, the starting tears flow from my eyes: see what a number of blots stain this very place. If you were determined to abandon me, it might yet have been done in a kinder way. Was it too much to say, Farewell, my Lesbian maid? You saw none of my tears, you received no parting kisses; nor did I at all apprehend what a load of grief awaited me. You have left nothing with your Sappho but wrongs and woes; nor have carried any pledge with you to renew the memory of our loves. I gave you no charge; nor indeed had I any other charge to give, than that you would

be always mindful of me.