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| Document | Max. Freq | Min. Freq | ||
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Polybius, Histories | 602 | 0 | Browse | Search |
| M. Tullius Cicero, Orations, for Quintius, Sextus Roscius, Quintus Roscius, against Quintus Caecilius, and against Verres (ed. C. D. Yonge) | 226 | 0 | Browse | Search |
| Titus Livius (Livy), History of Rome, books 1-10 (ed. Rev. Canon Roberts) | 104 | 0 | Browse | Search |
| Titus Livius (Livy), History of Rome, books 1-10 (ed. Rev. Canon Roberts) | 102 | 0 | Browse | Search |
| Cornelius Tacitus, The History (ed. Alfred John Church, William Jackson Brodribb) | 92 | 0 | Browse | Search |
| John Conington, Commentary on Vergil's Aeneid, Volume 1 | 90 | 0 | Browse | Search |
| Titus Livius (Livy), History of Rome, books 1-10 (ed. Rev. Canon Roberts) | 80 | 0 | Browse | Search |
| Pausanias, Description of Greece | 80 | 0 | Browse | Search |
| M. Tullius Cicero, Orations, The fourteen orations against Marcus Antonius (Philippics) (ed. C. D. Yonge) | 78 | 0 | Browse | Search |
| John Conington, Commentary on Vergil's Aeneid, Volume 2 | 70 | 0 | Browse | Search |
| View all matching documents... | ||||
Browsing named entities in Sextus Propertius, Elegies (ed. Vincent Katz). You can also browse the collection for Rome (Italy) or search for Rome (Italy) in all documents.
Your search returned 3 results in 3 document sections:
Cynthia Ode
HIPPODAMIAdaughter of Oenomaus, king of Pisa in Elis, and wife of Pelops. See Poem 2 note.
She's staying! She swore she'll remain! My enemies be damned!
We won: she gave in to unrelenting prayers.
Desirous envy can drop its false joys:
Cynthia's mine: she's abandoned going new ways.
She loves me. And with me, she calls Rome paradise.
Without me, she'll see no exotic kingdoms.
On the contrary, she prefers relaxing with me
on a narrow couch, mine on any terms,
to visiting the ancient kingdom of wealthy Hippodamia
and the riches Elis once procured with its horses.
Though he gave her much and promised more,
still she doesn't give in to greed and desert my embrace.
I was able to sway her not with gold, nor with Indian
conches, but with the blandishment of smooth, alluring poetry.
So there are Muses, Apollo does not desert the lover.
Trusting them, I love. Rare Cynthia is mine!
Now I touch the highest stars with the soles of my feet.
Whether day or night, she is mine!
My
Addressed to Roman society
HYPANISthe Bug, flowing into Black Sea at Odessa.
PROMETHEAN . . . HERBSreference to Colchian sorcery below Caucasus, where Prometheus is chained.
Why don't you stop fabricating the crime of apathy for me,
which you say, all you eyes of Rome, is the cause of our delay?
She is separated as many miles from my bed
as is the Hypanis from the Venetian Po.
Cynthia doesn't nurture my usual affections with her
embrace, nor sounds sweet in my ear.
Once I pleased her: no one then could
claim to love with such intensity
We were victims of envy: didn't some god eclipse me? Well, what
herbs from Promethean heights divided my bed?
I am no longer what I was: a long road changes girls.
In a scrap of time, love has flown so far!
Now, for the first time, I am forced to know long nights
alone and hate the sound of my own voice.
He's happy who cried for a girl who was actually there.
Love delights in being sprinkled with tears.
Or if the despised lover can change his pas
Sextus Propertius, Elegies (ed. Vincent Katz), Book 1, Narrated by a doorway, probably Cynthia's (search)
Narrated by a doorway, probably Cynthia's
TARPEIAN MODESTYrefers to Tarpeia, one of the original Vestal Virgins. Ironically, Tarpeia was the Virgin who opened Rome to the Sabines. She betrayed her city through infatuation.
Once I was opened to great triumphs,
doorway famous for Tarpeian modesty.
Gold-wrought chariots celebrated my threshold,
wet with the supplicant tears of captives.
Now I am insulted by the nightly brawls of party-goers,
battered so often by unworthy fists I complain,
ugly garlands hung all over me
and the familiar torches, signs of the excluded.
I can't defend the nights my infamous mistress leads;
though noble, I'm betrayed by obscene poetry.
(Still, she is not swayed to abstain from her fame
and to dwell in the excess of an uglier age).
Between these, I am forced to mourn—from the heavy
complaints, the long vigils of the tragic suppliant.
He never gives my posts a rest,
perenially reciting his poetry of grating flattery:
“Doorway, perhaps even crueller th