Weep for my misfortunes: the unhappy tablets have returned;
The unlucky message says that she cannot today.
There is something in omens: Just now when she wanted to leave,
Nape was stopped when she struck her toe on the threshold.
Remember next time you’re sent out, crossing over the doorstep
Lift your foot up high, carefully and soberly.
Go from this place, obstinate tablets, funeral firewood,
And you, wax stuffed with words that will say no,
[Wax] I am sure was gathered from the the long
Hemlock blossom brought by the Corsican bees beneath infamous honey.
Yet you became red, as if deep dyed with cinnabar:
That colour was truly of blood.
Useless timber, lie flung down at the place where three roads meet,
And let the weight of a passing wheel crush you.
And he, who carved you for use from a tree,
I shall demonstrate that he did not have chaste hands;
That tree provided a hanging for a wretched neck,
It offered itself as fearful crosses for the torturer;
It granted shameful shade to raucous horned owls,
And carried in its branches the eggs of vulture and owl.
Did I madly entrust our love to these [tablets]
And give them tender words that had to be carried to my mistress?
These waxes might be better fitted to bear garrulous legal suits,
Which some attorney should read with a harsh voice;
These tablets would be better lie near tablets and account books,
In which a miser weeps for lost wealth.
So I have declared you twofold in affairs in favour of your name:
Your very number was not one of good omen.
What am I enraged to pray for, except that perishing old age
May gnaw at you, and your white wax be in an unclean place.
|
flete meos casūs: tristes rediere tabellae;
infelix hodie littera posse negat.
omina sunt aliquid; modo cum discedere vellet,
ad limen digitos restitit icta Nape.
missa foras iterum limen transire memento
cautius atque alte sobria ferre pedem.
ite hinc, difficiles, funebria ligna, tabellae,
tuque, negaturis cera referta notis,
quam, puto, de longae collectam flore cicutae
melle sub infami, Corsica misit apis.
at tamquam minio penitus medicata rubebas:
ille color vere sanguinulentus erat.
proiectae triviis iaceatis, inutile lignum,
vosque rotae frangat praetereuntis onus.
illum etiam, qui vos ex arbore vertit in usum,
convincam puras non habuisse manus.
praebuit illa arbor misero suspendia collo,
carnifici diras praebuit illa cruces;
illa dedit turpes raucis bubonibus umbras,
vulturis in ramis et strigis ova tulit.
hīs ego commisi nostros insanus amores
molliaque ad dominam verba ferenda dedi?
aptius hae capiant vadimonia garrula cerae,
quas aliquis duro cognitor ore legat;
inter ephemeridas melius tabulasque iacerent,
in quibus absumptas fleret avarus opes.
ergo ego vos rebus duplices pro nomine sensi:
auspicii numerus non erat ipse boni.
quid precer iratus, nisi vos cariosa senectus
rodat, et inmundo cera sit alba situ?
|
1.12.1
1.12.2
1.12.3
1.12.4
1.12.5
1.12.6
1.12.7
1.12.8
1.12.9
1.12.10
1.12.11
1.12.12
1.12.13
1.12.14
1.12.15
1.12.16
1.12.17
1.12.18
1.12.19
1.12.20
1.12.21
1.12.22
1.12.23
1.12.24
1.12.25
1.12.26
1.12.27
1.12.28
1.12.29
1.12.30
|
