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They so much wanted to win: they were fired up. I believe, you’re often ill. She protects your interests, she’s anxious lest you perjure yourself. which I allow that only you can grant me. Hermione to Orestes that I was said to be the prize for your judgement. I wouldn’t take the noise of rumour’s wings so lightly. She has written widely on Ovid and Greek epic and tragedy and is currently completing the first ever complete translation of Ovid’s Heroides into Chinese. If you saw me now, you’d deny you’d seen me before: you’d say: ‘This was not what my cunning sought.’. or is it cold and hard, and do the zephyrs bear away my idly falling words? and the old nurse, who knows, dries them with trembling hand. O woman worthy of Jove for a husband, if you were not his scion, either I’ll return to Sigeum’s harbour with you my bride. in the way good men do, not to ruin hope by fraud: better if winning by entreaty had been yours, and not snatching. and that it’s given you reason to hope to share my bed. I think this sea was found like this, when first. be present to me? my fearful heart’s possessed by some unknown chill. be considered unfit for marriage to Abydos. I remember your breasts were exposed, betrayed by your dress. My spirits recovered, a sudden courage came to me. Why from your lips comes many a complaint? If indeed the place outdoes this one in wealth and numbers of men, It’s true your letter offers such rich gifts. Nor could I render myself a reason why I did these things; I did not know what it was to be in love – yet in love I was. What I might fear: is not! I, who could charm the dragon to sleep, can bring none to myself; my effort brings more good to any one else soever than to me. and temples you’d say were fit for the gods. Forgo your anger: summon me! Your writing reached me Acontius, as it is wont to do. Bring for me the torches ye bear, Erinyes dark, and let my funeral pyre blaze bright from the fires ye give! When you see the refinement of our race of men. The bird sings of Itys, Sappho sings of love abandoned – that is all; all else is silent as midnight. Ah me! the light, who makes the Sun’s terrified horses shy from the feast: nor is Priam’s father red, with his wife’s father’s murder: a Pelops, who stained the Myrtoan waters with his crime: Nor is Tantalus my ancestor, snatching fruit in Styx’s waters. look at their state: she lies sick, and he’s well. I recognize the kisses – close caresses of the tongue – which you were wont to take and wont to give. and you might send me other words to read. that you come in hope, over such wastes of water. But Venus agreed this, and in the deep valleys of Ida. Of the marriage-altar. [39] Meanwhile the condition is imposed that you press the hard necks of the fierce bulls at the unaccustomed plow. Either I haven’t learnt how rash I might be. She you think capable of having compassed her husband’s death fears even to write of murder done by hands not her own! and I’ll be rich in heaped weights of gold! I do not plead for thee to love, but to let thyself be loved. Perhaps she’ll even touch you, with her snow-white teeth, bringing you to her lips, when she wishes to break your seal.’. But don’t ignore me: I seek from the god of Delphi, who foretells. While sword and fire are at my hand, and the juice of poison, no foe of Medea shall go unpunished! and you were seen to be a prize worthy of such a hero. Ovid's Heroides by itself deserves four stars, and one off for this translation. you have only idle words bereft of power. like swift horses of Elis, released from the starting gate. I’m not one who’s accustomed to criticise Paris’s actions.

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