OVID: HEROIDES
XVI-XXI
Translated by A. S.
Kline ã2001 All Rights Reserved
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Contents
Daughter of Leda, I,
the son of Priam, send you health,
which I allow that
only you can grant me.
Shall I speak out, or
is there no need to signal known passion,
and is my desire now
visible, perhaps more than I wish?
In fact I’d prefer it
hidden, until the time is granted
when fear might not be
mixed with joy.
But I dissimulate
badly: who in truth could have hidden a fire
that always betrays
itself by its own light?
Still if you expect
it, I’ll add my voice also to the fact:
I burn – now you own
the word that declares my heart.
Spare me for
confessing it, I beg you, and don’t read the rest of this
with a harsh
expression, but rather one suited to your beauty.
I’ve long been
grateful: since the fact that you accepted my letter
gave me hope that, by
that token, you might also accept me.
Let it be so: I hope
Venus, Love’s mother, hasn’t promised you
to me in vain, she
who’s urged me to take this course.
And now I sail, by her
divine command – you shouldn’t sin
not knowing this – and
her great power is with me from the start.
I ask a great reward
it’s true, and not one that is due me:
Cytherea’s promised
you for my bed.
Guided by this, I’ve
made my uncertain way over the wide sea,
from Sigeum’s shore,
in the ship Phereclus built.
She brought me a
helpful breeze, and a following wind –
born from the sea, she
no doubt has power at sea.
May she continue, the
passion in my heart exhorts me,
so that I might reach
your harbour, and my wish.
I brought these desires
with me: I didn’t find them here.
They were the reason
for so long a journey.
For neither a wretched
storm, nor some error brought me here:
Sparta’s land was what
my fleet sought out.
Don’t think I divided
the waves with my ship carrying goods –
the wealth I have the
gods can keep.
Nor have I come just
to visit the towns of Greece:
my kingdom’s cities
are far richer.
I seek you, whom
lovely Venus drives towards my bed:
I wished for you
before you were known to me.
Your face was in my
mind before I saw you with my eyes:
news of your fame
first brought me the wound.
Still it’s no wonder I
love, just as if I’d been struck a blow
by the arrows from a
bow, fired from a distance.
So the Fates are
pleased: lest you try to shy away from them,
accept the words I
tell you, in true honour.
My birth delayed, I
was yet held in my mother’s womb:
by now her belly was
swollen with my full weight.
In the form of a
dream, she saw herself delivered
of a flaming torch
from her pregnant belly.
She woke terrified,
and told the fearful vision of deep night
to old Priam, and he
in turn to his seers.
One prophesied that
Troy would be burnt by Paris’s fire –
the torch in my heart,
such as there is now.
The beauty and vigour
of my spirit, though I might have seemed
to have been low-born,
were signs of my secret nobility.
There’s a place in the
midst of the valleys of wooded Ida,
solitary, crowded with
pines and holm-oaks,
where placid sheep,
and she-goats that love the rocks,
and slow oxen, with
open mouths, won’t graze:
There I was, leaning
against a tree, gazing down
on the walls, and high
roofs of Troy, and the sea –
behold, the earth
seemed to me to shake, at the tread of many feet –
I speak the truth,
scarcely having had faith it was true –
Mercury, the
grandchild of mighty Atlas and Pleione,
appeared before my
eyes, driven on his swift wings –
it was lawful to see
it, let it be lawful to say what I saw –
and there was a rod of
gold in the god’s fingers.
And at that same
moment three goddesses, Venus, Athene,
and Hera, set down their
tender feet on the grass.
I was stunned, and icy
terror raised my hair on end,
when the winged
messenger said to me: ‘Have no fear!:
you’re a judge of
beauty: end the goddesses’ quarrel,
one beauty is worthy
of conquering the other two.’
Lest I refuse, he
commanded it in Jupiter’s name,
and took himself off
right away, on the sky-path to the stars.
My spirits recovered,
a sudden courage came to me,
and I wasn’t afraid to
observe each one with a look.
They were all worthy
of winning, and as judge I lamented
that all of their
cases couldn’t succeed.
But even then one of
them pleased me more,
she, as you might
guess, is the one by whom love’s stirred.
They so much wanted to
win: they were fired up
to tempt my judgement
with powerful gifts.
Jupiter’s consort
mentioned kingdoms: his daughter valour:
I might wish to think
about power or being brave.
Sweet Venus laughed:
‘Don’t let either of their gifts fool you,
they’re filled with
anxious fear,’ she said:
I’ll give you, what
you should love, the lovelier daughter
of lovely Leda will
indeed enter your embrace.’
She spoke, and, with
her gift and her beauty both approved,
victorious, she
retraced her steps to the sky.
Meanwhile, I believe,
the Fates turned to my prosperity,
I was acknowledged a
son of the king, by proven signs.
The joyful house
increased, accepting a long lost child,
and also, because of
it, Troy had a day of festival.
Just as I desire you,
women desire me:
you alone can have
what many pray for.
Not just the daughters
of kings and lords seek me,
but I am cared for and
loved by nymphs.
What beauty greater
than Oeneone, in the world, is worthy,
after you, to become a
daughter-in-law of Priam?
But, Helen, the whole
crowd have become loathsome to me,
since I’ve had hopes
of making you my bride.
Waking, my eyes see
you: by night, my mind,
when my eyelids lie
conquered by tranquil sleep.
How can your beauty,
which I’ve not had pleasure in seeing,
be present to me? I
was alight, though the fire was far from me.
I could no longer deny
myself that hope of mine,
rather I sought out my
wish, by the dark-blue roads.
Phrygian pine fell to
the axes of Troy
and wood fit for the
ocean waves:
The tall groves were
stripped from high Gargara,
and Ida yielded me
timbers without number.
Oak is curved for the
foundations of my swift ships,
and their ribs are
pinned to the curving keel.
Yards are added to
masts, and receive the hanging shrouds,
and the raked sterns
receive pictures of the gods:
so that the captain
sails, an ornate goddess standing there
as sponsor of his union,
accompanied by a little Cupid.
After the last hand
had finished work on the fleet,
I was happy to leave
,right away, for Aegean waters.
but father and mother
stopped me, asking for my prayers
and delaying my going
by their pious intent:
and my sister
Cassandra, just as she was, with hair unbound,
cried out, as our
ships were ready to sail:
‘Where are you rushing
to? You’ll bring fire back with you!
You don’t know how
great the flames are you seek in those waters!’
The prophetess was
right: I found the fires she spoke of,
and savage love blazes
in my tender heart.
I left the harbour and
carried by helpful winds
I landed on your
shores, bride, scion of Oebalus.
Your husband welcomes
me as a guest: this too
didn’t happen without
the counsel and will of the gods.
In fact he showed me
whatever in all of Sparta
is worthy and
distinguished enough to be shown:
But I desired to see
your much-praised beauty,
there was nothing else
that could captivate my eyes.
When I saw you, I was
stunned, and, astonished,
I felt new love swell
in my deepest heart.
As far as I could
remember, you had such looks
as when Cytherea came
to me for judgement.
Equally, if you’d been
in that competition,
Venus winning the palm
would have been in doubt.
Fame in fact has
greatly commended you,
and no land is
ignorant of your beauty.
No other beauty has a
name like yours,
anywhere from Phrygia
to the place the sun rises!
Do you trust me in
this? – Your fame is less than the truth
and fame’s almost
unkind to your beauty.
I find more here than
She promised me,
and your reality
exceeds your fame.
So Theseus, who knew
all this, deserved to be on fire,
and you were seen to
be a prize worthy of such a hero,
when, according to
your people’s custom, you exercised, naked,
in the gleaming
gymnasium, a woman among the naked men.
I praise the fact he
took you: I’m amazed he ever returned you.
a prize so great
should have been held forever.
My head would have
been severed from my blood-stained neck
before I’d have seen
you taken from my bed.
Do you think my hands
could ever wish to let you go?
Do you think that
while I lived I’d let you leave my side?
If you’d had to be
given up, still, before I produced you,
Venus would not have
been entirely idle,
Either I’d have taken
your virginity, or I’d have snatched
what I could, leaving
you still intact.
Only give yourself: so
you’ll know Paris is faithful:
the flame of my
funeral pyre alone can end these flames.
I preferred you to
kingdoms, that the great wife,
and sister, of Jupiter
once offered me,
and, while I can
encircle your neck with my arms,
the power of Pallas’s
gift’s contemptible to me.
I’ve no regret, nor
does anything I chose seem foolish:
my heart remains firm
in its desire for you.
I only pray my hope is
not allowed to die, oh you,
so worthy, I seek with
so much labour!
I’m not a low-born man
choosing a noble wife,
it would not, trust
me, be shameful to be mine.
If you ask you’ll find
Electra the Pleiad, and Jove in my line,
to say nothing of my
later ancestors.
My father rules Asia,
there’s no richer region,
with immense borders
that can scarcely be surveyed.
You’ll see endless
cities, and golden palaces,
and temples you’d say
were fit for the gods.
You’ll see Troy, and
its strong walls with high turrets,
built by the music of
Apollo’s lyre.
What can I tell you of
the crowds, and the host of warriors?
The earth can scarcely
sustain so many people.
The Trojan women will
come to meet you in a dense throng,
and our halls will not
hold all the daughters of Phyrgia.
O how often you’ll
say: ‘How poor our Achaia is!’
One house will display
the wealth of a city.
But it wouldn’t be
right for me to condemn your Sparta:
the land where you
were born is rich for me.
But Sparta’s tiny,
you’re worthy of a wealthy culture:
that place is not
beneficial to your beauty.
That beauty should
enjoy copious adornments, without end,
and it’s fitting that
new delights overflow for you.
When you see the
refinement of our race of men,
what will you consider
the daughters of Greece possess?
Grant only that you
won’t reject a Phrygian husband too easily,
girl born in
Therapnaean country.
It’s a Phrygian,
Ganymede, one born of our race,
who mixes nectar now
for the gods.
It’s a Phrygian,
Tithonus, who’s Aurora’s husband: the goddess
carried him off, she
who prescribes the final border of night.
Anchises, is Phrygian
too, whom the mother of the winged Cupids
loves to lie with on
the ridges of Mount Ida.
Nor do I think
Menelaus will be preferred to me, in your mind,
when we’re compared in
age and beauty.
I’ll certainly not
give you Atreus as a father-in-law, who banishes
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,
and seeking moisture
in the midst of the stream.
Shouldn’t it concern
me that one born of those has you?
To think that Jove’s
the father-in-law of this house!
Ah, the crime of it!
All the night that man who’s unworthy of you
holds you in his
embrace, and enjoys you to the full:
but I, in short,
scarcely see you when the tables are set,
and that time too is
full of things that wound me.
May my enemies
experience such feasts as ours,
that I often suffer
when the wine goes round.
I’m sorry I’m a guest,
when I see that boor
put his arms round
your neck, as I watch.
I swell with anger and
envy – why shouldn’t I tell all –
when he fondles your
limbs beneath your clothes.
Truly, when you grant
him gentle kisses in my presence,
I place the cup I’ve
lifted in front of my eyes:
I drop my gaze when
you take his arm,
and the food sticks in
my unwilling throat.
Often I give a groan:
and you, impudent girl, I noticed,
you can’t hold back
your laughter at my groans.
Often I’d have drowned
my passion in wine, but it grew,
and drunkenness was a
fire added to a fire.
Many times, not to see
you, I reclined with my face averted:
but my eyes were
immediately called back to you.
I’m not sure what I’ll
do: it’s a grief to see you,
but a worse grief to be
absent from your face.
As I can and might, I
struggle to hide my passion,
but though I pretend,
my love still shows.
I’m not lying to you:
you feel my wounds, you feel:
and I hope they are
only known to you.
Ah, how often I’ve
turned my face away when tears came,
so he might not see
the reason for my tears.
Ah, how often in drink
I’ve told of some love affair,
repeating every word
that troubles you,
and expressing my
judgment under cover of my tale:
truly I was that
lover, if you didn’t realise.
Indeed, so that I
might use lascivious words,
more than once my
drunkenness was feigned.
I remember your
breasts were exposed, betrayed by your dress,
and gave my eyes an
opening to your nakedness,
breasts whiter than
pure snow, or milk
or Jove, that swan,
who embraced your mother.
While I was stunned,
gazing – as I held a cup tightly –
the handle slipped
from my curving fingers.
If you gave your
daughter, Hermione, kisses, I delighted
right away in taking
them from her tender lips.
And now, reclining
there, I sang of ancient loves,
and now, by nods, I
gave you secret messages.
And I dared to address
your close friends recently,
Clymene and Aethra, in
flattering tones:
who said no more to me
than that they were frightened,
and left me, in the
middle of stating my requests.
The gods should make
you the prize in some great contest,
and the victor might
have you, for his bed,
as Hippomenes took
Atalanta, Schoeney’s daughter, in the race,
as Hippodamia came to
Phrygian Pelops’s breast,
as Hercules broke
Achelous’s horn,
while he sought your
embrace, Deianira.
My courage might have
passed boldly through these trials,
and you would have
been needful of my efforts.
Now there’s nothing
left for me but to beg, my lovely one,
and clasp your ankles,
if you allow it.
O beauty, O present
glory of the Twins,
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
or, exiled, I’ll be
covered by the earth here, in Taenaria!
My heart’s not been
lightly grazed by the arrow’s point:
the wound has
penetrated to my bones!
Now I recall, that to
be pierced by a heavenly arrow
was the truth that my
sister prophesied.
Helen, forebear to
deny the love we’re given –
so that the gods will
be ready to hear your prayers.
Many things come to
mind: but, to say more in person,
take me to your bed in
the silence of the night.
Perhaps you’re
ashamed, and fear to desecrate the marriage bond
and betray the chaste
rights of your lawful bed?
Ah, I won’t speak
crudely, or too frankly Helen,
but do you think
beauty can ever be free from sin?
You must either alter
your beauty or be less harsh:
Chastity conflicts
with great loveliness.
Jupiter delights in
these intrigues, and lovely Venus:
such an intrigue
surely gave you Jove for a father.
If the forces of love
are in the seed it could hardly be
that the daughter of
Jove and Leda could be chaste.
Still you’d be chaste
while you kept to my Troy,
and I ask that I might
be your only crime.
Now we’ll offend in
what our hour of marriage will set right,
if only Venus made me
no idle promises.
But indeed your
husband persuades you to this, voicelessly:
he’s away, that his
guest’s intrigue might not be hindered.
he found no time more
fitting, to see his Cretan kingdom –
oh, what a wonderfully
cunning man!
‘Wife, run my affairs,
and as I’ve asked you,’ he said on leaving,
‘take care of my
guest, in my place.’
I’m a witness, you’ll
slight your absent husband,
if your every care’s
not for your guest.
Do you hope this
thoughtless man, my Tyndaris,
might sufficiently
understand your gift of beauty?
You’re wrong: he’s
ignorant: if he thought that what he held
was some great good,
he wouldn’t trust it to a stranger.
Even if you’re not
stirred by my voice or my ardour,
I’m compelled to seize
the advantage:
if not I’d be as
foolish as indeed he is himself,
in letting such a
carefree time be idly lost.
Your lover’s almost
been led to you, by his hand:
use your husband’s
mandate in all innocence!
You lie alone in your
empty bed, through such long nights:
on my empty couch
indeed I too lie alone.
Let’s join in shared
delights, you with me, and I with you:
midnight will be
brighter than the day.
Then I’ll swear to you
by whatever gods
and I’ll be bound by
my words according to your rites:
then, unless our
pledge is false,
I’ll make ready for
you to travel to my kingdom.
If you’re ashamed, and
fear lest you’re seen to go with me,
I’ll be the sole
culprit in our crime.
I’ll imitate the deed
of Theseus, and your twin brothers:
I can touch on no more
appropriate example.
Theseus snatched you,
the Twins took the daughters of Leucippus:
I’ll be numbered there
too, as a fourth example.
The Trojan fleet is
here, equipped with arms and men:
soon wind and oar
could send them on their way.
A mighty queen you’ll
go, through the Dardanian cities,
and people will think
you’re a new goddess there,
as you take your
course the flames will burn with cinnamon,
and a victim falling
will strike the blood-stained earth.
My father will bring
you gifts, and my brothers, mother, sisters,
all the daughters of
Ilium, the whole of Troy.
Ah me! I can scarcely
speak a tiny part of what will be,
more will be given to
you than my letter mentions.
Don’t fear if you’re
snatched away fierce war will pursue us,
and mighty Greece
rouse its armed men.
Of all the abducted
have any been brought back by armies?
Trust me, that
thought’s full of idle fear.
The Thracians seized
Orythia, Erectheus’s daughter,
in Boreas’s name, and
Bistonia was safe from war.
Jason of Pagasa took
Phasian Medea, in the first ship, the Argo,
and the land of
Thessaly wasn’t harmed at Colchian hands.
Theseus who also took
you, snatched the Minoan, Ariadne:
yet Minos did not call
on the Cretans to take up arms.
The fear’s often
greater than the risk in these things:
who’s afraid ends up
ashamed, for what they might have lost.
Still, imagine, if you
wish, a mighty war’s begun:
I have warriors, and
my weapons can do harm.
Asia is no less
wealthy than your country:
she has a wealth of
men and horses.
Nor does Menelaus, son
of Atreus, have more courage
than Paris, nor is he
superior in arms.
When only a boy, I
recovered our stolen herds, slaying the enemy, and for that reason bear the
name, Alexander, ‘defender’.
When only a boy, I
conquered youths in varied competition,
among whom were
Ilioneus and Deiphobus.
Lest you think I’m
only to be feared in hand-to-hand combat,
I can pierce with my
arrow whatever place you choose.
Can you show me deeds
like these, in his early youth:
can you train the son
of Atreus in my arts?
If you grant all that,
can you grant him Hector for a brother?
He alone would be like
having innumerable soldiers.
You don’t know my
worth, and my strength’s deceptive:
you, who’ll be his
future bride, don’t know the man.
So they’ll either
demand you back, without the tumult of war,
or the Greek force
will fall to my army.
Yet I’d not be
displeased to take up arms for such a wife:
great prizes arouse
competition.
You too, if all the
world contends because of you,
you’ll bear a famous
name, to all posterity.
Only trust me:
fearlessly departing, with the gods we favour,
claim my service, as
we swore, in complete faith.
Paris, if only I might
have not read what I’ve read,
I might indeed retain
your good regard as before.
Now that my eyes have
been troubled by your letter,
I take pride in not
replying lightly.
A chance stranger to
our sacred hospitality you’ve dared
to tamper with the
rightful loyalty of a wife!
When Taenarus’s shore
welcomed you, driven by stormy seas,
to its harbour, and,
our kingdom held no doors shut against you, though you come of a foreign
people,
is insult then to be
the reward for such great services?
You who so enter, are
you friend or enemy?
No doubt, in your
judgement, my reproach,
though just, might
indeed be called naive.
Let me be naive, then,
as long as I’m not smeared with shame,
and the course of my
life is free of blemish.
If there’s no sad
expression on my face,
and I don’t sit grimly
with a frown on my brow,
still my reputation’s
spotless, and as yet, without sin,
I entertain myself,
and no adulterer has my approval.
I’m the more surprised
you’ve confidence in your attempt,
and that it’s given
you reason to hope to share my bed.
Perhaps because
Neptune’s hero, Theseus, took me by force,
once taken I’m thought
worthy of being taken twice?
If I’d been seduced,
the crime would have been mine:
since I was forced,
what was I but unwilling?
He still didn’t get
from his deed the fruits he sought:
I returned untouched
except by fear.
The insolent man only
stole a few kisses:
he had nothing further
from me.
Your wickedness
mightn’t have been content with that.
The gods help me! He
wasn’t like you.
He returned me intact,
and his restraint lessened the crime,
and it’s obvious the
young man repented of his actions.
Did Theseus repent, so
that Paris might succeed him,
so that my name would
always be on men’s lips?
Yet I’m not angry –
who’s angered by a lover? –
If only the love you
show for me isn’t false.
Indeed I doubt that
too, not because assurance is lacking,
or that my beauty’s
not well-known to me,
but because
credulity’s usually harmful to girls
and they say your
words lack truth.
It may be said others
sin, and a chaste woman’s rare.
Why is my name
forbidden to be among the rare ones?
Or that my mother
seems suited to you, by whose example
you may think you can
sway me too: it’s an error: my mother
accepted love-making
while under a false illusion:
the adulterer was
hidden by a swan’s plumage.
I can’t pretend
ignorance, if I sin: nor would there be any error
that could screen the
fact of my crime.
She erred in good
faith, and the wrong was redeemed by its author.
For what Jove could I
be said to be happily at fault?
And you mention your
race, forebears, your royal name:
this house is
distinguished enough in its nobility.
Not to speak of
Jupiter, my husband’s ancestor, and all the glory
of Pelops, Tantalus’s
son, and of Tyndareus:
Leda, deceived by the
swan, gave me Jupiter for a father,
she who trustingly
fondled the illusory bird in her lap.
Now go on telling me
of the distant origin of the Phrygian race
and of Priam and his
father Laomedon!
I admire them: but he
who’s your greatest glory is fifth in line
from you: Jupiter, who
would be first in line from my name.
Though I suppose your
sceptre to be a power in your land,
yet I don’t think ours
is less mighty.
If indeed the place
outdoes this one in wealth and numbers of men,
certainly yours is a
barbarous country.
It’s true your letter
offers such rich gifts
that they might move
the gods themselves.
But if I wished now to
cross the bounds of modesty,
you yourself would be
a better reason for my sin.
Either I’ll keep my
name forever without stain
or I’ll follow you
rather than your gifts.
While I don’t reject
them, gifts are always the most acceptable
when the author of
them has made them precious.
It’s more that you
love me, that I’m the reason for your labours,
that you come in hope,
over such wastes of water.
Also, persistent man,
I notice what you do now
when the tables are
laid, though I try to pretend –
when you only look at
me with your eyes, impudent, bold,
the gaze which my eyes
can scarcely bear,
and now you sigh, and
now you take the cup nearest me,
and where I drank
from, you drink from that place too.
Ah, how many times
I’ve seen your fingers, how many times,
giving secret signals,
and your eyebrows almost speaking!
And often I’ve been
fearful lest my husband might see it,
and I blushed at the
signs you didn’t sufficiently hide.
Often I’ve whispered
or, not even aloud, I’ve said:
‘This man has no
shame!’ nor did that voice deceive me.
Also I’ve read, on our
corner of the table beneath my name,
what the letters,
composed with wine, spelt: ‘I love.’
I still refused to
believe it, giving a look of denial.
Ah me, now I’ve learnt
how to speak in that manner!
These are the
blandishments, if I’d been sinful, that might
have deflected me:
these might have captured my heart.
It’s also I confess
your rare beauty: and a girl
could want to fall
into your embrace.
But some other might
be made happier, without sinning,
rather than that my
honour fall to a foreign lover.
Only, learn by example
to be able to do without beauty:
virtue is to refrain
from self-indulgent pleasures.
How many young men, do
you think, wish for what you wish for?
Are they wise, or is
Paris the only one with eyes?
You see no more than
them, but you dare more rashly:
you’ve no more
judgement, but less composure.
I wish that your swift
ship had come then,
when a thousand
suitors sought my virginity.
If I’d seen you, you’d
have been first among the thousand:
my husband himself
will pardon my opinion.
You come late, to
delights already taken and possessed:
you hope was tardy:
what you seek another has.
Though I chose to
become your bride in Troy,
Menelaus does not hold
me here unwillingly.
I beg you, stop
tearing my heart apart sweetly with your words,
don’t hurt me, whom
you say you love:
but allow me to keep
the situation fate has granted,
and don’t shamefully
make a prize of my honour.
But Venus agreed this,
and in the deep valleys of Ida
three naked goddesses
showed themselves to you:
and while one offered
a kingdom, and another fame in battle,
the third said: ‘Helen
will be your bride!’
It’s hard to believe,
for my part, that those heavenly bodies
were presented to you
for judgement on their beauty:
if it were true,
certainly the rest is fiction,
that I was said to be
the prize for your judgement.
I don’t have enough
confidence in my body to think that I
might have been the
finest gift the goddess could call on.
I’m content that men’s
eyes approve my beauty:
Venus praising me
would be a cause of envy.
But I won’t refute a
thing: I favour your praise too:
For, heart, why reject
the voice that is desired?
Don’t be angry if my
belief in you comes only with great difficulty:
trust in important
things usually builds slowly.
My prime pleasure is
to have so pleased Venus:
the next, that you saw
me as the greatest prize,
and preferred neither
Hera’s nor Athene’s offerings
to the charms of Helen
you had heard of.
So I’m excellence to
you, I’m a noble kingdom?
I’d be made of iron,
if I didn’t love your heart.
Believe me, I’m not of
iron: but I resist loving
he whom I think could
scarcely be mine.
Why plough the wet
sands with curving blade,
or try to chase hopes
that this situation denies?
I’m innocent of the
affairs of Venus, and I never –
may the gods be my
witness! – play tricks on my husband!
Now too, as I entrust
my words to the silent page,
this letter performs a
new service.
Happy, those who are
used to these things! I know nothing of them,
I suspect the path of
sin is difficult.
Fear is itself wrong:
I’m confused now,
and I think all eyes
are on my face.
Nor do I think it
false: I sense the hostile murmurs of the people,
and Aethra brings me
news of what they say.
But hide your love,
unless you prefer to end it?
Why end it? You can
dissimulate.
Indulge, but secretly!
I’m given more freedom
though not total,
because Menelaus is away.
In fact business
required him to travel abroad,
there was a great, and
valid, cause for his sudden journey:
or so it seemed to me.
When he hesitated about going,
I said: ‘Go, and
return quickly!’ Pleased by this
he kissed me, saying:
‘Care for the house,
and business, and for
the Trojan guest.’
I could scarcely hold
my laughter, which, with a struggle,
I suppressed, and
could say nothing except; ‘It shall be.’
It’s true he sailed
for Crete with a following wind:
but don’t think
everything is as you’d wish!
When my husband’s away
like this, absent he still guards me,
or don’t you realise a
king’s hands have a long reach?
Also beauty is a
burden: now I’m constantly praised
by your people’s
mouths, he’s rightly more anxious.
That same glory I
delight in, as it now is, harms me,
and it would have been
better to have foregone fame.
Don’t be amazed that
he’s gone, leaving me with you:
he trusts my virtue
and my way of life.
He fears my looks,
relies on my habits:
my goodness makes him
feel secure, my beauty scares him.
You anticipate a later
time beforehand, lest it’s lost,
so as to take
advantage of my foolish husband.
And I both desire and
fear, and my inclination’s not yet clear
enough: my mind
hesitates, with doubt.
And my husband’s away,
and you sleep without a partner,
your beauty captivates
me, mine in turn captivates you:
and the nights are
long, and now we meet to talk,
and you, ah me!
flatter, and we share one house.
And let me perish if
everything does not invite my sin:
I don’t know why I
delay, but for the fear itself.
I wish you could
rightly compel, what you wrongly persuade!
My awkwardness should
have been overcome by force.
Sometimes a wrong
benefits those who suffer it.
so I might have been
compelled to be happy.
While it’s new, we
should fight love’s inception the more!
A fresh flame dies
sprinkled with a little water.
Love’s not certain in
a guest: it wanders, like himself,
and, when you think
nothing’s more certain, vanishes.
Hypsipyle’s a witness,
and Ariadne, the Minoan virgin:
both of them dallied
in illicit beds.
You also, unfaithful
man, have abandoned Oenone,
they say, your delight
for many years.
You have still not
denied it: and if you don’t know
it was my first care
to search out everything about you.
Added to which, if you
wished to stay true in love,
you couldn’t. Your
Phrygians are readying your sails:
while you speak to me,
while you arrange the hoped-for night,
a breeze will come, to
carry you soon to your homeland.
you’ll abandon
complete delight in the midst of its newness:
our love will be gone
with the wind.
Or should I follow, as
you argue, and see the Troy you praise,
and be the
granddaughter-in-law of great Laomedon?
I wouldn’t take the noise
of rumour’s wings so lightly,
if the countries were
full of my unchastity.
What would Sparta say
of me, all Achaia,
the peoples of Asia,
and your Troy?
What would Priam and
Hecuba feel about me,
and all your brothers,
and Trojan daughters-in-law?
You too, how could you
hope for me to be faithful
and not be anxious at
your own example?
Every stranger
entering a Trojan port,
would be a source of
troublesome fear to you.
How often, angry with
me, you’d cry: ‘Adulteress!’
forgetting my guilt
also belongs to you!
You’d become at once
the author and critic of the offence.
Before that may the
earth cover my face!
But I’ll enjoy Troy’s
wealth and rich culture
and I’ll bear gifts
more copious than you promised:
I’ll be offered
purple-dyed and precious fabrics,
and I’ll be rich in
heaped weights of gold!
Forgive this
confession! Your gifts aren’t worth that much to me:
I don’t know this land
that would hold me at all.
Who will rush to help
me, if I’m hurt, on Phrygian shores?
Where will I find a
brother or father’s aid?
Jason, the deceiver,
promised Medea everything:
wasn’t she driven out,
no less, from Aeson’s house?
There was no Aeetes,
to whom, scorned, she might return,
no mother, Idyia, no
sister, Chalciope.
I fear nothing like
that, but nor did Medea fear:
often hope’s deceived
by its own presentiments of good.
You’ll find the sea in
harbour was calm for every ship
that’s now tossed
about in the deep.
That torch of blood
terrifies me too, that your mother saw
born to her, before
your day of birth:
and I fear the seer’s
warning, who prophesied, it’s said,
that Troy would be
burnt by a Pelasgian fire.
And as Venus favours
you, because she triumphed, and holds
the double trophy
through your choice (the apple and her beauty),
so I am afraid of
those other two, if your boast is true,
who, through your
decision, lost their cause:
I’ve no doubt, if I
followed you, war would be prepared.
Our love would travel
among weapons, alas!
Perhaps Hippodamia of
Atrax was the cause that forced
the Thessalian
warriors into savage war with the Centaurs:
do you think Menelaus
would be slow to righteous anger
or the Twins, his
brothers-in-law, or Tyndareus?
For all your talk and
tales of brave deeds
your beauty conflicts
with your words.
Your body’s fitter for
Venus than Mars.
Let the brave wage
war, you, Paris, always love!
Command Hector, whom
you praise, to fight for you:
your skills are in
another kind of battle.
If I were to taste of
them, and were a little braver,
I might enjoy them: if
any girl tastes them, she might.
Or perhaps, abandoning
shame, I might taste them
and, hesitation
conquered by time, give you my hand.
I know what you seek:
to tell me this, privately, in person:
what you might attempt
to win, and invite in conversation:
But you’re too hasty,
and as yet green shoots are your harvest.
Perhaps a fond delay
would be to your liking.
Enough: now let these
words, which share the mysteries
of my secret heart,
cease with my weary fingers.
I’ll speak the rest
through my friends Clymene and Aethra,
who are my two
companions, and my counsel.
Hero, accept, from
Leander’s hand, while he himself comes,
what he’d have wished
to bear through the customary waves.
From one of Abydos,
greetings, girl of Sestos, which he’d prefer
to bring to you, if
only the waves would abate.
If the fates are good
to me, if the gods accompany me with love,
you’ll read these
words with indifferent eyes.
But the fates aren’t
kind: why now would they delay my pledge,
not allowing me to
hurry to you through familiar waters?
You yourself can see
the sky blacker than pitch, and the strait
troubled by winds, and
ships hardly venturing the deeps.
One boatman, and he’s
daring, by whom my letter
is delivered to you,
makes his way from harbour.
I’d have embarked with
him, except that when he cast off
the lines from the
stern, he was in view from all Abydos.
I wouldn’t have been
masked from my parents, as before,
and the love we wish
to conceal wouldn’t have been hidden.
As soon as I wrote
this, I said: ‘Go, happy letter!
now she’ll reach out
her lovely hand for you.
Perhaps she’ll even
touch you, with her snow-white teeth,
bringing you to her
lips, when she wishes to break your seal.’
I spoke these words to
myself in a low murmur,
while the rest of the
sheet was indicated by my right hand.
But how I’d prefer
that this hand, that writes, might swim
and carry me
faithfully through familiar waters!
However apt it is as a
servant of my feelings,
it’s better in fact at
making strokes in the placid sea:
For seven nights, a
space of time longer to me than a year,
I’ve been disturbed,
as the troubled ocean raged with cruel waves.
If my mind has seen
gentle sleep through those nights,
may this delay caused
by the raging straits be a long one.
I’m sitting on a rock,
sadly gazing at your other shore
and I’m carried in
mind to where my body cannot go.
Indeed my keen
watchful eye either sees
or thinks it sees the
summit to your tower.
Three times I’ve left
my clothes on the dry sands:
three times, naked,
painfully, I’ve tried to swim the roads:
the swollen sea
opposed my youthful undertaking,
and, swimming against
the waves, my head was submerged.
But you, wildest of
the swift winds, why do you,
with fixed purpose,
wage war against me?
If you don’t see it,
Boreas, you rage against me not the waves.
What might you do if
love was not known to you?
Icy though you may be,
cruel one, still, can you deny
that you once glowed
with Greek fire?
What joy in plundering
would you have known
if the airy approaches
had wished to shut you out?
Spare me, I beg you,
and release a more gentle breeze!
And let Aeolus not
command anything offensive to you!
I beg in vain: he
roars in answer to my prayers
and holds in check no
part of the waters he’s stirred.
Now I wish Daedalus
might give me bold wings!
Though the shores of the
Icarian Sea are not far from here.
I’d suffer whatever
might be, if only my body, that often hangs
above the uncertain
water, might be lifted into the air.
Meanwhile, while winds
and waves deny all,
I agitate my mind with
the first moments of my secret affair.
Night was falling –
indeed I remember the pleasure of it –
when, a lover, I
slipped from my father’s door.
Without delay,
shedding my clothes, and with them my fear,
I calmly slid my arms
into the flowing water.
The moon offered only
a trembling light, to my going,
like an obliging
companion on the road.
I looked up to her,
and said: ‘Favour me, bright goddess,
and let the cliffs of
Latmia suggest themselves to your mind.
Endymion would not
allow you to be hard-hearted:
I beg you, turn your
face to my secret enterprise!
Goddess, you came down
from the sky to seek a mortal:
may I speak truth! –
She whom I follow is herself a goddess.
Without calling to
mind her virtues, worthy of the gods,
her beauty doesn’t
appear except among true goddesses.
There’s no greater
loveliness than hers, after yours and Venus’s:
if you don’t believe
my words, look for yourself!
By as much as all the
stars yield to your fires
when you shine out,
silver, with clear rays,
so much more beautiful
than all the beauties is she:
if you doubt it,
Cynthia, your eye is blind.’
I spoke these words or
ones not unlike them,
the waters I
shouldered parting before me, of themselves.
The waves shone with
the image of the reflected moon
and it was bright as
day in the silent night.
There was no voice
anywhere: nothing came to my ears,
except the murmur of
the waters, parted by my body.
Halycons alone
appeared, lamenting to me,
sweetly, remembering
dear Ceyx.
Then, both my arms
growing weary, at the shoulder,
I raised myself
strongly, high above the waves.
Seeing a distant
light, I said: ‘My fire is in that fire:
that is the shore that
holds my light.’
And sudden strength
returned to my weary arms,
and the waves seemed
calmer to me.
Love aids me, warming
my eager heart,
so I will not be chilled
by the deep cold.
I am more vigorous and
the shore comes nearer,
as the distance grows
less, my joy increases.
When I can see you
clearly, your watching
gives me strength, and
adds to my courage.
Now, to please my
lady, I labour to swim,
and lift up my arms to
catch your sight.
Your nurse can hardly
stop you plunging into the deep.
This I saw too, it was
not something I was told of.
Though she held you
from going, she could not stop you,
nor prevent your feet
being wet by the wave’s edge.
You embrace me, and
join in happy kisses –
kisses, great gods,
worth seeking over the sea!
Then you surrender to
me the shawl from your shoulders,
and dry my hair
drenched by the showers of brine.
The rest night knows,
and we, and the tower that sees,
and the light that
showed me a path through the sea.
The joys of that night
can no more be counted
than the seaweeds in
the waters of Hellespont:
how brief the time
granted us for that secret passion,
how great the care
that it was not wasted.
Soon Aurora,
Tithonus’s bride, would chase away the night:
Lucifer paving the
way, was in the sky:
we shower hasty
kisses, quickly, without thought,
and complain how
little the night lingers.
And so, delaying until
the nurse’s cross warning,
leaving the tower, I
seek the cold shore.
We part weeping, and I
re-enter virgin Helle’s waters,
looking back at my
lady, when I can, all the way.
If truth be known,
coming to you from here I was a swimmer,
when I returned, I
seemed to myself like a drowning man.
This too, if you would
believe it: to you the way seemed smooth:
from you returning, a
hill of inert water.
I return, unwillingly,
to my country: who would believe it?
Now truly I linger in
my city unwillingly.
Ah me! Why are our
hearts that joined severed by the waves,
two of one mind but not
of one country?
Your Sestos should
take me, or my Abydos you:
your land pleases me,
as much as mine pleases you.
Why am I troubled,
when the sea is troubled?
How can a slight
cause, the wind, oppose me?
Now the curved
dolphins know of our affairs,
nor do I think I’m
unknown to all the fish.
Now my worn path
through the solitary waves is familiar,
no different to a road
traversed by many wheels.
Before, I complained
that this was the only way for me:
but now I also
complain that I fail because of the wind.