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Ovid

675Spectet amabilius iuvenem, suspiret ab imo Femina, tam sero cur veniatque roget: Accedant lacrimae, dolor et de paelice fictus, Et laniet digitis illius ora suis: Iamdudum persuasus erit; miserebitur ultro, 680Et dicet “cura carpitur ista mei.” Praecipue si cultus erit speculoque placebit, Posse suo tangi credet amore deas. Sed te, quaecumque est, moderate iniuria turbet, Nec sis audita paelice mentis inops. 685Nec cito credideris: quantum cito credere laedat, Exemplum vobis non leve Procris erit.

Est prope purpureos colles florentis Hymetti Fons sacer et viridi caespite mollis humus: Silva nemus non alta facit; tegit arbutus herbam, 690Ros maris et lauri nigraque myrtus olent: Nec densum foliis buxum fragilesque myricae, Nec tenues cytisi cultaque pinus abest. Lenibus inpulsae zephyris auraque salubri Tot generum frondes herbaque summa tremit. 695Grata quies Cephalo: famulis canibusque relictis Lassus in hac iuvenis saepe resedit humo, “Quae”que “meos releves aestus,” cantare solebat “Accipienda sinu, mobilis aura, veni.” Coniugis ad timidas aliquis male sedulus aures 700Auditos memori detulit ore sonos; Procris ut accepit nomen, quasi paelicis, Aurae, Excidit, et subito muta dolore fuit; Palluit, ut serae lectis de vite racemis Pallescunt frondes, quas nova laesit hiemps, 705Quaeque suos curvant matura cydonia ramos, Cornaque adhuc nostris non satis apta cibis.

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The Art of Love

the woman regard the youth with more loving looks, and deeply sigh, and ask why he comes so late: let tears be added, and feigned wrath about a rival; and let her tear his cheeks with her nails: long since will he have been persuaded; he will be quick to pity, and will say, “For love of me is she distressed.” Particularly if he be well dressed and approved by his glass will he believe that goddesses could fall in love with him. But, however he wrong you, let it disturb you but little, nor be put out when you hear of a rival. Nor be quick to believe: what harm quick belief can do, Procris will be to you a weighty warning.

Near the purple hills of flowery Hymettus1 there is a sacred spring and ground soft with green turf: trees of no great height form a grove; arbutus covers the grass, and rosemary, bays and dark myrtles are fragrant; nor is the thick foliage of the box-tree lacking, or brittle tamarisks and thin lucerne and the cultivated pine. Gentle zephyrs and health-giving breezes sway the varied foliage, and the tips of the grasses tremble. Sweet sleep was upon Cephalus; leaving servants and hounds the youth often rested in this spot when weary, and, “Come, wandering Aura,” was he wont to sing, “come to my bosom and refresh my sultriness.” To his wife’s timid ears some foolish busy-body reported with mindful utterance the sounds he had heard; when Procris heard the name of Aura, a rival, as she thought, she fainted, and was speechless with sudden grief: she paled, as pale the late leaves upon clusters of the vine, hurt by the first breath of winter, and as ripe quinces that bend their boughs are pale, and cornel-berries not yet fit for human food. When her spirits

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DOI: 10.4159/DLCL.ovid-art_love.1929