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Ovid

Ut rediit animus, tenues a pectore vestes Rumpit, et indignas sauciat ungue genas; Nec mora, per medias passis furibunda capillis 710Evolat, ut thyrso concita Baccha, vias. Ut prope perventum, comites in valle relinquit, Ipsa nemus tacito clam pede fortis init. Quid tibi mentis erat, cum sic male sana lateres, Procri? quis adtoniti pectoris ardor erat? 715Iam iam venturam, quaecumque erat Aura, putabas Scilicet, atque oculis probra videnda tuis. Nunc venisse piget (neque enim deprendere velles), Nunc iuvat: incertus pectora versat amor. Credere quae iubeant, locus est et nomen et index, 720Et quia mens semper quod timet, esse putat. Vidit ut oppressa vestigia corporis herba, Pulsantur trepidi corde micante sinus. Iamque dies medius tenues contraxerat umbras, Inque pari spatio vesper et ortus erant: 725Ecce, redit Cephalus silvis, Cyllenia proles, Oraque fontana fervida pulsat aqua. Anxia, Procri, lates: solitas iacet ille per herbas, Et “zephyri molles auraque” dixit “ades!” Ut patuit miserae iucundus nominis error, 730et rediit verus in ora color. Surgit, et oppositas agitato corpore frondes Movit, in amplexus uxor itura viri: Ille feram movisse ratus, iuvenaliter artus Corripit, in dextra tela fuere manu. 735Quid facis, infelix? non est fera, supprime tela! Me miserum! iaculo fixa puella tuo est.

  • 720mens R: amans MSS. and Heinsius.
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The Art of Love

returned, she plucked the frail garment from her breast, and marred with her nails her innocent cheeks; and straightway with streaming hair she flies through the streets in frenzy, like a Bacchant sped by the thyrsus. When she drew nigh, she left her comrades in the vale, and herself secretly with silent step bravely entered the wood. What were thy feelings, Procris, when thus frantic thou lurkedst there? What a fire was in thy maddened heart! Soon would she come, that Aura, whoe’er she might be (so didst thou think), and thine own eyes would see the shame. Now dost thou regret thy coming (for thou could’st not wish to find him guilty), now art thou glad: this way and that love sways thy heart. To commend belief there is the name and the place and the informer, and because the mind ever thinks its fears are true. When she saw the mark of a body on the flattened grass, her leaping heart beats within her fearful bosom. And now midday had drawn short the unsubstantial shadows, and evening and morning were equally removed: lo! Cephalus, son of Cyllene, returns from the woods, and scatters spring water on his glowing cheeks. Anxiously, Procris, thou liest hid: he rests on the wonted grass, and cries, “Come, breeze, come tender Zephyrs!” When the name’s pleasing error was manifest to the hapless woman, her reason returned, and the true colour to her face. She rises, and speeding to her lover’s embrace stirred with her hurrying frame the leaves that were in her way: he thinking he saw a quarry leapt up with youthful ardour, and his weapon was in his hand. What dost thou, hapless one? ’tis no beast: drop thy bow. Woe is me! thy dart has pierced the

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DOI: 10.4159/DLCL.ovid-art_love.1929