esse putat nymphae: nympham mihi credit amari. criminis extemplo ficti temerarius index 825Procrin adit linguaque refert audita susurra. credula res amor est: subito conlapsa dolore, ut mihi narratur, cecidit; longoque refecta tempore se miseram, se fati dixit iniqui deque fide questa est et crimine concita vano, 830quod nihil est, metuit, metuit sine corpore nomen et dolet infelix veluti de paelice vera. saepe tamen dubitat speratque miserrima falli indiciique fidem negat et, nisi viderit ipsa, damnatura sui non est delicta mariti. 835postera depulerant Aurorae lumina noctem: egredior silvamque peto victorque per herbas ‘aura, veni’ dixi ‘nostroque medere labori!’ et subito gemitus inter mea verba videbar nescio quos audisse; ‘veni’ tamen ‘optima!’ dicens 840fronde levem rursus strepitum faciente caduca sum ratus esse feram telumque volatile misi: Procris erat medioque tenens in pectore vulnus ‘ei mihi’ conclamat! vox est ubi cognita fidae 844coniugis, ad vocem praeceps amensque cucurri. semianimem et sparsas foedantem sanguine vestes et sua (me miserum!) de vulnere dona trahentem invenio corpusque meo mihi carius ulnis mollibus attollo scissaque a pectore veste vulnera saeva ligo conorque inhibere cruorem 850neu me morte sua sceleratum deserat, oro.


Metamorphoses Book VII

some nymph. Straightway the rash tell-tale went to Procris with the story of my supposed unfaithfulness and reported in whispers what he had heard. A credulous thing is love. Smitten with sudden pain (as I heard the story), she fell down in a swoon. Reviving at last, she called herself wretched, victim of cruel fate; complained of my unfaithfulness, and, excited by an empty charge, she feared a mere nothing, feared an empty name and grieved, poor girl, as over a real rival. And yet she would often doubt and hope in her depth of misery that she was mistaken; she rejected as untrue the story she had heard, and, unless she saw it with her own eyes, would not think her husband guilty of such sin. The next morning, when the early dawn had banished night, I left the house and sought the woods; there, successful, as I lay on the grass, I cried: ‘Come, Aura, come and soothe my toil’—and suddenly, while I was speaking, I thought I heard a groan. Yet ‘Come, dearest,’ I cried again, and as the fallen leaves made a slight rustling sound, I thought it was some beast and hurled my javelin at the place. It was Procris, and, clutching at the wound in her breast, she cried, ‘Oh, woe is me.’ When I recognized the voice of my faithful wife, I rushed headlong towards the sound, beside myself with horror. There I found her dying, her disordered garments stained with blood, and oh, the pity! trying to draw the very weapon she had given me from her wounded breast. With loving arms I raised her body, dearer to me than my own, tore open the garment from her breast and bound up the cruel wound, and tried to staunch the blood, praying that she would not leave me stained with her death. She, though strength failed her, with a

DOI: 10.4159/DLCL.ovid-metamorphoses.1916