Epistulae

Believe me when I tell you, that your fame comes far short of the truth; for even report has invidiously denied the share of praise due to your charms. I found you greatly to exceed what that had given ground to hope, and that your fame in every thing fell below your merit. Well therefore might Theseus, who knew all, feel the power of so many charms, and think you a prey worthy of so great a hero; when, after the manner of your country, you contended in the wrestling-ring, and disputed with the other sex the prize of manly exercise. I commend the bold theft, but wonder how he ever could restore you: so inestimable a prize ought always to have been retained. Sooner should this head have been severed from the bloody neck, than any one be suffered to tear you from my embraces. Would ever this right-hand have permitted you to be carried off? Could I, while ought of life remained, have tamely seen you ravished from my bosom? If necessity had compelled me, yet I would not have left you before I had received some pledge of your love, some earnest of the strength of our mutual flame. I would have tasted of your virgin charms, or, if that bliss had been denied, have ravished a thousand kisses. Fly then to my arms, and try the firmness and constancy of Paris. The funeral flames alone shall extinguish the flames that rage in my breast. I preferred you to a kingdom, once offered by the sister and the wife of Jove. Even prudence and valor, the

gifts of Pallas, were postponed to the sweet pleasure of throwing my arms round your neck. Nor do I repent, or charge myself with having made a foolish choice: my mind continues firm in its first resolve. You only, to obtain whom no labor can appear great, do not, O do not suffer my hopes to vanish into air. I am not one whose birth will disgrace the noble line of his spouse; not is it beneath your dignity to be wedded to Paris. The Pleiades, and great Jove himself, ennoble my pedigree; not to mention the long race of succeeding kings. My father sways the sceptre of Asia, a kingdom rich and fertile, whose ample bounds stretch as far as the rising sun. There you will behold innumerable cities, houses roofed with gold, and temples becoming the Gods to whom they belong. You will see Ilion and its walls strengthened with lofty towers, all built to the harmony of Apollo's lyre.

Why should I mention the vast multitudes of people? the country is scarcely able to sustain its inhabitants. The Trojan matrons will meet you in troops; nor will our halls accommodate the concourse of Phrygian dames. How often will you say, What a poor naked country is Greece; and that one Phrygian palace is richer than whole cities there! Nor mean I by this to despise your native land; for the region in which you first drew your breath, must ever be to me a dear and happy country. Yet Sparta is poor, whereas you are worthy of the richest ornaments: that sordid city ill suits a form so lovely. Your face ought to shine with rich attire, and be set off with all the ornaments and luxuriance of dress. When you so much admire the habit of the Trojans who attend me, what, think you, must be that of the Phrygian ladies? Only therefore be kind; nor do you, a fair Spartan, disdain to receive a husband of Phrygia. He was of

Phrygia, springing from our race, who is now advanced to temper the nectar of the Gods. Tithonus too was of Phrygia, whom the Goddess that measures out the night received to her rosy bed. Anchises also was a Phrygian, with whom the mother of winged Loves delighted to associate on the summits of Ida. Nor do I think that Menelaus, whether you compare our persons or age, can have the preference, even in your judgement. You certainly will not have a father-in-law who made the sun withdraw his light, and turn away his frighted steeds from the dire banquet. Nor is Priam the son of one stained with the blood of a father-in-law, or whose crime gives a name to the Myrtoan

waves. No great-grandfather of mine catches at apples in the Stygian flood, or, set up to the chin in water, is tortured with thirst. But what does this avail me, if one so descended possesses Helen, and Jove himself is a father-in-law to this line? Yet he (O ye Gods) a wretch unworthy of so much happiness, passes whole nights with you, and shares, uninterrupted, your fondest caresses. I can scarcely have a short glance of you at table; and even then there are many things that give me pain. May such feasts fall to the lot of my worst enemies, as those I often meet with in your palace! I repent of my entertainment at his court, when I see him throw his rude arms round your snowy neck.

I swell, and am ready to burst with envy (yet why do I thus relate all?) when he folds his flowing robe round your tender limbs. But when you give and take in my presence the melting kisses, I am then forced to take the cup, and hold it before my eyes. As often as you close in strict embraces, I cast my eyes upon the ground; and the loathed food becomes more and more nauseous to my taste. I often sigh to myself, and have observed you repaying my sighs with a scornful smile. Oft have I essayed to conquer my flame with wine; but it continued to increase; and drinking, I found, added fuel to the fire. Sometimes I turned away my eyes, that I might not see too much; but you soon called back my wandering sight. What can I do? I am pierced with grief to witness all; but it is still a greater grief not to gaze upon your charms.

I strive with all my power to hide my flame; but the dissembled passion breaks through all restraints. Nor is it my aim to deceive; my wounds are well, to well known to you: O that they were only known to you! How often have I turned away my face, to hide the falling tears, lest he should enquire the cause of my sadness! How oft, when warmed with wine, have I told some tale of love, applying every word to your dear face; and, under a feigned name, have made a discovery of my own passion? In these instances, if you knew it not, I was the true lover. Sometimes I have even feigned intoxication, to excuse my greater freedoms in discourse. Once I remember your loose garments revealed your naked breasts, and discovered them freely to my gazing eyes; breasts whiter than milk, or the purest snow; whiter than Jove, when in the shape of a swan he made love to your mother. Whilst surprised at the sight I stood gazing (for by chance the cup was in my hand), the wreathed handle insensibly slipped from my fingers. If you kissed your young Hermione, I instantly snatched from her lips the envied bliss. Sometimes, laid supinely along, I sang love-songs, and by winks and nods gave secret signs of my flame. I even tried, with all the softness of eloquence, to persuade your favorite attendants, Æthra and Clymene, to promote my addresses: but their answers served only to heighten my despair, and they cruelly deserted me in the midst of my entrea-