Epistulae

my mistress. The nearer you are, the more violent is the flame that rages within me; and though the object of my hope is often absent, yet hope itself never ceases to haunt me. I almost touch with my hand (so near our abodes) the darling of my soul. But alas! this almost often fills my eyes with sorrowing tears. Wherein loes this differ from catching at the flying apples, or following after the deceitful flood? Shall I then never hold you in my arms, but when the unstable waves permit? Must storms ever be a bar to my happiness? and while nothing is more uncertain than the winds and waves, must my happiness ever depend upon the winds and waves? It is now too the warm season: what am I to expect when the Pleiades, Arctophylax, and the Goat, deform

the sea? Either I mistake in judging of the rash attempts of Love, or even then, thoughtless, he will urge me to plunge into the waves. Nor imagine that I promise this because the time is distant; you shall soon have a proof of the reality of my design. Let the sea continue to rage for a few nights longer: I will again attempt to force my way through the opposing billows. Either, happily daring, I shall safely reach your beloved shore, or a speedy death will put an end to all my anxieties. Yet I could wish to be cast where my Hero lives, and that my shipwrecked limbs might be borne into your ports. You will mourn my fate, and honor my breathless body with a last embrace; then sighing, say, "Alas! I have been the cause of his death." Perhaps you will be offended with this threatening omen of a sudden fate, or alarmed by the suspicions which my letter betrays. But I desist: dispel therefore your fears, and join your prayers with mine, that the rage of the sea may abate. It is requisite that it should be

calm for a time, till I convey myself to yonder shore: when once I have reached the coast of my Hero, let the storm return in all its violence. There, is the fittest asylum for my shattered bark; there, my ship may with the greatest security ride at anchor. Let the North-wind shut me up there, where delay is sweet. Then, if ever, I shall be averse to swimming, and cautiously avoid danger. No reproaches will be thrown out against the unrelenting waves; no complaints made, that the sea forbids a return to my native shore. Let me be alike detained by the winds and your folding arms: let both these causes conspire to prolong the sweet delay. When the storm abates, my arms shall cut the liquid way: only remember always to place in view the guiding torch. Till then, let this epistle supply my place; and heaven grant that I may follow it without delay.

COME, my Leander, that I may really enjoy that welfare which you so kindly wish me in your letter. Every delay that stands in the way of our happiness seems doubly tedious. Pardon the confession; but I love not according to the common measure. We glow with an equal flame; but my strength is unequal to yours; for I imagine that men are endued with more steady and resolute souls. In women the mind is weak, as well as the body. Delay a little longer, and I sink under the weight of your absence. You can elude the tedious hours, by differently dividing your time; sometimes intent upon hunting, sometimes employed in cultivating the prolific earth. The forum perhaps may interpose,

or the inviting honors of the palæstra: perhaps you are busy in forming the generous steed, and teaching him to obey the rein. Now snares are laid for the feathered tribe; now hooks are baited for the finny prey; and the lingering hours of night are lost in copious goblets of wine. As for me, to whom all these reliefs are denied, what remains, were I even less the slave of a headstrong passion, but to love and endure? It is so: I indulge this sole relief, and love you, O my only happiness, above expression or return. Either I engage with my faithful nurse in silent discourse about you, and wonder what cause can so long delay your coming; or, casting a look upon the sea, I chide, almost in your own words, the waves tossed by spiteful winds: or, when the angry sea remits a little of its rage, I complain that you might, but have no desire to come. Amidst these complaints, the tears flow in streams from my love-sick eyes, and are wiped away by the trembling hand of my aged nurse. I often search if I can find the prints of your feet upon the shore, as if sand could retain the deepening mark. Eager to hear of you, or write to