A Lament
Horace: Book II, Elegy 8
“Eripitur nobis iam pridem cara puella—”
While she I loved is being torn
From arms that held her many years,
Dost thou regard me, friend, with scorn,
Or seek to check my tears?
Bitter the hatred for a jilt,
And hot the hates of Eros are;
My hatred, slay me as thou wilt,
For thee’d be gentler far.
Can I endure that she recline
Upon another’s arm? Shall they
No longer call that lady “mine”
Who “mine” was yesterday?
For Love is fleeting as the hours.
The town of Thebes is draped with moss,
And Ilium’s well-known topless towers
Are now a total loss.
Fell Thebes and Troy; and in the grave
Have fallen lords of high degree.
What songs I sang! What gifts I gave!
. . . . She never fell for me.
