Her Jealousy So I’m always to be accused of some new crime? Even if I win I hate fighting my case so often. If I glance up at the heights of the marbled theatre, you pick someone out, so you can choose to be pained: If some lovely girl looks at my expressionless face, secret messages are deduced from its lack of expression. If I praise someone, you try to tear my hair out: if I damn her, you think I’m covering up a crime. If my colour’s good, I’m also cold towards you, if pale, pronounced to be dying for another. And I wish I had some guilty secret! Those who merit punishment take it calmly: but you accuse me rashly and, groundlessly believe it all, you stop your own anger carrying weight. Look, pity the long-eared ass’s fate, continually beaten to tame him, he goes slow! Behold a new crime! With that clever dresser Cypassis, I’m reproached for defiling the bed of our mistress. Think better of me than that, if I wronged you in passion, than to joy in a common girl with a contemptible fate! What free man would want to take up with a slave, and embrace the scars on her whipped back? Added to which she takes pains to dress your hair, and a well-taught servant is dear to you – Of course, I’d beg it of a maid so faithful to you! What! So she could tell you she’d spurned my offer? I swear by Venus, and the bow of her winged boy, I won’t allow myself to be accused of crime! Ovid
Posted on: Wed, 14 Aug 2013 06:33:37 +0000
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