_He tells his mistress that he cannot help loving her._
|Much and long time have I suffered; by your faults is my patience
overcome. Depart from my wearied breast, disgraceful Love. In truth I
have now liberated myself, and I have burst my chains; and I am ashamed
to have borne what it shamed me not to endure. I have conquered; and
Love subdued I have trodden under foot; late have the horns [638] come
upon my head. Have patience, and endure, [639] this pain will one day
avail thee; often has the bitter potion given refreshment to the sick.
And could I then endure, repulsed so oft from thy doors, to lay a
free-born body upon the hard ground? [640] And did I then, like a slave,
keep watch before thy street door, for some stranger I know not whom,
that you were holding in your embrace? And did I behold it, when the
wearied paramour came out of your door, carrying off his jaded and
exhausted sides? Still, this is more endurable than the fact that I was
beheld by him; [641] may that disgrace be the lot of my foes.
When have I not kept close fastened to your side as you walked, [642]
myself your keeper, myself your husband, myself your companion? And,
celebrated by me forsooth, did you please the public: my passion was
the cause of passion in many. Why mention the base perjuries of your
perfidious tongue? and why the Gods forsworn [643] for my destruction?
Why the silent nods of young men at banquets, [644] and words concealed
in signs arranged _beforehand?_ She was reported to me to be ill;
headlong and distracted I ran; I arrived; and, to my rival she was not
ill. [645]
Bearing these things, and others on which I am silent, I have oft
endured them; find another in my stead, who could put up with these
things. Now my ship, crowned with the votive chaplet, listens in safety
to the swelling waves of the ocean. Cease to lavish your blandishments
and the words which once availed; I am not a fool, as once I was. Love
on this side, Hatred on that, are struggling, and are dragging my tender
heart in opposite directions; but Love, I think, still gets the better.
I will hate, [646] if I can; if not, reluctantly will I love; the bull
loves not his yoke; still, that which he hates he bears.
I fly from treachery; your beauty, as I fly, brings me back; I abhor the
failings of your morals; your person I love. Thus, I can neither live
without you, nor yet with you; and I appear to be unacquainted with
my own wishes. I wish that either you were less handsome, or less
unprincipled. So beauteous a form does not suit morals so bad. Your
actions excite hatred; your beauty demands love. Ah wretched me! she is
more potent than her frailties.
O pardon me, by the common rites of our bed, by all the Gods who so
often allow themselves to be deceived by you, and by your beauty, equal
to a great Divinity with me, and by your eyes, which have captivated
my own; whatever you shall be, ever shall you be mine; only do you make
choice whether you will wish me to wish as well to love you, or whether
I am to love you by compulsion. I would rather spread my sails and use
propitious gales; since, though I should refuse, I shall still be forced
to love.