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TIBULLUS, Albius





Huc ades et tenerae morbos expelle puellae,

huc ades, intonsa Phoebe superbe coma;

crede mihi, propera, nec te iam, Phoebe, pigebit

formosae medicas applicuisse manus.

Effice ne macies pallentes occupet artus,

neu notet informis candida membra color,

et quodcumque mali est et quidquid triste timemus,

in pelagus rapidis euehat amnis aquis.

Sancte, ueni, tecumque feras, quicumque sapores,

quicumque et cantus corpora fessa leuant;

neu iuuenem torque, metuit qui fata puellae

uotaque pro domina uix numeranda facit;

interdum uouet, interdum, quod langueat illa,

dicit in aeternos aspera uerba deos.

Pone metum, Cerinthe: deus non laedit amantes;

tu modo semper ama: salua puella tibi est;

nil opus est fletu: lacrimis erit aptius uti,

si quando fuerit tristior illa tibi.

At nunc tota tua est, te solum candida secum

cogitat, et frustra credula turba sedet.

Phoebe, faue: laus magna tibi tribuetur in uno

corpore seruato restituisse duos.

Iam celeber, iam laetus eris, cum debita reddet

certatim sanctis laetus uterque focis;

tunc te felicem dicet pia turba deorum,

optabunt artes et sibi quisque tuas.


A Prayer For Sulpicia In Her Illness

Phoebus, come, drive away the gentle girl’s illness,

come, proud, with your unshorn curls.

Trust me, and hurry: Phoebus, you won’t regret

having laid healing hands on her beauty.

See that no wasting disease grips her pale body,

no unpleasant marks stain her weak limbs,

and whatever ills exist, whatever sadness we fear,

let the swift river-waters carry them to the sea.

Come, sacred one, bring delicacies with you,

and whatever songs ease the weary body:

Don’t torment the youth, who fears for the girl’s fate,

and offers countless prayers for his mistress.

Sometimes he prays, sometimes, because she’s ill,

he speaks bitter words to the eternal gods.

Don’t be afraid, Cerinthus: the god doesn’t hurt lovers.

Only love always: and your girl is well.

No need to weep: tears will be more fitting,

if she’s ever more severe towards you.

But now she’s all yours: the lovely girl

only thinks of you, and a hopeful crowd wait in vain.

Phoebus, be gracious. Great praise will be due to you

in saving one life you’ll have restored two.

Soon you’ll be honoured, delighted, when both, safe,

compete to repay the debt at your sacred altar.

Then the holy company of gods will call you happy,

and each desire your own art for themselves.

Translation : KLINE, A.S.