Erotica Romana | Page 8

not deceived. It's a masque.
I know my hero too well to be fooled by disguises of actors."
Soon, though, in pain she perceived: Hercules, none but he.
(Vulcan had not been one thousandth so vexed to discover his playmate
Under his meshes ensnared, caught with his own lusty friend,
Lying just as the wiles of the net at the most crucial moment
Deftly embraced their embrace, trapping their instant of joy.
How those boys, Bacchus and Mercury, guffawed, and freely admitted:
Sweet must be the repose, lying on bosom so fine
Of this magnificent woman. They turned to Vulcan entreating:
"Do not release them just yet. Let us inspect them once more."
And the old cuckold was cuckold enough to comply with their wishes.)
As for poor Fame, in all haste, burning with wrath she must flee.
Since then no armistice has been proclaimed to the feuding between
them.
Let her but favor a man, hot in pursuit is the boy.
He whom Fame honors most can least defend against Cupid,
And her most dang'rous attacks strike the most morally proud.
Whoever tries to escape him is dragged down from bad deeds to worse

ones.
Yes, he will offer you girls--if like a fool you despise
These, only then do you feel from his bow the arrows most vicious:
Heat of man's love for man, ardent desires toward beasts.
For those ashamed of him Cupid reserves the bitterest passions,
Mingling for hypocrites their pleasure in vice and remorse.
But, at the same time, the goddess seeks him, she's watching and
list'ning.
Should find him with you, ill disposed will she be:
Frighten you, frowning austerely, contemptuously, violently casting
Into the worst of repute houses he's known to frequent.
Ah, it's the same with me, too. I haven't escaped her, the goddess.
Jealously she seeks me out, sweet secret love to expose.
I will submit to the ancient law and in silence revere her,
For, when great lords fall out, I like the Greeks must atone.
XXIII
However comely be strength, or free and undaunted comportment,
Secrecy is for a man most important of all.
Mighty subduer of cities, Discretion, O princess of nations,
Goddess whom I adore, safely you've led me thus far.
Now, though, what fate shall befall me? My frivolous muse has now

opened
--Cupid, the scamp--opens lips hitherto sealed so well.
Difficult is it, alas, to conceal the shame of a monarch;
Hide it can neither his crown, nor a tight Phrygian cap:
Midas has asses ears! the first servant discovers--O horror!
Shame of this secret so weighs, Midas unburdens his heart.
Into the earth for safekeeping the servant must bury the story,
Easing in this way the king: earth must conceal the tale.
Reeds in a trice are sprouting and rustling in murmuring breezes:
"Midas, o Midas the King--bears the ears of an ass!"
Mine is a secret more pleasant, but even more difficult keeping:
Out of abundance of heart eagerly speaketh my mouth.
None of my ladyfriends dare I confide in, for they would but chide me;
Nor any gentleman friend, lest he be rival to me.
Rapture proclaim to the grove, to the echoing cliffs perorate it?
One can do that if one's young, or if one's lonely enough.
I to hexameters tell, in pentameters I will confide it:
During the day she was joy, happiness all the night long.
Courted by so many suitors, avoided the snares that were set her
Now by one bolder than I, now by another in guile,

Cleverly, daintily, always slipped past them, and sure of the byways,
Comes to her lover's embrace, where he so eagerly waits.
Luna! Don't rise yet. She's coming, and must not be seen by the
neighbor!
Breezes, rustle the leaves: muffle the sound of her feet.
And as for you, little poems, o grow and flower, your blossoms
Cradling themselves in the air, tepid and soft with love's breath.
Wafting, betray to Quirites, as Midas' reeds did with cheap gossip,
One happy couple in love, and their sweet secret, at last.
XXIV
I in the back of the garden, the last of the gods, in a corner,
Ineptly formed, must I stand. Evil the inroads of time.
Cucumber vines grow entwining about this primeval lingam,
Cracking it almost in two under the weight of the fruit.
Faggots are heaped all about me against the cold of the winter,
Which I so hate for the crows settling then down on my head,
Which they befoul very shamefully. Summer's no better: the servants
Empty their bowels and show insolent, naked behinds.
Filth, above and below! I was clearly in danger of turning
Into filth myself, toadstool, rotten wood!
Now, by your efforts, O noblest of artists, I shall recover

With fellow gods my just place. And it's