Propertius carmen I - first draft translation

Cynthia caught me, the wretch, with her eyes,

Touched not at all before by amorousness.

Then he cast down my glance of steadfast scorn,

Love did, and my head crushed with hob-nailed feet,

Until he tutored me chaste maids to hate -

The reprobate! - and to live with no aim.

This spasm has not flagged for a year's length,

Though crossed by gods I'm forced to own as mine.


Milanion recalled, Tullus, that faint-heart never

Fair lady won, when he smashed flint Iaside's tantrum.

Maddened in just this way he staggered in Parthenian grottoes,

And he went on to survey hairy brutes.

He even, smitten with the Hylaean branch's hurt,

Squirming in agony, at Arcady's steeps moaned.

Thus could he housetrain the flighty lass:

So highly are prayers and mighty feats valued in love.


In me sluggard Love cannot think of such crafts,

Nor remember even the known ways he's trodden before.

But you, whose lie it is that you've led off the Moon,

And appease blasphemies by toiled incantations,

Drive and alter then the mind of mistress mine,

And outshine her complexion, that grows paler than I!

Then will I trust you, that both stars and tides

Cytinaean cantrips can command.


And you, who call up a man lately fallen, friends,

Seek remedies for a heart not in full health.

Hardily I'd take surgery or harsh cautery,

If thence might come licence to speak as my wrath wills.

Send me through outland tribes, and send me through waves,

Whither no women might learn of my pathway;

You stay, to whom the god attends and is kind,

And be always equals in a love secure.


In me our Venus lays on nights - bitter ones -

And Love is missing from no hour - unfulfilled.

From this curse, I warn you, fly: anyone should hoard

His affection, nor vary from love assured one jot.

Because he who gives ear to my urging, yet late,

Will - alas - carry back my wail with such sorrow.

The Flowers of Valentine

Wreathed to cure the plague maybe

In the Christian time

They hung about the nape of the cruel fresh


And might have been dishevelled by accident

When one of my forerunners caught a sepal

Wound in a hairy bounding sort of crown

And cried “But these are almost real”

To the ripping sound


The florist’s writing is less beautiful

Than hers who sent them who cannot see me,

Except by clear morningshine, like before;

But the florist just whacks them out, neatly,

Bluely neatly, some mauve flowers,

In frustratingly edible and swaddled boxes.


And so indeed the date came round and

Didn’t staunch the plague or kill

The victims who had extreme unction;

Didn’t profit by my will.


The debt and dirt in layers and occlusions, let it be sowed,

As the date rolls back, as they draw back, as I go back.


But the gift was sourced and the sauce was cooked

For the voluble gander as white goosey looked,

And the funny side was greased about,

Between the shipments and proctor’s doubt,

A trope delivered is a cliché bare,

Pleasant to study.


And how we could laugh, though they died with all

Else that ever died, and Saint Valentine,

The posthumous plague-saint, the pyrrhic faith healer.

The corse of a saint is inviolate,

But his relics can rot, and these stank, and we laughed.


Two good-byes later, which I just don’t do,

And non-conversations past, which I didn’t,

I’m so grateful. We laughed very hard.