Amores III.12 (Riley)

What day was that, on which, ye birds of no white hue, you sent forth your ominous notes, ever sad to me in my loves? Or what star must I consider to be the enemy of my destiny? Or what Deities am I to complain of, as waging war against me? She, who but lately was called my own, whom I commenced alone to love, I fear that with many she must be shared by me.

Am I mistaken? Or has she gained fame by my poems? 'Tis so; by my genius has she been made public. And justly; for why have I made proclamation of her charms? Through my fault has the fair been put up for sale. She pleases, and I the procurer; by my guidance is the lover introduced; by my hands has her door been opened. Whether verses are of any use, is matter of doubt; at all events, they have injured me; they have been envious of my happiness. While Thebes, while Troy, while the exploits of Caesar existed; Corinna alone warmed my genius. Would that I had meddled with verses against the will of the Muses; and that Phoebus had deserted the work commenced! And yet, it is not the custom to listen to Poets as witnesses; I would have preferred all weight to be wanting to my words.

Through us, Scylla, who robbed her father of his white hair, bears the raging dogs beneath her thigh and loins. We have given wings to the feet, serpents to the hair; the victorious descendant of Abas is borne upon the winged steed. We, too, have extended Tityus over the vast space, and have formed the three mouths for the dog bristling -with snakes. We have described Enceladus, hurling with his thousand arms; and the heroes captivated by the voice of the two-shaped damsels. In the Ithacan bags have we enclosed the winds of Æolus; the treacherous Tantalus thirsts in the middle of the stream. Of Niobe we have made the rock, of the damsel, the she-bear; the Cecropian bird sings of Odrysian Itys. Jupiter transforms himself, either into a bird, or into gold or, as a bull, with the virgin placed upon him, he cleaves the waves. Why mention Proteus, and the Theban seed, the teeth? Why that there were bulls, which vomited flames from their mouths? Why, charioteer, that thy sisters distil amber tears? Why that they are now Goddesses of the sea, who once were ships? Why that the light of day fled from the hellish banquet of Atreus? And why that the hard stones followed the lyre as it was struck?

The fertile license of the Poets ranges over an immense space; and it ties not its words to the accuracy of history. So, too, ought my mistress to have been deemed to be falsely praised; now is your credulity a mischief to me.