Book III, Elegy 15

So may I know no further storms in my love, nor may ever the night come whereon I must lie wakeful without thee! When the modesty of my boyhood's garb was hidden away, and freedom was given me to know the paths of love, 'twas she, Lycinna, won, ah me! by no gifts of mine, that initiated my innocent soul on those first nights wherein she shared my love. 'Tis now the third year since then, but little less, and I can scarce remember that ten words have passed between us. All things thy love has buried, nor since thee has any woman cast sweet chains about my neck. [Spare Lycinna, lest vengeance fall on thee.] Dirce shall be my witness, Dirce maddened with anger by the tale none might gainsay, that Antiope, daughter of Nycteus, had lain with Lycus. Ah! how often did the queen burn her fair tresses and clutch her tender face with relentless hands! How often she loaded her handmaid with unjust tasks and bade her lay her head upon the hard ground! Often she suffered her to dwell in foul darkness, oft she refused even worthless water to allay her thirst. Jove, wilt thou never aid Antiope so deep in woe? The hard chains gall her hands. If thou art a god, 'tis shame that she whom thou didst love should be a slave; on whom should Antiope call from her chains save on Jove? Yet unaided, summoning all her body's strength, with either hand she brake the tyrant chains. Then with trembling feet she ran to the heights of Cithaeron. 'Twas night, and her couch was bitter with scattered frost. Oft scared by the wandering sound of the rushing Asopus, she deemed that the feet of her mistress were pursuing.

Her tears found Zethus unmoved and Amphion pitiful, when she, their mother, was driven from the steading that was of right her own. And as when the waves give over their huge heavings, what time the East Wind ceases to strive with the wind of the South-West, and so the shore is stilled and the sound of the wave-swept sand grows less and less, so gradually sank she down on her bended knee. At length, though late, they showed their love; her sons knew their error. Worthy wert thou, old man, to tend the sons of Jove; thou didst restore the mother to her boys, and they bound Dirce beneath the head of a fierce bull to be dragged to death. Antiope, recognise the power of Jove! Dirce, now thy proud boast, is drawn along to find death in many a spot. The fields of Zethus are red with blood, and Amphion sang the paean of victory on thy rocks, O Aracynthus. But do thou spare to torment guiltless Lycinna: anger of jealous woman knows no turning back. And may no tale concerning us ever alarm thine ears; may I love thee only even when the funeral pile hath consumed me.