Book III, Elegy 10: Sulpicia Sick (Postgate)

Come hither and drive out the tender maid's disease, come hither, Phoebus, with thy pride of unshorn hair. Hear me and hasten ; and henceforth, Phoebus, thou shalt ne'er regret to have laid thy healing hands upon the fair. See to it that no wasting blight fall on the pallid form, nor disfiguring hue mark the feeble limbs. Yea, all the mischief, all the dread things we fear, let the rushing river-waters carry out into the main. Come, holy one, and bring with thee all essences, all chants that ease the body's sickness. And torture not the youth who fears that the maid will die, and offers prayers, past counting, for his mistress. Sometimes he prays, sometimes in grief that she is sick he utters fierce words against the eternal gods. Put fear aside, Cerinthus. God harms not lovers. Do thou love ever, and thy girl is safe.

No need for weeping. Then fitlier will thy tears flow if ever she is angered with thee. But now she is wholly thine. In the kind maid's breast are only thoughts of thee, and a credulous company waits in vain upon her. Phoebus, be gracious. Great praise will be thy portion when by saving one life thou restorest two. Then famous and jubilant wilt thou be when in grateful rivalry both pay the debt they owe to thy holy altar. Then the company of good gods will call thee fortunate, and each desire thy own craft for himself.