That trust is empty, woman, you place in your beauty's power,
long since grown overproud by my admiring.
Such honors once were paid you, Cynthia, by our love:
I feel ashamed my verse exalted you.
I culled so many beauties and blent them for your praise
so love could believe you were what you were not.
So often I compared your hue to rosy dawn,
when your face gleamed with whiteness you applied.
But what my family's friends could never free me from,
nor Thessaly's witches purge with a whole vast sea,
I have myself, all uncompelled by fire or blade,
though wrecked - I will confess - on waves of passion.
I was possessed, and fired in Venus's crucible;
a captive, my hands tied behind my back.
Now see! my ship, adorned with wreaths, has touched the shore,
I have passed the Syrtes, my anchor has been cast!
Now, tired by the huge sea-swell, at last I gain my senses;
my wounds are healed; I am returned to health.
O Goddess of Good Sense, receive your worshipper,
since Jove has turned a deaf ear to my prayers.
Comments about this poem (Recovery by Propertius )
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