Recovery - Poem by Propertius
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.
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