---
title: "Metamorphoses"
author: "Ovid"
translator: "Brookes More"
title_ru: "Метаморфозы"
author_ru: "Овидий"
languages: [la, en]
shelf: "Classical Latin"
section: 20 of 30
url: https://scriptura.si/works/ovid-metamorphoses/20/
cite: "Ovid, tr. Brookes More, Metamorphoses, section 20. Scriptura (scriptura.si), https://scriptura.si/works/ovid-metamorphoses/20/"
---

# Metamorphoses

*Ovid, tr. Brookes More*

Russian: Метаморфозы, Овидий

Bodies changed into new forms, from the creation of the world to the deification of Julius Caesar: Daphne, Narcissus, Pyramus and Thisbe, Icarus, Orpheus.

> Latin: ed. Hugo Magnus, from the Perseus Digital Library (canonical-latinLit, phi0959.phi006, CC BY-SA 4.0).

> English: Brookes More, from the Perseus Digital Library (phi0959.phi006.perseus-eng3). Notes are not included.

> Rows follow the references the two texts share (line numbers), cut where both reach the end of a sentence.

## 20. Book X · lines 519–739

Source: https://scriptura.si/works/ovid-metamorphoses/20/ · cite a paragraph as https://scriptura.si/works/ovid-metamorphoses/20/#p-N

[¶0] Time gliding by without our knowledge cheats us,
and nothing can be swifter than the years.
That son of sister and grandfather, who
was lately hidden in his parent tree,
just lately born, a lovely baby-boy
is now a youth, now man more beautiful
than during growth. He wins the love of Venus
and so avenges his own mother's passion.
For while the goddess' son with quiver held
on shoulder, once was kissing his loved mother,
it chanced unwittingly he grazed her breast
with a projecting arrow. Instantly
the wounded goddess pushed her son away;
but the scratch had pierced her deeper than she thought
and even Venus was at first deceived.
Delighted with the beauty of the youth,
she does not think of her Cytherian shores
and does not care for Paphos, which is girt
by the deep sea, nor Cnidos, haunts of fish,
nor Amathus far-famed for precious ores.
Venus, neglecting heaven, prefers Adonis
to heaven, and so she holds close to his ways
as his companion, and forgets to rest
at noon-day in the shade, neglecting care
of her sweet beauty. She goes through the woods,
and over mountain ridges and wild fields,
rocky and thorn-set, bare to her white knees
after Diana's manner. And she cheers
the hounds, intent to hunt for harmless prey,
such as the leaping hare, or the wild stag,
high-crowned with branching antlers, or the doe.—
she keeps away from fierce wild boars, away
from ravenous wolves; and she avoids the bears
of frightful claws, and lions glutted with
the blood of slaughtered cattle.
She warns you,
Adonis, to beware and fear them. If her fears
for you were only heeded! “Oh be brave,”
she says, “against those timid animals
which fly from you; but courage is not safe
against the bold. Dear boy, do not be rash,
do not attack the wild beasts which are armed
by nature, lest your glory may cost me
great sorrow. Neither youth nor beauty nor
the deeds which have moved Venus have effect
on lions, bristling boars, and on the eyes
and tempers of wild beasts. Boars have the force
of lightning in their curved tusks, and the rage
of tawny lions is unlimited.
I fear and hate them all.”
When he inquires
the reason, she says: “I will tell it; you
will be surprised to learn the bad result
caused by an ancient crime.—But I am weary
with unaccustomed toil; and see! a poplar
convenient, offers a delightful shade
and this lawn gives a good couch. Let us rest
ourselves here on the grass.” So saying, she
reclined upon the turf and, pillowing
her head against his breast and mingling kisses
with her words, she told him the following tale:

> Latin: Labitur occulte fallitque volatilis aetas,
et nihil est annis velocius. Ille sorore
natus avoque suo, qui conditus arbore nuper,
nuper erat genitus, modo formosissimus infans,
iam iuvenis, iam vir, iam se formosior ipso est:
iam placet et Veneri matrisque ulciscitur ignes.
Namque pharetratus dum dat puer oscula matri,
inscius exstanti destrinxit harundine pectus.
Laesa manu natum dea reppulit. Altius actum
vulnus erat specie primoque fefellerat ipsam.
Capta viri forma non iam Cythereia curat
litora, non alto repetit Paphon aequore cinctam
piscosamque Gnidon gravidamve Amathunta metallis;
abstinet et caelo: caelo praefertur Adonis.
Hunc tenet, huic comes est; adsuetaque semper in umbra
indulgere sibi formamque augere colendo
per iuga, per silvas dumosaque saxa vagatur
fine genu vestem ritu succincta Dianae
hortaturque canes; tutaeque animalia praedae,
aut pronos lepores aut celsum in cornua cervum,
aut agitat dammas: a fortibus abstinet apris
raptoresque lupos armatosque unguibus ursos
vitat et armenti saturatos caede leones.
Te quoque, ut hos timeas, siquid prodesse monendo
possit, Adoni, monet, “fortis” que “fugacibus esto”
inquit “in audaces non est audacia tuta.
Parce meo, iuvenis, temerarius esse periclo,
neve feras, quibus arma dedit natura, lacesse,
stet mihi ne magno tua gloria. Non movet aetas
nec facies nec quae Venerem movere, leones
saetigerosque sues oculosque animosque ferarum.
Fulmen habent acres in aduncis dentibus apri,
impetus est fulvis et vasta leonibus ira,
invisumque mihi genus est.” Quae causa, roganti
“dicam,” ait “et veteris monstrum mirabere culpae.
Sed labor insolitus iam me lassavit, et ecce
opportuna sua blanditur populus umbra,
datque torum caespes; libet hac requiescere tecum”
(et requievit) “humo” pressitque et gramen et ipsum,
inque sinu iuvenis posita cervice reclinis
sic ait ac mediis interserit oscula verbis:

[¶1] Perhaps you may have heard of a swift maid,
who ran much faster than swift-footed men
contesting in the race. What they have told
is not an idle tale.—She did excel
them all—and you could not have said
whether her swift speed or her beauty was
more worthy of your praise. When this maid once
consulted with an oracle, of her
fate after marriage, the god answered her:
“You, Atalanta, never will have need
of husband, who will only be your harm.
For your best good you should avoid the tie;
but surely you will not avoid your harm;
and while yet living you will lose yourself.”
She was so frightened by the oracle,
she lived unwedded in far shaded woods;
and with harsh terms repulsed insistent throngs
of suitors. “I will not be won,” she said,
“Till I am conquered first in speed. Contest
the race with me. A wife and couch shall both
be given to reward the swift, but death
must recompense the one who lags behind.
This must be the condition of a race.”
Indeed she was that pitiless, but such
the power of beauty, a rash multitude
agreed to her harsh terms.
Hippomenes
had come, a stranger, to the cruel race,
with condemnation in his heart against
the racing young men for their headstrong love;
and said, “Why seek a wife at such a risk?”
But when he saw her face, and perfect form
disrobed for perfect running, such a form
as mine, Adonis, or as yours—if you
were woman—he was so astonished he
raised up his hands and said, “Oh pardon me
brave men whom I was blaming, I could not
then realize the value of the prize
you strove for.” And as he is praising her,
his own heart leaping with love's fire, he hopes
no young man may outstrip her in the race;
and, full of envy, fears for the result.
“But why,” he cries, “is my chance in the race
untried? Divinity helps those who dare.”
But while the hero weighed it in his mind
the virgin flew as if her feet had wings.
Although she seemed to him in flight as swift
as any Scythian arrow, he admired
her beauty more; and her swift speed appeared
in her most beautiful. The breeze bore back
the streamers on her flying ankles, while
her hair was tossed back over her white shoulders;
the bright trimmed ribbons at her knees were fluttering,
and over her white girlish body came
a pink flush, just as when a purple awning
across a marble hall gives it a wealth
of borrowed hues. And while Hippomenes
in wonder gazed at her, the goal was reached;
and Atalanta crowned victorious
with festal wreath.—But all the vanquished youths
paid the death-penalty with sighs and groans,
according to the stipulated bond.
Not frightened by the fate of those young men,
he stood up boldly in the midst of all;
and fixing his strong eyes upon the maiden, said:
“Where is the glory in an easy victory
over such weaklings? Try your fate with me!
If fortune fail to favor you, how could
it shame you to be conquered by a man?
Megareus of Onchestus is my father,
his grandsire, Neptune, god of all the seas.
I am descendant of the King of Waves:
and add to this, my name for manly worth
has not disgraced the fame of my descent.
If you should prove victorious against
this combination, you will have achieved
a great enduring name—the only one
who ever bested great Hippomenes.”
While he was speaking, Atalanta's gaze
grew softer, in her vacillating hopes
to conquer and be conquered; till at last,
her heart, unbalanced, argued in this way:
“It must be some god envious of youth,
wishing to spoil this one prompts him to seek
wedlock with me and risk his own dear life.
I am not worth the price, if I may judge.
His beauty does not touch me—but I could
be moved by it—I must consider he
is but a boy. It is not he himself
who moves me, but his youth. Sufficient cause
for thought are his great courage and his soul
fearless of death. What of his high descent;—
great grandson of the King of all the seas?
What of his love for me that has such great
importance, he would perish if his fate
denied my marriage to him? O strange boy,
go from me while you can; abandon hope
of this alliance stained with blood—A match
with me is fatal. Other maids will not
refuse to wed you, and a wiser girl
will gladly seek your love.—But what concern
is it of mine, when I but think of those
who have already perished! Let him look
to it himself; and let him die. Since he
is not warned by his knowledge of the fate
of many other suitors, he declares
quite plainly, he is weary of his life.—
“Shall he then die, because it must be his
one hope to live with me? And suffer death
though undeserved, for me because he loves?
My victory will not ward off the hate,
the odium of the deed! But it is not
a fault of mine.—Oh fond, fond man, I would
that you had never seen me! But you are
so madly set upon it, I could wish
you may prove much the swifter! Oh how dear
how lovable is his young girlish face!—
ah, doomed Hippomenes, I only wish
mischance had never let you see me! You
are truly worthy of a life on earth.
If I had been more fortunate, and not
denied a happy marriage day; I would
not share my bed with any man but you.”
All this the virgin Atalanta said;
and knowing nothing of the power of love,
she is so ignorant of what she does,
she loves and does not know she is in love.
Meanwhile her father and the people, all
loudly demanded the accustomed race.
A suppliant, the young Hippomenes
invoked me with his anxious voice, “I pray
to you, O Venus, Queen of Love, be near
and help my daring—smile upon the love
you have inspired!” The breeze, not envious,
wafted this prayer to me; and I confess,
it was so tender it did move my heart—
I had but little time to give him aid.
There is a field there which the natives call
the Field Tamasus—the most prized of all
the fertile lands of Cyprus. This rich field,
in ancient days, was set apart for me,
by chosen elders who decreed it should
enrich my temples yearly. In this field
there grows a tree, with gleaming golden leaves,
and all its branches crackle with bright gold.
Since I was coming from there, by some chance,
I had three golden apples in my hand,
which I had plucked. With them I planned to aid
Hippomenes. While quite invisible
to all but him, I taught him how to use
those golden apples for his benefit.

> Latin: “Forsitan audieris aliquam certamine cursus
veloces superasse viros. Non fabula rumor
ille fuit: superabat enim; nec dicere posses,
laude pedum formaene bono praestantior esset.
Scitanti deus huic de coniuge “coniuge” dixit
“nil opus est, Atalanta, tibi: fuge coniugis usum!
nec tamen effugies teque ipsa viva carebis.”
Territa sorte dei per opacas innuba silvas
vivit et instantem turbam violenta procorum
condicione fugat, nec “sum potienda, nisi” inquit
“victa prius cursu. Pedibus contendite mecum:
praemia veloci coniunx thalamique dabuntur,
mors pretium tardis. Ea lex certaminis esto.”
Illa quidem inmitis: sed (tanta potentia formae est)
venit ad hanc legem temeraria turba procorum.
Sederat Hippomenes cursus spectator iniqui
et “petitur cuiquam per tanta pericula coniunx?”
dixerat ac nimios iuvenum damnarat amores.
Ut faciem et posito corpus velamine vidit,
quale meum, vel quale tuum, si femina fias,
obstipuit tollensque manus “ignoscite,” dixit
“quos modo culpavi. Nondum mihi praemia nota,
quae peteretis, erant.” Laudando concipit ignes
et, ne quis iuvenum currat velocius, optat
invidiaque timet. “Sed cur certaminis huius
intemptata mihi fortuna relinquitur?” inquit
“audentes deus ipse iuvat.” Dum talia secum
exigit Hippomenes, passu volat alite virgo.
Quae quamquam Scythica non setius ire sagitta
Aonio visa est iuveni, tamen ille decorem
miratur magis; et cursus facit ipse decorem.
Aura refert ablata citis talaria plantis,
tergaque iactantur crines per eburnea, quaeque
poplitibus suberant picto genualia limbo;
inque puellari corpus candore ruborem
traxerat, haud aliter, quam cum super atria velum
candida purpureum simulatas inficit umbras.
Dum notat haec hospes, decursa novissima meta est
et tegitur festa victrix Atalanta corona.
Dant gemitum victi penduntque ex foedere poenas.
Non tamen eventu iuvenis deterritus horum
constitit in medio, vultuque in virgine fixo
“quid facilem titulum superando quaeris inertes?
mecum confer!” ait. “Seu me fortuna potentem
fecerit, a tanto non indignabere vinci:
namque mihi genitor Megareus Onchestius, illi
est Neptunus avus, pronepos ego regis aquarum,
nec virtus citra genus est; seu vincar, habebis
Hippomene victo magnum et memorabile nomen.”
Talia dicentem molli Schoeneia vultu
adspicit et dubitat, superari an vincere malit.
Atque ita “quis deus hunc formosis” inquit “iniquus
perdere vult caraeque iubet discrimine vitae
coniugium petere hoc? Non sum, me iudice, tanti. —
Nec forma tangor (poteram tamen hac quoque tangi),
sed quod adhuc puer est: non me movet ipse, sed aetas.
Quid quod inest virtus et mens interrita leti?
Quid quod ab aequorea numeratur origine quartus?
Quid quod amat tantique putat conubia nostra,
ut pereat, si me fors illi dura negarit?
Dum licet, hospes, abi thalamosque relinque cruentos:
coniugium crudele meum est. Tibi nubere nulla
nolet, et optari potes a sapiente puella. —
Cur tamen est mihi cura tui tot iam ante peremptis?
Viderit! Intereat, quoniam tot caede procorum
admonitus non est agiturque in taedia vitae. —
Occidet hic igitur, voluit quia vivere mecum,
indignamque necem pretium patietur amoris?
Non erit invidiae victoria nostra ferendae.
Sed non culpa mea est. Utinam desistere velles,
aut, quoniam es demens, utinam velocior esses!
A! quam virgineus puerili vultus in ore est!
A! miser Hippomene, nollem tibi visa fuissem!
Vivere dignus eras. Quod si felicior essem,
nec mihi coniugium fata importuna negarent,
unus eras, cum quo sociare cubilia vellem.”
Dixerat; utque rudis primoque Cupidine tacta,
quid facit ignorans, amat et non sentit amorem.
Iam solitos poscunt cursus populusque paterque,
cum me sollicita proles Neptunia voce
invocat Hippomenes “Cytherea” que “comprecor, ausis
adsit” ait “nostris et quos dedit adiuvet ignes.”
Detulit aura preces ad me non invida blandas;
motaque sum, fateor. Nec opis mora longa dabatur.
Est ager, indigenae Tamasenum nomine dicunt,
telluris Cypriae pars optima, quam mihi prisci
sacravere senes templisque accedere dotem
hanc iussere meis. Medio nitet arbor in arvo,
fulva comas, fulvo ramis crepitantibus auro.
Hinc tria forte mea veniens decerpta ferebam
aurea poma manu: nullique videnda nisi ipsi
Hippomenen adii docuique, quis usus in illis.

[¶2] The trumpet soon gave signal for the race
and both of them crouching flashed quickly forth
and skimmed the surface of the sandy course
with flying feet. You might even think those two
could graze the sea with unwet feet and pass
over the ripened heads of standing grain.
Shouts of applause gave courage to the youth:
the cheering multitude cried out to him:—
“Now is the time to use your strength. Go on!
Hippomenes! Bend to the work! You're sure
to win!” It must be doubted who was most
rejoiced by those brave words, Megareus' son,
or Schoeneus' daughter. Oh, how often, when
she could have passed him, she delayed her speed;
and after gazing long upon his face
reluctantly again would pass him! Now
dry panting breath came from his weary throat—
the goal still far away.—Then Neptune's scion
threw one of three gold apples. Atalanta
with wonder saw it—eager to possess
the shining fruit, she turned out of her course,
picked up the rolling gold. Hippomenes
passed by her, while spectators roared applause.
Increasing speed, she overcame delay,
made up for time lost, and again she left
the youth behind. She was delayed again
because he tossed another golden apple.
She followed him, and passed him in the race.
The last part of the course remained. He cried
“Be near me, goddess, while I use your gift.”
With youthful might he threw the shining gold,
in an oblique direction to the side,
so that pursuit would mean a slow return.
The virgin seemed to hesitate, in doubt
whether to follow after this third prize.
I forced her to turn for it; take it up;
and, adding weight to the gold fruit, she held,
impeded her with weight and loss of time.
For fear my narrative may stretch beyond
the race itself,—the maiden was outstripped;
Hippomenes then led his prize away.
Adonis, did I not deserve his thanks
with tribute of sweet incense? But he was
ungrateful, and, forgetful of my help,
he gave me neither frankincense nor thanks.
Such conduct threw me into sudden wrath,
and, fretting at the slight, I felt I must
not be despised at any future time.
I told myself 'twas only right to make
a just example of them. They were near
a temple, hidden in the forest, which
glorious Echion in remembered time
had built to Rhea, Mother of the gods,
in payment of a vow. So, wearied from
the distance traveled, they were glad to have
a needed rest. Hippomenes while there,
was seized with love his heart could not control.—
a passion caused by my divinity.
Quite near the temple was a cave-like place,
covered with pumice. It was hallowed by
religious veneration of the past.
Within the shadows of that place, a priest
had stationed many wooden images
of olden gods. The lovers entered there
and desecrated it. The images
were scandalized, and turned their eyes away.
The tower-crowned Mother, Cybele, at first
prepared to plunge the guilty pair beneath
the waves of Styx, but such a punishment
seemed light. And so their necks, that had been smooth.
Were covered instantly with tawny manes;
their fingers bent to claws; their arms were changed
to fore-legs; and their bosoms held their weight;
and with their tails they swept the sandy ground.
Their casual glance is anger, and instead
of words they utter growls. They haunt the woods,
a bridal-room to their ferocious taste.
And now fierce lions they are terrible
to all of life; except to Cybele;
whose harness has subdued their champing jaws.
My dear Adonis keep away from all
such savage animals; avoid all those
which do not turn their fearful backs in flight
but offer their bold breasts to your attack,
lest courage should be fatal to us both.
Indeed she warned him. — Harnessing her swans,
she traveled swiftly through the yielding air;
but his rash courage would not heed advice.
By chance his dogs, which followed a sure track,
aroused a wild boar from his hiding place;
and, as he rushed out from his forest lair,
Adonis pierced him with a glancing stroke.
Infuriate, the fierce boar's curved snout
first struck the spear-shaft from his bleeding side;
and, while the trembling youth was seeking where
to find a safe retreat, the savage beast
raced after him, until at last he sank
his deadly tusk deep in Adonis' groin;
and stretched him dying on the yellow sand.
And now sweet Aphrodite, borne through air
in her light chariot, had not yet arrived
at Cyprus, on the wings of her white swans.
Afar she recognized his dying groans,
and turned her white birds towards the sound. And when
down looking from the lofty sky, she saw
him nearly dead, his body bathed in blood,
she leaped down—tore her garment—tore her hair —
and beat her bosom with distracted hands.
And blaming Fate said, “But not everything
is at the mercy of your cruel power.
My sorrow for Adonis will remain,
enduring as a lasting monument.
Each passing year the memory of his death
shall cause an imitation of my grief.
“Your blood, Adonis, will become a flower
perennial. Was it not allowed to you
Persephone, to transform Menthe's limbs
into sweet fragrant mint? And can this change
of my loved hero be denied to me?”
Her grief declared, she sprinkled his blood with
sweet-smelling nectar, and his blood as soon
as touched by it began to effervesce,
just as transparent bubbles always rise
in rainy weather. Nor was there a pause
more than an hour, when from Adonis, blood,
exactly of its color, a loved flower
sprang up, such as pomegranates give to us,
small trees which later hide their seeds beneath
a tough rind. But the joy it gives to man
is short-lived, for the winds which give the flower
its name, Anemone, shake it right down,
because its slender hold, always so weak,
lets it fall to the ground from its frail stem.

> Latin: Signa tubae dederant, cum carcere pronus uterque
emicat et summam celeri pede libat harenam.
Posse putes illos sicco freta radere passu
et segetis canae stantes percurrere aristas.
Adiciunt animos iuveni clamorque favorque
verbaque dicentum: “Nunc, nunc incumbere tempus!
Hippomene, propera! nunc viribus utere totis!
pelle moram, vinces!” Dubium, Megareius heros
gaudeat, an virgo magis his Schoeneia dictis.
O quotiens, cum iam posset transire, morata est
spectatosque diu vultus invita reliquit!
Aridus e lasso veniebat anhelitus ore,
metaque erat longe. Tum denique de tribus unum
fetibus arboreis proles Neptunia misit.
Obstipuit virgo, nitidique cupidine pomi
declinat cursus aurumque volubile tollit.
Praeterit Hippomenes! Resonant spectacula plausu.
Illa moram celeri cessataque tempora cursu
corrigit atque iterum iuvenem post terga relinquit.
Et rursus pomi iactu remorata secundi
consequitur transitque virum. Pars ultima cursus
restabat; “nunc” inquit “ades, dea muneris auctor!”
inque latus campi, quo tardius illa rediret,
iecit ab obliquo nitidum iuvenaliter aurum.
An peteret, virgo visa est dubitare: coegi
tollere et adieci sublato pondera malo
impediique oneris pariter gravitate moraque.
Neve meus sermo cursu sit tardior ipso,
praeterita est virgo: duxit sua praemia victor.
Dignane, cui grates ageret, cui turis honorem
ferret, Adoni, fui? — nec grates inmemor egit,
nec mihi tura dedit. Subitam convertor in iram;
contemptuque dolens, ne sim spernenda futuris,
exemplo caveo meque ipsa exhortor in ambos.
Templa, deum Matri quae quondam clarus Echion
fecerat ex voto, nemorosis abdita silvis,
transibant, et iter longum requiescere suasit.
Illic concubitus intempestiva cupido
occupat Hippomenen, a numine concita nostro.
Luminis exigui fuerat prope templa recessus,
speluncae similis, nativo pumice tectus,
religione sacer prisca, quo multa sacerdos
lignea contulerat veterum simulacra deorum.
Hunc init et vetito temerat sacraria probro.
Sacra retorserunt oculos; turritaque Mater
an Stygia sontes dubitavit mergeret unda.
Poena levis visa est. Ergo modo levia fulvae
colla iubae velant, digiti curvantur in ungues,
ex umeris armi fiunt, in pectora totum
pondus abit, summae cauda verruntur harenae.
Iram vultus habet, pro verbis murmura reddunt,
pro thalamis celebrant silvas: aliisque timendi
dente premunt domito Cybeleia frena leones.
Hos tu, care mihi, cumque his genus omne ferarum,
quod non terga fugae, sed pugnae pectora praebet,
effuge, ne virtus tua sit damnosa duobus.”
Illa quidem monuit iunctisque per aera cygnis
carpit iter: sed stat monitis contraria virtus.
Forte suem latebris vestigia certa secuti
excivere canes, silvisque exire parantem
fixerat obliquo iuvenis Cinyreius ictu.
Protinus excussit pando venabula rostro
sanguine tincta suo trepidumque et tuta petentem
trux aper insequitur totosque sub inguine dentes
abdidit et fulva moribundum stravit harena.
Vecta levi curru medias Cytherea per auras
Cypron olorinis nondum pervenerat alis,
agnovit longe gemitum morientis et albas
flexit aves illuc. Utque aethere vidit ab alto
exanimem inque suo iactantem sanguine corpus,
desiluit pariterque sinum pariterque capillos
rupit et indignis percussit pectora palmis.
Questaque cum fatis “at non tamen omnia vestri
iuris erunt” dixit. “Luctus monimenta manebunt
semper, Adoni, mei, repetitaque mortis imago
annua plangoris peraget simulamina nostri.
At cruor in florem mutabitur. An tibi quondam
femineos artus in olentes vertere mentas,
Persephone, licuit: nobis Cinyreius heros
invidiae mutatus erit?” — Sic fata cruorem
nectare odorato sparsit: qui tactus ab illo
intumuit sic ut fulvo perlucida caeno
surgere bulla solet. Nec plena longior hora
facta mora est, cum flos de sanguine concolor ortus,
qualem, quae lento celant sub cortice granum,
punica ferre solent. Brevis est tamen usus in illo:
namque male haerentem et nimia levitate caducum
excutiunt idem, qui praestant nomina, venti.”