OVID (43 B.C. – 17 A.D.) THE STORY OF PYRAMUS AND THISBE from The Metamorphoses Translated from the Latin by Rolfe Humphries Next door to each other, in the brick-walled city Love made her bold. But suddenly, here came Built by Semiramis, lived a boy and girl, 50 something!— Pyramus, a most handsome fellow, Thisbe, A lioness, her jaws a crimson froth Loveliest of all those Eastern girls. Their nearness With the blood of cows, fresh-slain, came there for 5 Made them acquainted, and love grew, in time, water, So that they would have married, but their parents And far off through the moonlight Thisbe saw her Forbade it. But their parents could not keep them 55 And ran, all scared, to hide herself in a cave, From being in love: their nods and gestures showed it— And dropped her veil as she ran. The lioness, You know how fire suppressed burns all the fiercer. Having quenched her thirst, came back to the woods, and 10 There was a chink in the wall between the houses, saw A flaw the careless builder had never noticed, The girl’s light veil, and mangled it and mouthed it Nor anyone else, for many years, detected, 60 With bloody jaws. Pyramus, coming there But the lovers found it—love is a finder, always— Too late, saw tracks in the dust, turned pale, and paler Used it to talk through, and the loving whispers Seeing the bloody veil. “One night,” he cried, 15 Went back and forth in safety. They would stand “Will kill two lovers, and one of them, most surely, One on each side, listening for each other, Deserved a longer life. It is all my fault, Happy if each could hear the other’s breathing, 65 I am the murderer, poor girl; I told you And then they would scold the wall: “You envious To come here in the night, to all this terror, barrier, And was not here before you, to protect you. 20 Why get in our way? Would it be too much to ask you Come, tear my flesh, devour my guilty body, To open wide for an embrace, or even Come, lions, all of you, whose lairs lie hidden Permit us room to kiss in? Still, we are grateful, 70 Under this rock! I am acting like a coward, We owe you something, we admit; at least Praying for death.” He lifts the veil and takes it You let us talk together.” But their talking Into the shadow of their tree. He kisses 25 Was futile, rather; and when evening came The veil he knows so well, his tears run down They would say Good-night! and give the good-night kisses Into its folds: “Drink my blood too!” he cries, That never reached the other. 75 And draws his sword, and plunges it into his body, The next morning And, dying, draws it out, warm from the wound. Came, and the fires of night burnt out, and sunshine As he lay there on the ground, the spouting blood 30 Dried the night frost, and Pyramus and Thisbe Leaped high, just as a pipe sends water spurting Met at the usual place, and first, in whispers, Through a small hissing opening, when broken Complained, and came—high time!—to a decision. 80 With a flaw in the lead, and all the air is sprinkled. That night, when all was quiet, they would fool The fruit of the tree, from that red spray, turned crimson, Their guardians, or try to, come outdoors, And the roots, soaked with the blood, dyed all the berries 35 Run away from home, and even leave the city. The same dark hue. And, not to miss each other, as they wandered Thisbe came out of hiding, In the wide fields, where should they meet? At Ninus’ 85 Still frightened, but a little fearful, also, Tomb, they supposed, was best; there was a tree there, To disappoint her lover. She kept looking A mulberry tree, loaded with snow-white berries, Not only with her eyes, but all her heart, 40 Near a cool spring. The plan was good, the daylight Eager to tell him of those terrible dangers, Was very slow in going, but at last About her own escape. She recognized The sun went down into the waves, as always, 90 The place, the shape of the tree, but there was something And the night rose, as always, from those waters. Strange or peculiar in the berries’ color. And Thisbe opened her door, so sly, so cunning, Could this be right? And then she saw a quiver 45 There was no creaking of the hinge, and no one Of limbs on bloody ground, and started backward, Saw her go through the darkness, and she came, Paler than boxwood, shivering, as water Veiled, to the tomb of Ninus, sat there waiting 95 Stirs when a little breeze ruffles the surface. Under the shadow of the mulberry tree. It was not long before she knew her lover, And tore her hair, and beat her innocent bosom For the last wound. I will follow you in death, With her little fists, embraced the well-loved body, 115 Be called the cause and comrade of your dying. Filling the wounds with tears, and kissed the lips Death was the only one could keep you from me, 100 Cold in his dying. “O my Pyramus,” Death shall not keep you from me. Wretched parents She wept, “What evil fortune takes you from me? Of Pyramus and Thisbe, listen to us, Pyramus, answer me! Your dearest Thisbe Listen to both our prayers, do not begrudge us, Is calling you. Pyramus, listen! Lift your head!” 120 Whom death has joined, lying at last together He heard the name of Thisbe, and he lifted In the same tomb. And you, O tree, now shading 105 His eyes, with the weight of death heavy upon them, The body of one, and very soon to shadow And saw her face, and closed his eyes. The bodies of two, keep in remembrance always And Thisbe The sign of our death, the dark and mournful color,” Saw her own veil, and saw the ivory scabbard 125 She spoke, and fitting the sword-point at her breast, With no sword in it, and understood. “Poor boy,” Fell forward on the blade, still warm and reeking 110 She said, “So, it was your own hand, With her lover’s blood. Her prayers touched the gods, Your love, that took your life away. I too And touched her parents, for the mulberry fruit Have a brave hand for this one thing, I too Still reddens at its ripeness, and the ashes Have love enough, and this will give me strength 130 Rest in a common urn. OVID (43 B.C. – 17 A.D.) THE STORY OF DÆDALUS AND ICARUS from The Metamorphoses Translated from the Latin by Rolfe Humphries Homesick for homeland, Dædalus hated Crete He kissed his son (Goodbye, if he had known it), And his long exile there, but the sea held him. Rose on his wings, flew on ahead, as fearful “Though Minos blocks escape by land or water,” As any bird launching the little nestlings Dædalus said, “surely the sky is open, 35 Out of high nest into this air. Keep on, 5 And that’s the way we’ll go. Minos’ dominion Keep on, he signals, follow me! He guides him Does not include the air.” He turned his thinking In flight—O fatal art!—and the wings move. Toward unknown arts, changing the laws of nature. And the father looks back to see the son’s wings moving. He laid out feathers in order, first the smallest, Far off, far down, some fisherman is watching A little larger next it, and so continued, 40 As the rod dips and trembles over the water, 10 The way that panpipes rise in gradual sequence. Some shepherd rests his weight upon his crook, He fastened them with twine and wax, at middle, Some ploughman on the handles of the ploughshare, At bottom, so, and bent them, gently curving, And all look up, in absolute amazement, So that they looked like wings of birds, most surely. At those air-borne above. They must be gods! And Icarus, his son, stood by and watched him, 45 They were over Samos, Juno’s sacred island, 15 Not knowing he was dealing with his downfall, Delos and Paros toward the left, Lebinthus Stood by and watched, and raised his shiny face Visible to the right, and another island, To let a feather, light as down, fall on it, Calymne, rich in honey. And the boy Or stuck his thumb into the yellow wax, Thought This is wonderful! and left his father, Fooling around, the way a boy will, always, 50 Soared higher, higher, drawn to the vast heaven, 20 Whenever a father tries to get some work done. Nearer the sun, and the wax that held the wings Still, it was done at last, and the father hovered, Melted in the fierce heat, and the bare arms Poised, in the moving air, and taught his son: Beat up and down in air, and lacking oarage “I warn you, Icarus, fly a middle course: Took hold of nothing. Father! he cried, and Father! Don’t go too low, or water will weigh the wings down; 55 Until the blue sea hushed him, the dark water 25 Don’t go too high, or the sun’s fire will burn them.