One of the great things about cataloging my books is finding old gems I’d nearly forgotten. Like this great poem from Propertius:
“Quae fueram magnis olim patefacta triuphis,
ianua Tarpeiae nota pudicitiae;
cuius inaurati celebrarunt limina currus,
captorum lacrimis umida supplicibus;
nunc ego, nocturnis potorum saucia rixis,
pulsata indignis saepe queror manibus,
et mihi non desunt turpes pendere corollaesemper et exclusis signa iacere faces.
nec possum infamis dominae defendere noctes,
nobilis obscenis tradita carminibus;
(nec tamen illa suae revocatur parcere famae,
turpior et saecli vivere luxuria.)
has inter gravibus cogor deflere querelis,
supplicis a longis tristior excubiis.
ille meos numquam patitur requiescere postis,
arguta referens carmina blanditia:
“Ianua vel domina penitus crudelior ipsa,
quid mihi tam duris clausa taces foribus?
cur numquam reserata meos admittis amores,
nescia furtivas reddere mota preces?
nullane finis erit nostro concessa dolori,
turpiset in tepido limine somnus erit?
me mediae noctes, me sidera plena iacentem,
frigidaque Eoo me dolet aura gelu:
tu sola humanos numquam miserata dolores
respondes tacitis mutatua cardinibus.
o utinam traiecta cava mea vocula rima
percussas dominae vertat in auriculas!
sit licet in saxo patientior illa Sicano,
sit licet et ferro durior et Chalybe,
non tamen illa suos poterit compescere ocellos,
surget et invitis spiritus in lacrimis.
nunc iacet alterius felici nixa lacerto,
at mea nocturno verba cadunt Zephyro.
sed tu sola mei tu maxima causa doloris,
victa meis numquam, ianua, muneribus.
te non ulla meae laesit petulantia linguae,
quae solet irato dicere tota loco
ut me tam longa raucum patiare querela
sollicitas trivio pervigilare moras.
at tibi saepe novo deduxi carmina versu,
osculaque impressis nixa dedi gradibus.
ante tuos quotiens verti me, perfida, postis,
debitaque occultis vota tuli manibus!”
haec ille et siquae miseri novistis amantes,
et matutinis obstrepit alitibus.
sic ego nunc dominae vitiis et sember amantis
fletibus aeterna differor invidia.’
Once I was opened to great triumphs,
doorway famous for Tarpeian modesty.
Gold-wrought chariots celebrated my threshold,
wet with the supplicant tears of captives.
Now I am insulted by the nightly brawls of party-goers,
battered so often by unworthy fists I complain,
ugly garlands hung all over me
and the familiar torches, signs of the excluded.
I can’t defend the nights my infamous mistress leads;
though noble, I’m betrayed by obscene poetry.
(Still, she is not swayed to abstain from her fame
and to dwell in the excess of an uglier age).
Between these, I am forced to mourn – from the heavy
complaints, the long vigils of the tragic suppliant.
He never gives my posts a rest,
perenially reciting his poetry of gratin flattery:
“Doorway, perhaps even crueller than my mistress within,
why are you so silent, your hard gates closed to me?
Why don’t you ever open up and admit my passion?
Don’t you know how to respond, if moved by furtive pleas?
Will you never give in and put an end to my grief,
will I have to sleep like a dog on your warm step?
Midnight presses me, I lie in full view of the stars,
a frigid breeze whips me with ice from the East.
You alone take no pity on my human sufferings,
no response from your silent hinges.
If only my words, piercing some crack,
could travel to strike my mistress’ ears!
She may be stubborner than Sicily’s headland,
she may be harder than iron and steel,
but she won’t be able to control her eyes,
and emotion will well up in uninvited tears.
Now she lies in someone’s happy arms,
my words fall with the nocturnal Zephyr.
But you alone are the main cause of my sorrow,
doorway, never conquered by my gifts!
My tongue’s petulance never strikes you
(and I alway speak my mind when wronged);
you provoke me to complain till I’m hoarse,
and I spend the whole night on the street.
I’ve often written poetry to you in new verse
and pressed earnest kisses to your steps.
How often, traitor, have I turned over before your posts,
and I’ve brought the oppropriate offerings with hidden hands!”
So he speaks (as do all you pour lovers),
and he drowns out the morning birds.
I in turn am torn apart by my mistress’ vices,
the constant tears of the lover, and unending envy.
