Heroides, Amours, Art of Love, Remedy of Love and Minor Works

PENELOPE TO ULYSSES.

Ulysses, thy Penelope sends this to thee, thus delaying; but write me nothing in answer; do thou come thyself. Troy, so hateful to the Grecian fair, doubtless lies prostrate: hardly was Priam and the whole of Troy of such great importance. Oh! how I wish that at the time when he was making for Lacedsemon with his fleet, the adulterer had been overwhelmed in the raging waves! Then I had not lain cold in a deserted bed, nor forlorn should I have complained that the days pass slowly on: the hanging webs would not then have wearied my widowed hands, as I seek to beguile the lingering night.

When have I not been dreading dangers more grievous than the reality 1 Love is a thing replete with anxious fears. Against thee did I fancy that the furious Trojans were rushing on; at the name of Hector I was always pale. If any one made mention of Antilochus, conquered by Hector, Antilo - chus was the cause of my apprehensions; or if, how the son of Mencetius had fallen in assumed armour, I lamented that his stratagem should fail of success. Tlepolemus had stained the Lycian spear with his blood; by the death of Tlepolemus were my cares renewed. In fine, whoever in the Grecian camp was slain, my affectionate breast was more cold than ice.