inceptas quis ab ore dapes libataque vina auferet et dulci turbabit cuncta rapina? quis matutinos abrumpet murmure somnos impositus stratis, abitusque morabitur artis nexibus aque ipso revocabit ad oscula poste? obvius intranti rursus quis in ora manusque prosiliet brevibusque umeros circumdabit ulnis? muta domus, fateor, desolatique penates, et situs in thalamis et maesta silentia mensis.
Who shall steal from your lips the food you have begun to eat and the wine you have sipped, making general havoc with his sweet plunderings? Who jump on your bedclothes and break your morning slumbers with his murmurs, who hold up your departures with his clinging embraces and call you back from the very door for kisses? Who meet you as you come in again, leaping to your mouth and hands, ringing your shoulders with his tiny arms? Mute is the house, I dont deny, desolate the hearth, neglect is in the bedchambers, and sad silence at the board.
final_alignments\Statius_Silvae_Book2.json