tunc moriot curis, tunc mens mihi perdita fingit, quisve meam teneat, quot teneatve modis; tunc tibi, lena, precor diras: satis anxia vives, moverit e votis pars quotacumque deos.
Then I die with distress, and desperate fancy figures to itself in what and whose embraces my love is held. Then I call curses on thee, bawd. Thy life will be full enough of fears, if any part of what I pray is heard in heaven.
final_alignments\Tibullus_Elegies.json