ars bona: sed postquam sumpsit sibi tela Cupido, eheu quam multis ars dedit ista malum! et mihi praecipue: iaceo dum saucius annum et faveo morbo, nam iuvat ipse dolor, usque cano Nemesim, sine qua versus mihi nullus verba potest iustos aut reperire pedes.
Tis an honest craft; but since Cupid took to carrying arrows, how many, ah me, has that honest craft made smart! And me beyond the rest. For a year now, afflicted from his stroke and siding with my malady (for the pain itself is pleasure), I sing unceasingly of Nemesis, apart from whom no verse of mine can find its words or proper feet.
final_alignments\Tibullus_Elegies.json