heu lactea colla, bracchia quo numquam domini sine pondere cervix! o ubi venturae spes non longinqua iuventae atque genis optatus honos iurataque multum barba tibi? cuncta in cineres gravis intulit hora hostilisque dies; nobis meminisse relictum.
Alas! the milk-white throat, the arms ever weighing upon his masters neck! Where, oh where the not distant hope of coming manhood, the longed-for grace upon his cheeks, the beard you often swore by? A heavy hour, a hostile day has brought all to ashes: to us is left a memory.
final_alignments\Statius_Silvae_Book2.json