tu me nitidis Albana ferentem dona comis sanctoque indutum Caesaris auro visceribus complexa tuis, sertisque dedisti oscula anhela meis; tu, cum Capitolia nostrae infitiata lyrae, saevum ingratumque dolebas mecum victa Iovem; tu procurrentia primis carmina nostra sonis totasque in murmure noctes aure rapis vigili; longi tu sola laboris conscia, cumque tuis crevit mea Thebais annis.
As I bore Albas gift on my shining hair, wearing Caesars sacred gold, twas you that clasped me to your bosom and gave panting kisses to my chaplet. When the Capitol said nay to my lyre, twas you that grieved for Joves cruelty and ingratitude, sharing my discomfiture. Tis you that catch with sleepless ear the first notes of my songs as they run forth and whole nights of murmuring. Only you know my long labor, my Thebaid grew along with your years.
final_alignments\Statius_Silvae_Book3.json