Orphea delenisse feras et concita dicunt flumina Threicia sustinuisse lyra; saxa Cithaeronis Phoebeam agitata per artem sponte sua in muri membra coisse ferunt; quin etiam, Polypheme, fera Galatea sub Aetna ad tua rorantis carmina flexit equos: miremur, nobis et Baccho et Apolline dextro, turba puellarum si mea verba colit? quod non Taenariis domus est mihi fulta columnis, nec camera auratas inter eburna trabes, nec mea Phaeacas aequant pomaria silvas, non operosa rigat Marcius antra liquor; at Musae comites et carmina cara legenti, nec defessa choris Calliopea meis.
They say that Orpheus tamed wild beasts and stayed rushing rivers with his Thracian lyre; the rocks of Cithaeron, they say, stirred by Apollos music, joined together of their own accord to form a wall; nay, even Galatea beneath savage Etna turned her dripping horses at the sound of Polyphemus serenade: what wonder then, if Bacchus and Apollo smile on me, that a throng of maidens should love my words? If my house rises not on pillars of Taenarian marble, and my ceiling is not vaulted with ivory between gilded beams, if I have no fruit-trees matching Phaeacias orchards or man-made grottoes watered by the Marcian conduit; yet the Muses are my friends, my poems are dear to the reader, and Calliope never wearies of dancing to my rhythms.
final_alignments\Propertius_Elegies_Book3.json