huc ruit in siccam congesta pulvere barbam, et iacit ante fores verba minora deo: vos precor, o luci sacro quae luditis antro, pandite defessis hospita fana viris.
Hither he rushes, the dust caking his parched beard, and before the threshold utters words unworthy of a god: I beseech ye, who sport in this groves sacred bower, open your shrine as a hospice to a weary man.
final_alignments\Propertius_Elegies_Book4.json