Rura meus Tyrrhena petit saltusque Tagetis Crispinus; nec longa mora est aut avia tellus, sed mea secreto velluntur pectora morsu udaque turgentes impellunt lumina guttas, ceu super Aegaeas hiemes abeuntis amici vela sequar spectemque ratem iam fessus ab altis rupibus atque oculos longo querar are vinci.
My friend Crispinus goes forth to Tyrrhenian fields and Tagus glades. Not for long his stay nor remote the land, but a secret pang plucks at my heartstrings and my moist eyes urge swelling drops, as though I were following the sails of my departing friend over Aegean storms and watching the ship wearily from some high cliff, complaining of my eyes defeat by stretch of air.
final_alignments\Statius_Silvae_Book5.json