ecquandone tibi liber sum visus? an usque in nostrum iacies verba superba caput? sic igitur prima moriere aetate, Properti? sed morere; interitu gaudeat illa tuo! exagitet nostros Manes, sectetur et umbras, insultetque rogis, calcet et ossa mea! quid? non Antigonae tumulo Boeotius Haemon corruit ipse suo saucius ense latus, et sua cum miserae permiscuit ossa puellae, qua sine Thebanam noluit ire domum? sed non effugies: mecum moriaris oportet; hoc eodem ferro stillet uterque cruor.
Did you ever treat me as a man with rights? Will you always be casting insulting language in my face? Well, Propertius, is this then how you will die, so young? Die then; let her gloat over your demise. Let her harass my ghost and persecute my shade, let her outrage my pyre and trample on my bones! Say, did not Boeotian Haemon perish at Antigones tomb, stabbed in the side by his own sword, and did he not mix his bones with the unhappy girls, since without her he would not enter his Theban home? Still, you will not escape: you must die with me; let the blood of both drip from this same sword.
final_alignments\Propertius_Elegies_Book2.json