nec spatium nec mens fuerat satis apta parandi: torpuerant dempta pectora nostra mora. non mihi servorum, comitis non cura legendi, non aptae profugo vestis opisve fuit. non aliter stupui, quam qui Iovis ignibus ictus vivit et est vitae nescius ipse suae. ut tamen hanc animi nubem dolor ipse removit, et tandem sensus convaluere mei, adloquor extremum maestos abiturus amicos, qui modo de multis unus et alter erant. uxor amans flentem flens acrius ipsa tenebat, imbre per indignas usque cadente genas. nata procul Libycis aberat diversa sub oris, nec poterat fati certior esse mei. quocumque aspiceres, luctus gemitusque sonabant, formaque non taciti funeris intus erat.
No time had there been or spirit to prepare what might suit best; my mind had become numb with delay denied me. I took no thought to select my slaves or a companion or the clothing and outfit suited to an exile. I was as dazed as one who, smitten by the fire of Jove, still lives and knows not that he lives. But when my very pain drove away the cloud upon my mind and at length my senses revived, I addressed for the last time as I was about to depart my sorrowing friends of whom, just now so many, but one or two remained. My loving wife was in my arms as I wept, herself weeping more bitterly, tears raining constantly over her innocent cheeks. My daughter was far separated from us on the shores of Libya, and we could not inform her of my fate. Wherever you had looked was the sound of mourning and lamentation, and within the house was the semblance of a funeral with its loud outcries.
final_alignments\Ovid_Tristia.json