tu iam, Tityre, rura post recepta myrtos et platanona pervagatus pulsas barbiton atque concinentes ora et plectra tibi modos resultant, chorda voce metro stupende psaltes: nos istic positos semelque visos bis iam menstrua luna conspicatur, nec multum domino vacat vel ipsi, dum responsa petit subactus orbis.
You, my Tityrus, with your land restored to you, range through the groves of myrtle and planes, and so you strike your lyre, and both words and plectrum make the echoes ring with harmonious melody, my minstrel friend'so marvellous with string and voice and measure. But as for me, here imprisoned am I, granted access (to the King) but once, although two moons have now passed over me. And indeed our lord and master, even he, has but little time to spare while a conquered world makes suit to him.
final_alignments\Sidonius_Letters_Book8.json