Wednesday, November 10, 2021
A Peek
Ovid, Heroides 16.249-254 (Paris to Helen; tr. Grant Showerman):
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Your bosom once, I remember, was betrayed by your robe; it was loose,
and left your charms bare to my gaze —
breasts whiter than pure snows, or milk,
or Jove when he embraced your mother.
While I sat in ecstasy at the sight — I chanced to have my goblet in hand —
the twisted handle fell from my fingers.
prodita sunt, memini, tunica tua pectora laxa
atque oculis aditum nuda dedere meis
pectora vel puris nivibus vel lacte tuamque
complexo matrem candidiora Iove.
dum stupeo visis — nam pocula forte tenebam —
tortilis a digitis excidit ansa meis.
