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frosts of Rhine, at thy side steeled her courage throughout summer heats and gladly borne the quiver, did the camp permit, and gladly shielded her body with an Amazonian targe—so but she might see thee in the dust-clouds of battle hard by the Emperor’s thundering steed, brandishing godlike shafts and bedewed with the sweat of his great spear.

So far my lyre has been propitious; but now it is time to doff thy bays, O Phoebus, and doom my tresses to sad cypress-leaves. What god joined Fortune and Envy in truceless kinship? who bade the cruel goddesses engage in unending war? Will the one set her mark upon no house, but the other must straightway fix it with her grim glance, and with savage hand make havoc of its gladness? Happy and prosperous was this abode, no shock assailed it, no thought of sorrow; what cause was there to have fear of Fortune, treacherous and fickle though she be, while Caesar was favourable? yet the jealous Fates found a way, and barbarous violence entered that blameless home. So do the laden vineyards feel the deadly sirocco’s blast, so rots the high corn with too much rain, so does the air envy the rapid craft it meets, and gathers storm-clouds about its prosperous sails. Fate plucks away the peerless beauty of Priscilla: just as the lofty pine, the glory of the woodland, is wasted of its foliage, be it by fell fire of Jove or that its roots are loosened, and so despoiled answers no more the whispering breeze. What avails goodness, or chaste loyalty, or worship paid to heaven? The dark snares of death encompassed around the wretched woman, the Sisters’ ruthless threads are tightened, and there abides but the last portion of the exhausted