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cento nuptialis
Cento of a Roman marriage from Virgilian originals. Translated by Evelyn White with facing Latin.
Hardcover
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
August 2, 2016
What is there not to like about a book prefaced with a mock (?) apology by the author for bringing down the great Virgil into first comic then smutty content? Ausonius creates a Cento by using lines, half-lines and line-and-a-halfs from the Georgics, Eclogues and Aeneid to describe a wedding.
Has Virgil ever been ruder than:
he attacks the mouth and face, proceeds fiercely step after step,
treacherously steering for the deep: the rod within his garment,
with elderberries scarlet and with dye made ruddy,
its head left bare, as their legs together entwined,
a ghastly, shocking monster, huge, no sight in its single eye,
he draws forth from his flank and eagerly presses as she
quivers.
In a spot secluded, where leads a narrow path,
there glows a fiery chink whose depths exude foul vapor.
No one chaste dare tread this wicked threshhold.
Here was an awful cave; such a breath pouring
forth from its black maw struck the nostrils with its stench.
Here the youth is drawn by a way that he knows,
and looming above with gnarled and native trunk
he casts his spear, applying all his force.
It finds the mark and, driven deep, imbibes the maiden’s blood.
The hollows resound, the cavern gives a groan.
She tugs at the weapon with dying hand, but at the bone,
deep within the quick, the point sinks into the wound.
Three times she raised herself up, supported on her arm,
three times fell back on the bed. Undaunted he remains.
No rest there was, no respite: clinging and firmly
attached
he never released the tiller, and kept his eyes on the stars.
Back and forth he plies his path and, the cavity reverberating,
thrusts between the bones, and strikes with ivory quill.
And now, their journey covered, wearily they neared
their very goal: then rapid breathing shakes his limbs
and parched mouth, his sweat in rivers flows;
down he slumps bloodless; the fluid drips from his groin.
Well I mean!
Has Virgil ever been ruder than:
he attacks the mouth and face, proceeds fiercely step after step,
treacherously steering for the deep: the rod within his garment,
with elderberries scarlet and with dye made ruddy,
its head left bare, as their legs together entwined,
a ghastly, shocking monster, huge, no sight in its single eye,
he draws forth from his flank and eagerly presses as she
quivers.
In a spot secluded, where leads a narrow path,
there glows a fiery chink whose depths exude foul vapor.
No one chaste dare tread this wicked threshhold.
Here was an awful cave; such a breath pouring
forth from its black maw struck the nostrils with its stench.
Here the youth is drawn by a way that he knows,
and looming above with gnarled and native trunk
he casts his spear, applying all his force.
It finds the mark and, driven deep, imbibes the maiden’s blood.
The hollows resound, the cavern gives a groan.
She tugs at the weapon with dying hand, but at the bone,
deep within the quick, the point sinks into the wound.
Three times she raised herself up, supported on her arm,
three times fell back on the bed. Undaunted he remains.
No rest there was, no respite: clinging and firmly
attached
he never released the tiller, and kept his eyes on the stars.
Back and forth he plies his path and, the cavity reverberating,
thrusts between the bones, and strikes with ivory quill.
And now, their journey covered, wearily they neared
their very goal: then rapid breathing shakes his limbs
and parched mouth, his sweat in rivers flows;
down he slumps bloodless; the fluid drips from his groin.
Well I mean!
Displaying 1 of 1 review