Met. 10.143Tāle nemus vātēs attrāxerat inque ferārum
conciliō medius turbā volucrumque sedēbat.Such was the grove the bard had drawn to him, and he sat in the middle of an assembly of wild beasts and a throng of birds. Met. 10.145Ut satis impulsās temptāvit pollice chordās
et sēnsit variōs, quamvīs dīversa sonārent,
concordāre modōs, hōc vōcem carmine mōvit:
"Ab Iove, Mūsa parēns, (cēdunt Iovis omnia regnō!)
carmina nostra movē!When he had tested enough with his thumb the strings he had struck, and felt that the notes, though they sounded differently, were in harmony, he raised his voice in this song: 'From Jupiter, Muse my mother (all things yield to Jupiter's rule!), set my songs in motion! Met. 10.149Iovis est mihi saepe potestās
150dicta prius: cecinī plēctrō graviōre Gigantas
sparsaque Phlegraeīs victrīcia fulmina campīs:
nunc opus est leviōre lyrā, puerōsque canāmus
dīlēctōs superīs, inconcessīsque puellās
ignibus attonitās meruisse libīdine poenam.Jupiter's power has often been sung by me before: I sang of the Giants with a heavier plectrum, and of the victorious thunderbolts scattered over the Phlegraean plains; now there is need of a lighter lyre, and let us sing of boys loved by the gods above, and of girls who, maddened by forbidden fires, earned punishment for their lust.' Met. 10.155Rēx superum Phrygiī quondam Ganymēdis amōre
ārsit, et inventum est aliquid, quod Iuppiter esse,
quam quod erat, māllet.The king of the gods above once burned with love for Phrygian Ganymede, and something was found that Jupiter would rather be than what he was.
Met. 10.157Nūllā tamen ālite vertī
dignātur, nisi quae posset sua fulmina ferre.Yet he does not deign to be turned into any bird except one that could carry his thunderbolts. Met. 10.159Nec mora, percussō mendācibus āere pennīs
160abripit Īliadēn;Without delay, beating the air on false wings, he snatches away the descendant of Ilus; Met. 10.160quī nunc quoque pōcula miscet
invītāque Iovī nectar Iūnōne ministrat.who even now mixes the cups and, to Juno's displeasure, serves nectar to Jupiter. Met. 10.162Tē quoque, Amyclīdē, posuisset in aethere Phoebus,
trīstia sī spatium pōnendī fāta dedissent.You too, son of Amyclas, Phoebus would have set in the heavens, if the sad fates had given him time to set you there. Met. 10.164Quā licet, aeternus tamen es: quotiēnsque repellit
165vēr hiemem piscīque ariēs succēdit aquōsō,
tū totiēns oreris viridīque in caespite flōrēs.Yet, as far as is allowed, you are everlasting: as often as spring drives winter away and the Ram follows the watery Fish, so often do you rise and bloom on the green turf. Met. 10.167Tē meus ante omnēs genitor dīlēxit, et orbe
in mediō positī caruērunt praeside Delphī,
dum deus Eurōtān inmūnītamque frequentat
170Spartēn.You my father loved before all others, and Delphi, placed at the centre of the world, lacked its guardian while the god haunted the Eurotas and unwalled Sparta.
Met. 10.170Nec citharae nec sunt in honōre sagittae:
inmemor ipse suī nōn rētia ferre recūsat,
nōn tenuisse canēs, nōn per iuga montis inīquī
īre comes, longāque alit adsuētūdine flammās.Neither lyre nor arrows are held in honour: forgetful of himself, he does not refuse to carry the nets, to hold the hounds, to go as a companion over the ridges of the rugged mountain, and by long familiarity he feeds his flames. Met. 10.174Iamque ferē medius Tītān venientis et āctae
175noctis erat spatiōque parī distābat utrimque:
corpora veste levant et sūcō pinguis olīvī
splendēscunt lātīque ineunt certāmina discī.And now Titan was almost midway between the night to come and the night gone by, and stood at an equal distance from either: they free their bodies of clothing, gleam with the juice of the rich olive, and begin a contest with the broad discus. Met. 10.178Quem prius āeriās lībrātum Phoebus in aurās
mīsit et oppositās disiēcit pondere nūbēs.This Phoebus first poised and sent into the airy breezes, and with its weight he scattered the clouds in its way.
Met. 10.180Reccidit in solidam longō post tempore terram
pondus et exhibuit iūnctam cum vīribus artem.After a long time the weight fell back onto the solid earth and displayed skill joined with strength. Met. 10.182Prōtinus imprūdēns āctusque cupīdine lūsūs
tollere Taenaridēs orbem properābat.At once, unthinking and driven by eagerness for the game, the Taenarian youth hurried to pick up the disc. Met. 10.183At illum
dūra repercussō subiēcit verbere tellūs
185in vultūs, Hyacinthe, tuōs.But the hard earth, struck, sent it rebounding up into your face, Hyacinthus. Met. 10.185Expalluit aequē
quam puer ipse deus conlapsōsque excipit artūs,
et modo tē refovet, modo trīstia vulnera siccat,
nunc animam admōtīs fugientem sustinet herbīs.The god turned as pale as the boy himself, and catches up the collapsing limbs, and now warms you again, now dries the grievous wounds, now applies herbs and holds back the fleeing soul. Met. 10.189Nīl prōsunt artēs: erat inmedicābile vulnus.His arts are of no use: the wound was past healing. Met. 10.190Ut sīquis violās rigidumve papāver in hortō
līliaque īnfringat fulvīs horrentia linguīs,
marcida dēmittant subitō caput illa viētum
nec sē sustineant spectentque cacūmine terram:
sīc vultus moriēns iacet, et dēfecta vigōre
195ipsa sibi est onerī cervīx umerōque recumbit.As, if someone in a garden should break violets or a stiff poppy or lilies bristling with tawny tongues, they would suddenly droop their limp heads, wilting, and not hold themselves up, and would gaze at the earth with their tops: so the dying face lies, and the neck, its strength gone, is a burden to itself and sinks back on the shoulder.
Met. 10.196"Lāberis, Oebalidē, prīmā fraudāte iuventā,"
Phoebus ait "videōque tuum, mea crīmina, vulnus.'You are slipping away, son of Oebalus, cheated of your first youth,' says Phoebus, 'and I see your wound, my crime. Met. 10.198Tū dolor es facinusque meum: mea dextera lētō
īnscrībenda tuō est!You are my grief and my guilt: my right hand must be inscribed as the cause of your death! Met. 10.199Ego sum tibi fūneris auctor.I am the author of your death. Met. 10.200Quae mea culpa tamen?Yet what is my fault? Met. 10.200Nisi sī lūsisse vocārī
culpa potest, nisi culpa potest et amāsse vocārī.Unless playing can be called a fault, unless loving too can be called a fault. Met. 10.202Atque utinam meritō vītam tēcumque licēret
reddere!And would that I were allowed to give up my life with you, as I deserve! Met. 10.203Quod quoniam fātālī lēge tenēmur,
semper eris mēcum memorīque haerēbis in ōre.But since we are held by the law of fate, you will always be with me and will cling to my mindful lips. Met. 10.205Tē lyra pulsa manū, tē carmina nostra sonābunt,
flōsque novus scrīptō gemitūs imitābere nostrōs.You the lyre struck by my hand, you my songs will sound, and as a new flower you will imitate my groans with writing on your petals.
Met. 10.207Tempus et illud erit, quō sē fortissimus hērōs
addat in hunc flōrem foliōque legātur eōdem."And a time will come too when the bravest of heroes will add himself to this flower and be read on the same petal.' Met. 10.209Tālia dum vērō memorantur Apollinis ōre,
210ecce cruor, quī fūsus humō signāverat herbās,
dēsinit esse cruor, Tyriōque nitentior ostrō
flōs orītur fōrmamque capit quam līlia, sī nōn
purpureus color hīs, argenteus esset in illīs.While these words are being spoken by Apollo's truthful lips, see, the blood which had poured onto the ground and stained the grass ceases to be blood, and a flower, brighter than Tyrian purple, springs up and takes the shape that lilies have, were it not that this one's colour is purple and theirs silver. Met. 10.214Nōn satis hoc Phoebō est (is enim fuit auctor honōris):
215ipse suōs gemitūs foliīs īnscrībit, et AI AI
flōs habet īnscrīptum, fūnestaque littera dicta est.This is not enough for Phoebus (for he was the author of the honour): he himself inscribes his groans on the petals, and the flower bears AI AI written on it, and the mournful letters are traced there.
Met. 10.217Nec genuisse pudet Spartēn Hyacinthon, honorque
dūrat in hoc aevī, celebrandaque mōre priōrum
annua praelātā redeunt Hyacinthia pompā.Nor is Sparta ashamed to have borne Hyacinthus, and his honour lasts to this age, and each year the Hyacinthia return, to be celebrated in the ancestral manner with a procession going before.