Now she rises over the ocean, come from her aged husband,
the golden girl, who brings day to the frozen sky.
‘Why hurry, Aurora? Wait! – so the bird, Memnon’s shade,
can perform the annual sacrificial rite!
Now I delight to lie in my girl’s soft arms:
now she’s so sweetly joined to my side.
now sleep’s still easy, and the air is cool,
and the bird sings in full flow from a clear throat.
Why hurry, unwelcome to men, unwelcome to girls?
Restrain those dewy reins with rosy fingers!
Before you rise the sailor more easily watches for his stars
and wanders less unknowingly in the deep:
the traveller, however weary, rises at your coming,
and the fierce soldier takes his weapon in hand.
You first see the farmer burdened with his hoe in the field:
you first call the tardy oxen to couple beneath the yoke.
You rob boys of sleep and send them to their masters,
and submit the tender ones to the lash of a savage hand.
You send the heedless guarantor before that court,
where a single word carries a heavy price.
No eloquence for you from pleaders and lawyers,
you force them both to rise to new litigation.
You, when the labours of women might cease,
call back the spinner’s hand to her duty.
I could endure it all – but for girls to rise early,
who’d bring that about but one who’s not a girl?
The number of times I’ve begged night not to yield to you,
and the circling stars not to flee before your face!
The number of times I’ve begged a storm to crack your axle
or your wayward horses to fall through thick cloud!
What, did she never burn for Cephalus?
Does she think that wickedness is unknown?
Hostile one, why hurry? Because your son is black
is that the colour of your maternal heart?
I wish Tithonus would tell the truth about you:
there’d be no more disgraceful tale in heaven.
Now you flee him, who’s so much older than you,
early in mounting the chariot, hateful to the old man.
But if you were leaving Cephalus, caught in your arms,
you’d cry out: “Run slow, O horses of the night!”
Why should I be punished in love, if your husband
faints with age? Did you marry the old man on my advice?
Look what a sleep the Moon allowed her lover! –
And she’s not second to you in beauty.
The father of the gods himself, so as not to see you so often,
joined two nights together, in his longing.’
I’d ended the brawl. You’ll know I’d dared: she blushed –
but still the day rose as usual, no more slowly!