stare dies segnemque rotam non flectere Phoebe. 15
Scyria sic tenerum virgo flammabat Achillem
fraudis adhuc expers bellatricesque docebat
ducere fila manus et, mox quos horruit Ide,
Thessalicos roseo nectebat pollice crines.
Haec etiam queritur secum: “quonam usque verendus 20
EPITHALAMIUM
(X.)
Unfelt before was the fire the Emperor Honorius had conceived for his promised bride, and he burned, all unexperienced, with passion’s first fever, nor knew whence came the heat, what meant the sighs—a tyro and as yet ignorant of love. Hunting, horses, javelins—for none of these he now cares nor yet to fling the spear; Love’s wound occupies all his thoughts. How often he groaned from the very heart; how often a blush, mantling to his cheeks, betrayed his secret; how often, unbidden of himself, his hand would write the loved one’s name. Already he prepares gifts for his betrothed and selects to adorn her (though their beauty is less than hers) the jewels once worn by noble Livia of old and all the proud women of the imperial house. The impatient lover chafes at the delay; the long days seem as though they stood still and the moon as though she moved not her slow wheel. Thus Deidamia, girl of Scyros, e’er yet she sees through his disguise, inflamed with love the young Achilles, and taught his warrior hands to draw the slender thread and passed her rosy fingers through the locks of that Thessalian of whom all Ida was soon to stand in awe.