Translations from Propertius by Franklin P. Adams presented by Michael Gilleland American journalist and radio personality Franklin P. Adams (1881-1960) was an accomplished and witty translator of Latin poetry. Here are his translations from the elegies of the Roman poet Sextus Propertius (49-15 B.C.). 1.1 |  1.2 |  1.4 |  1.7 |  1.8a |  1.8b |  1.14 |  1.19 1.22 |  2.2 |  2.5 |  2.8 |  2.11 |  2.22a |  3.2 |  3.24 Home Numbering conforms to E.A. Barber, Sexti Properti Carmina, 2nd edition (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1960).

1.1

The Beefing of S. Propertius, Esq.

Cynthia first and the wonderful eyes of her
  Taught me the meaning of Love and Romance;
Now I have sung to the stars and the skies of her --
  Love has diluted the pride of my glance.

Ah! 'tis a year, yet the madness diminishes
  Never a fraction, a tittle, or jot,
Though I anticipate well what the finish is,
  Though I bewail my unfortunate lot.

Tullus, Milanion traveled the universe
  Till Atalanta was thrall to his heart,
Futile my pleading and vain is my tuny verse,
  Zero's the sum of my amorous art.

Witches that lure by some sorcery-ritual
  Luna right down from the regular sky,
I shall concede that your power is habitual
  An ye make Cynthia paler than I!

And, O my friends who have warned me too tardily,
  Let me but utter the truth in my mind,
I'll endure iron and suffer foolhardily ...
  Luck, wedded friends I am leaving behind!

No luck for me ... Here is counsel gratuitous:
  Cleave to your true love forever plus aye;
Else, if your path be a trifle circuitous,
  How you'll remember my words of to-day!

1.2

Nix On the Fluffy Stuff

Why, my love, the yellow trinkets
  In your tresses' purer gold?
Why the Syrian perfume? Think it's
  Nice to be thus aureoled?
Why the silken robes that rustle?
  Why the pigment on the map?
Think you all that fume and fuss'll
       Ever charm a chap?

Mother Earth is unaffected --
  Is her beauty therefore less?
Is she gray or ill-complected?
  I should call her some success.
Soft the murmur of the river,
  Bright the shore that lines the sea --
Is the universe a flivver?
        No, take it from me.

Castor loved the lady Phoebe
 For no bought or borrowed wile;
Hillaira -- wasn't she be-
 Loved without excessive style?
Hippodamia slaved no fashions --
 All that braver, elder time
Is replete with simple passions
        Difficult to rhyme.

Nay, my Cynthia, sweet and smile-ish,
 Take it from your own Propert,
Don't essay to be so stylish,
 Don't attempt the harem skirt.
I am ever Yours Sincerely,
 Past the shadow of a doubt,
Yours Forever, if you'll merely
       Cut the frivol out.

In Praise of Simplicity

Why, my life, delight to go forth
With a permanent wave, and so forth?
Why, my dear, attempt to stir us
With a Coan silk susurrus?

What avails to soak your tresses
In these Syrian myrrhy messes?
Forty tons of bought cosmetic
Cannot make you more aesthetic.

Nothing the modistes can sew you
Fairer than yourself can show you.
Love, undecked, has only loathing
For an art whose end is clothing.

See the colors Earth is showing!
Ivy in its greenness growing,
And the lovely wild arbutus --
How the hues of nature suit us!

See the gems the wanton giver,
Nature, sets along the river;
And the songlets of the birdies
Nor Debussy's are nor Verdi's.

Phoebe flamed the heart of Castor
By no paint nor beauty plaster;
Hillaira, winning Pollux,
Looked not like the Midnight Frollucks.

Though she wore no rouge nor jewel,
Idas fought a bitter duel
For Evenus's fair daughter,
Phoebus also having sought her.

By no brilliance false or phony
Hippodamia's matrimony
Was achieved; all unbeholden
They to gems and trinkets golden.

Count me equal, bone and sinew,
To the rogues that seek to win you.
Be not quite so free and flirty;
Be content with your Propertie.

Sing -- by Phoebus! -- sweetly, gaily!
Strum the Aonian ukulele!
Then, if frippery you'll eschew,
I will stay in love with you.

1.4

A Warning to Bassus

Why, Bassus do you tell me of
  A million maids I cry "Pooh! Pooh!" to?
Think you that I shall ever love
  Any but her I now am true to?

O why not suffer me to slave
  As thrall to one who understands me,
From now until the very grave,
  No matter what the future hands me?

Antioche was quelque queen,
  Hermione was passing pretty;
But none was 1-2-17
  With Cynthia, heroine of this ditty.

Yet pulchritude is not her all;
  Her color and her grace are -- oh, what
The French, who phrase it fitly, call
  Elusively her I-don't-know-what.

The more you try to have it cease,
  The more you seek our love to sever,
By so much more it will increase,
  For we have vowed to never-never.

And when my Cynthia comes to hear
  Of how you sought to dim her glamour,
She'll smite you with her lingual spear
  And hit you with her verbal hammer.

For loss of love -- of such a love --
  As mine for her, though I do say so --
Cannot be borne ... O ye above,
  I pray that she may ever stay so!

1.7

A Tip to Ponticus

What time thou singest martial airs
  As well as Homer ever did --
  O Ponticus, I scorn to kid! --
I sing about some fluff.

Some Fluff is right. I sing her praise.
  Thus do I spend my whole career;
  That is my total cause for cheer,
Mine only claim to bays.

Let luckless lovers note the same,
  And let them learn what I have learned;
  For children that have once been burned
May shun the flame.

Shouldst thou be wishful to create
  The softer, sweeter songs of Love,
  And cease to sing of sword and glove,
'Twill be too late.

Then shalt thou marvel, full of ruth,
  How fine have been my songs, how great!
  Beware of love that cometh late!
...Ain't it the truth!

To a Scornful Poet

While you devote your lyric life
To Theban songs of martial strife,
And -- if I'm false may Heaven frown! --
Rival great Homer for his crown,
I still, as is my wont, rehearse
My loves in soft and tender verse.
Sorrow I serve rather than Art --
A bard less of the mind than heart.

In such a way my life is spent;
This is my marble monument;
This is my sole and single claim
To what resembles lyric fame.
Let laurel on my brow be laid
For that I pleased a knowing maid,
And suffered frequently the thrust
Of threatenings bitter and unjust.

Let future lovers read my song
And learn how Love has used me wrong;
And if the bow-and-arrow kid
Should strike you -- which the gods forbid!
Then shall you give the wars a shove
And yearn -- in vain -- to sing of Love.
When Love arrives too late the lute
To your too tardy song is mute.

Then shall you know my songs had fire
And say I strummed a wicked lyre;
And you will rank me far above
The bards who failed to song of Love.
And youths to see my grave will go
And cry, "Great bard, dost lie so low?"
Beware, then, how you spurn my stuff:
Love coming late will treat you rough.

1.8a

Farewell to Cynthia

Are you bewitched? Or don't you care
  To stay where I may linger near ye?
Am I less welcome than the air
           Of chill Illyria?

O Cynthia, are you then so keen
  For him* that you prefer the slow life
Of shipboard? (*You know who I mean --
           The lying lowlife!)

Can you endure the wintry snows,
  The ship's hard couch, and kindred trouble?
I'd like to have each storm that blows
           In fury double!

For then you'd have to stay, my pet;
  No ship could loose the straining tether.
Yet -- if you go, I hope you'll get
           Some dreadful weather.

I shall be standing at the pier,
  The gentle author of these verses,
Shaking my fists at you, my dear,
           And cussing curses.

Yet, most perfidious, most untrue,
  You coyest of this flirty, coy age,
I hope you'll have -- I truly do --
           A lovely voyage.

And I shall ask of every tar
  Where any one has seen or met you;
North, East -- I don't care where you are --
           Some day I'll get you! 

Bon Voyage -- and Vice Versa

O Cynthia, hast thou lost thy mind? 
  Have I no claim on thine affection? 
Dost love the chill Illyrian wind 
  With something passing predilection? 
And is thy friend--whoe'er he be-- 
The kind to take the place of me? 

Ah, canst thou bear the surging deep? 
  Canst thou endure the hard ship's-mattress? 
For scant will be thy hours of sleep 
  From Staten Island to Cape Hatt'ras; 
And won't thy fairy feet be froze 
With treading on the foreign snows? 

I hope that doubly blows the gale, 
  With billows twice as high as ever, 
So that the captain, fain to sail, 
  May not achieve his mad endeavor! 
The winds, when that they cease to roar, 
Shall find me wailing on the shore. 

Yet merit thou my love or wrath, 
  O False, I pray that Galatea 
May smile upon thy watery path! 
  A pleasant trip,--that's the idea. 
Light of my life, there never shall 
For me be any other gal. 

And sailors, as they hasten past, 
  Will always have to hear my query: 
"Where have you seen my Cynthia last? 
  Has anybody seen my dearie?" 
I'll shout: "In Malden or Marquette 
Where'er she be, I'll have her yet!"

1.8b

Propertius' Happy Moment            

She didn't go! She didn't go! She never went! She's here!
Deaf to the ceaseless clamor of his wooing was her ear.
With envy burst, mine enemies! With jealousy be green!
No more my Cynthia seeks the strange or craves the alien scene.

She loves me, and because of me is Rome her favorite town.
"For you," she cries, "and you alone, I'd turn a kingdom down."
She chooses rather mine embrace, in a narrow bed and coarse,
Than Hippodamia's wealth, or that which Elis won by horse.

Great though his gifts and greater still the promises he made,
To him the wandering thoughts of her from me have never strayed;
And not by gold nor India's pearls was I a suitor strong,
But by the magic of my lute, the suppliance of my song.

What mighty maids the Muses are! How helpful is Apollo
To lovers! Trusting in their aid, my Cynthia sweet I follow.
I set my jubilant feet tonight on the loftiest stars that shine;
Let this day's glory crown my head when it is white....She's mine!

1.14

Indorsing a w.k. Emotion

Though by the Tiber you recline,
Luxurious, inert, supine,
Drinking five quarts of Lesbian wine,
          Or six,
I'm in the know, grab this from me:
That, and the wealth of Old Johndee
Plus seven multipled by three,
          Is nix. 

Nope. Me for love. When I'm with Cynth,
I, modest writer of this Plinth,
Am jutht ath good ath any printh;
          And, say,
If she should suddenly grow cold,
What then would help Pierp Morgan's gold?
By millions could I be cajoled?
          Nay, nay!

The Propertian Fancy

Though you recline on the banks of the Tiber,
  Drinking some excellent dope;
Though you're considerable Lesbian imbiber,
  Would I exchange with you?...Nope.

Wine and the wealth of a teacher of dancing,
  Loveless, were naught but a curse.
Cynthia for me, with her vernal romancing
  Which I can put into verse.

Propertius Says It Again

Thou by the Tiber you recline,
Drinking the best of Lesbian wine
From Mentor's hand-chased silver glasses,
And watch each barge and boat that passes;
And gaze at trees as vast and green
As Caucasus has ever seen --
Yet all your wealth is not above
The height of mine incessant love.

For if with me my Cynthia stay
The night, or love the day away,
Pactolus' waves beneath me roar,
And mine are pearls from India's shore.
No king -- may it be so till I die! --
Was ever richer than am I.
For what avails the wealth of Ind
If Love be froward and unkind?

No riches mine if Venus frown,
For she can lay the mightiest down.
She makes her entrance, Tullus, where
Arabian luxuries spread the snare;
And though your couch be Tyrian-dyed,
Yet may you toss from side to side;
And though your wear be silk and bright;
She keeps you wakeful through the night.

I scorn the rich Alcinous;
For kings I care no tinker's cuss.
As long as -- as I said above --
I'm strong with Venus, Queen of Love. 

1.19

The Self-Pitying Bard

No longer now am I afraid
Of Death and the sad world of shade,
My Cynthia; nor do I aspire
To aught but the final funeral fire.

Not mine the fear of being dead;
To be unloved by thee's my dread.
So hard hath Love assailed mine eye
That not my dust could loveless lie.

For from the very world below
Was Phylacus's son allowed to go
Who for his wife -- his sweet -- so yearned
That to her arms his shade returned.

So in the tomb when I am laid,
Shall I be known as Cynthia's shade,
For Love that grows as it adores
Passes beyond the Stygian shores.

When I lie in that underland,
Come greet me, fair and queenly band --
Ye girls of gold without alloy
Whom the Argive nobles took from Troy.

Yet of that rare and regal line
No beauty thrills me more than thine,
For comest thou not through countless years,
Still would I wet thy bones with tears.

Oh, feel but thus while thine is breath
And I an ember charred in death,
Then would there be upon my pall
For me no bitterness at all.

Of death this is my chief concern:
That thou my resting-place might spurn;
That Love may dry thy tears that flow,
Whether thou wishest him to or no.

The lealest maid falls soon or late
If lovers be importunate.
So let us love while yet we may --
Not long enough is love for aye!

1.22

A Brief Biography of Propertius

Tullus, you ask in friendship's name
  What is my rank, and whence I spring,
And whaur's -- as Scotchmen say -- my hame,
          And everything.

Know you Perugia, and the woe 
  Of Italy's civil war at Rome --
The nation's graveyard? Then you know
          My Tuscan home.

O Tuscan dust, my dolorous hymns
  I raise to thee, my moans;
For thou hast borne my comrade's limbs'
          Unburied bones!

Know, Tullus, then, not far from there --
  A land of Plenty's brimming horn,
And that's in Umbria, rich and fair,
          Where I was born.

2.2

Again Endorsing the Lady

                 I

I was free. I thought that I had entered Love's Antarctic Zone. 
"A truce to sentiment," I said. "My nights shall be my own." 
But Love had double-crossed me. How can Beauty be so fair? 
The grace of her, the face of her--and oh, her yellow hair! 

And oh, the wondrous walk of her! So doth a goddess glide. 
Jove's sister--ay, or Pallas--hath no statelier a stride. 
Fair as Iscomache herself, the Lapithanian maid; 
Or Brimo where at Mercury's side her virgin form she laid. 

Surrender now, ye goddesses whom erst the shepherd spied! 
Upon the heights of Ida lay your vestitures aside! 
And though she reach the countless years of the Cumaean Sibyl, 
May never, never Age at those delightful features nibble!

                II 

I thought that I was wholly free, 
  That I had Love upon the shelf; 
"Hereafter," I declared in glee, 
  "I'll have my evenings to myself." 
How can such mortal beauty live? 
(Ah, Jove, thine errings I forgive!) 

Her tresses pale the sunlight's gold; 
  Her hands are featly formed and taper; 
Her--well, the rest ought not be told 
  In any modest family paper. 
Fair as Ischomache, and bright 
As Brimo. Quaeque queen is right. 

O goddesses of long ago, 
  A shepherd called ye sweet and slender. 
He saw ye, so he ought to know; 
  But sooth to her ye must surrender. 
O may a million years not trace 
A single line upon that face!

2.5

Handing It to Cynthia

O Cynthia, tell me, is it true
  That you're not acting fit to print?
That Roman clubdom talks of you
  And whispers things I may not hint?
What has this gossip of the street meant?
Do I deserve that sort of treatment?

Tush! I shall seek some other skirt
  Who loves to lamp her printed name
In poems written by Propert.
  Me for a grateful kind of dame.
Before you get a chance to con me,
I'll do it -- while the peeve is on me.

For lovers' quarrels disappear
  As clouds before the southern wind,
Wherefore I say, let's cut it here,
  Before we knot the ties that bind.
You'll weep and wail and sob and sorrow,
But you'll forget it all tomorrow.

I shall not biff you with a brick
  Nor pull your hair. I scorn to spleen.
I leave such actions to the hick
  Who wears no laurel on his bean.
Far subtler you shall find my curses;
Your cheek shall pale at these here verses!

2.8

A Lament

While she I loved is being torn 
  From arms that held her many years, 
Dost thou regard me, friend, with scorn, 
  Or seek to check my tears? 

Bitter the hatred for a jilt, 
  And hot the hates of Eros are; 
My hatred, slay me an thou wilt, 
  For thee'd be gentler far. 

Can I endure that she recline 
  Upon another's arm? Shall they 
No longer call that lady "mine" 
  Who "mine" was yesterday? 

For Love is fleeting as the hours. 
  The town of Thebes is draped with moss, 
And Ilium's well-known topless towers 
  Are now a total loss. 

Fell Thebes and Troy; and in the grave 
  Have fallen lords of high degree. 
What songs I sang! What gifts I gave! 
  ...She never fell for me.

2.11

An Epigram to Cynthia

Others may sing and sing thy name,
Or thou mayst be unknown to fame.
What of it? Let thy praise resound
From him who sows in barren ground.
Trust me, the last black funeral hour
Shall carry off thy gifts and power
And on that selfsame couch, thy bier,
All trace of thee shall disappear.
And seeing thine ashes none shall pass
And say, "Here lies a learned lass."

2.22a

Propertius Confesses

You know, my Dem, that each P.M. I comb the gay Rialto
  (Posterity will say I was a James Buchanan Brady,)
And any frail can have my kale, soprano or contralto --
  You're c. to k. the reason why my theme is only Lady.

Tush: ask a guy the reason why the days are short in winter,
  And ask him why is water wet and why's a ballet dancer,
And where's the snow of long ago, or ask why is a printer --
  Old top, it's just my temp'rament. There an't no other answer.

3.2

Propertius's Bid for Immortality

Let us return, then, for a time, 
To our accustomed round of rhyme; 
And let my songs' familiar art 
Not fail to move my lady's heart. 

They say that Orpheus with his lute 
Had power to tame the wildest brute; 
That "Variations on a Theme" 
Of his would stay the swiftest stream. 

They say that by the minstrel's song 
Cithaeron's rocks were moved along 
To Thebes, where, as you may recall, 
They formed themselves to frame a wall. 

And Galatea, lovely maid, 
Beneath wild Etna's fastness stayed 
Her horses, dripping with the mere, 
Those Polypheman songs to hear. 

What marvel, then, since Bacchus and 
Apollo grasp me by the hand, 
That all the maidens you have heard 
Should hang upon my slightest word? 

Taenerian columns in my home 
Are not; nor any golden dome; 
No parks have I, nor Marcian spring, 
Nor orchards -- nay, nor anything. 

The Muses, though, are friends of mine; 
Some readers love my lyric line; 
And never is Calliope 
Awearied by my poetry. 

O happy she whose meed of praise 
Hath fallen upon my sheaf of lays! 
And every song of mine is sent 
To be thy beauty's monument. 

The Pyramids that point the sky, 
The House of Jove that soars so high, 
Mausolus' tomb -- they are not free 
From Death his final penalty. 

For fire or rain shall steal away 
The crumbling glory of their day; 
But fame for wit can never die, 
And gosh! I was a gay old guy!

3.24

The Clear Eyed Bard

False, woman, is the faith you place
Upon the fairness of your face.
The biased judgment of mine eyes
Has made you proud and far from wise.
It shames me now that songs of praise
Came from me in the olden days.
I sang your varied charms a lot
And called you things that you were not.
"The morning star," I sang, "you seem!"
The shine was only facial cream.
My father's friends said I was wrong
To celebrate you in my song.
But they, nor the Thessalian witch,
Could cure me of my lover's itch --
As I admitted truthfully
Wrecked on a sad and troublous sea.
For when by Venus I was caught,
She bound my hands behind me taut.
But lo! my ships have found the bay:
Mine anchor's cast; I shout "Hooray!"
My sense my folly has revealed;
My wounds are well, my scars are healed.
Since Jove was deaf, and never heard
Me penitent as one who erred,
I dedicate myself to thee,
Good Sense, if goddess such there be!