Complete Works of Petronius by Petronius

Author:Petronius [Petronius]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Delphi Classics
Published: 2015-07-23T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SECOND.

The loveliness of her form drew, me to her and summoned me to love. Our lips were pressed together in a torrent of smacking kisses, our groping hands had discovered every trick of excitation, and our bodies, clasped in a mutual embrace, had fused our souls into one, (and then, in the very midst of these ravishing preliminaries my nerves again played me false and I was unable to last until the instant of supreme bliss.) Lashed to fury by these inexcusable affronts, the lady at last ran to avenge herself and, calling her house servants, she gave orders for me to be hoisted upon their shoulders and flogged; then, still unsatisfied with the drastic punishment she had inflicted upon me, she called all the spinning women and scrubbing wenches in the house and ordered them to spit upon me. I covered my face with my hands but I uttered no complaint as I well knew what I deserved and, overwhelmed with blows and spittle, I was driven from the house. Proselenos was kicked out too, Chrysis was beaten, and all the slaves grumbled among themselves and wondered what had upset their mistress’s good humor. I took heart after having given some thought to my misfortunes and, artfully concealing the marks of the blows for fear that Eumolpus would make merry over my mishaps or, worse yet, that Giton might be saddened by my disgrace, I did the only thing I could do to save my self-respect, I pretended that I was sick and went to bed. There, I turned the full fury of my resentment against that recreant which had been the sole cause of all the evil accidents which had befallen me.

Three times I grasped the two-edged blade

The recreant to cut away;

Three times by Fear my hand was stayed

And palsied Terror said me nay

That which I might have done before

’Twas now impossible to do;

For, cold with Fear, the wretch withdrew

Into a thousand-wrinkled mare,

And shrank in shame before my gaze

Nor would his head uncover more.

But though the scamp in terror skulked,

With words I flayed him as he sulked.

Raising myself upon my elbow I rebuked the shirker in some such terms as these: “What have you to say for yourself, you disgrace to gods and men,” I demanded, “for your name must never be mentioned among refined people. Did I deserve to be lifted up to heaven and then dragged down to hell by you? Was it right for you to slander my flourishing and vigorous years and land me in the shadows and lassitude of decrepit old age? Give me some sign, however faint, I beg of you, that you have returned to life!” I vented my anger in words such as these.

His eyes were fixed, and with averted look

He stood, less moved by any word of mine

Than weeping willows bending o’er a brook

Or drooping poppies as at noon they pine.

When I had made an end of this invective, so out of keeping with

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