Bkii:Xii Terentia’s Singing

You’d not wish the theme of Numantia’s fierce wars matched to the lyre’s soft tones, nor cruel Hannibal, nor the Sicilian Sea turned to dark crimson by the Carthaginians’ blood, nor the savage Lapiths, and drunken Hylaeus filled with excess wine, nor Hercules with his hand taming the sons of earth, at the danger of which ancient Saturn’s glittering house was shaken: you’d be better yourself, Maecenas, at writing prose histories of Caesar’s battles, and telling us about all those menacing kings, now led by the neck through the streets. The Muse wishes me to speak of the sweet singing of your lady Terentia, and speak of her bright flashing eyes, and speak of that heart of hers, that is so faithful in mutual love: she to whom it’s not unbecoming to adopt the lead among the dancers, or compete in wit, or, that holy day that honours Diana, give her arm in play to shining girls. Would you exchange now, one hair of Terentia’s for what rich Achaemenes owned, Mygdonian wealth of fertile Phrygia, or the Arabians’ well-stocked homes, while she bends her neck for those passionate kisses, or in gentle cruelty refuses to yield them, more than he who asks likes having them taken: then at times surprises by taking?