--- type: article status: Published slug: "ovid-metamorphoses-1" title: "Metamorphoses, Book I" author: "Ovid" tradition: "roman" language: "la" genre: "epic poetry" period: "8 CE" source_url: "https://www.thelatinlibrary.com/ovid/ovid.met1.shtml" certainty: observed source: "https://www.thelatinlibrary.com/ovid/ovid.met1.shtml" unknowns: none known --- # Metamorphoses, Book I ## Original ### Invocation In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas corpora; di, coeptis (nam vos mutastis et illas) adspirate meis primaque ab origine mundi ad mea perpetuum deducite tempora carmen! ### Chaos and the Creation Ante mare et terras et quod tegit omnia caelum unus erat toto naturae vultus in orbe, quem dixere chaos: rudis indigestaque moles nec quicquam nisi pondus iners congestaque eodem non bene iunctarum discordia semina rerum. nullus adhuc mundo praebebat lumina Titan, nec nova crescendo reparabat cornua Phoebe, nec circumfuso pendebat in aere tellus ponderibus librata suis, nec bracchia longo margine terrarum porrexerat Amphitrite; utque erat et tellus illic et pontus et aer, sic erat instabilis tellus, innabilis unda, lucis egens aer; nulli sua forma manebat, obstabatque aliis aliud, quia corpore in uno frigida pugnabant calidis, umentia siccis, mollia cum duris, sine pondere, habentia pondus. Hanc deus et melior litem natura diremit. nam caelo terras et terris abscidit undas et liquidum spisso secrevit ab aere caelum. quae postquam evolvit caecoque exemit acervo, dissociata locis concordi pace ligavit: ignea convexi vis et sine pondere caeli emicuit summaque locum sibi fecit in arce; proximus est aer illi levitate locoque; densior his tellus elementaque grandia traxit et pressa est gravitate sua; circumfluus umor ultima possedit solidumque coercuit orbem. Sic ubi dispositam quisquis fuit ille deorum congeriem secuit sectamque in membra coegit, principio terram, ne non aequalis ab omni parte foret, magni speciem glomeravit in orbis. tum freta diffundi rapidisque tumescere ventis iussit et ambitae circumdare litora terrae; addidit et fontes et stagna inmensa lacusque fluminaque obliquis cinxit declivia ripis, quae, diversa locis, partim sorbentur ab ipsa, in mare perveniunt partim campoque recepta liberioris aquae pro ripis litora pulsant. iussit et extendi campos, subsidere valles, fronde tegi silvas, lapidosos surgere montes, utque duae dextra caelum totidemque sinistra parte secant zonae, quinta est ardentior illis, sic onus inclusum numero distinxit eodem cura dei, totidemque plagae tellure premuntur. quarum quae media est, non est habitabilis aestu; nix tegit alta duas; totidem inter utramque locavit temperiemque dedit mixta cum frigore flamma. Inminet his aer, qui, quanto est pondere terrae pondus aquae levius, tanto est onerosior igni. illic et nebulas, illic consistere nubes iussit et humanas motura tonitrua mentes et cum fulminibus facientes fulgura ventos. His quoque non passim mundi fabricator habendum aera permisit; vix nunc obsistitur illis, cum sua quisque regat diverso flamina tractu, quin lanient mundum; tanta est discordia fratrum. Eurus ad Auroram Nabataeaque regna recessit Persidaque et radiis iuga subdita matutinis; vesper et occiduo quae litora sole tepescunt, proxima sunt Zephyro; Scythiam septemque triones horrifer invasit Boreas; contraria tellus nubibus adsiduis pluviaque madescit ab Austro. haec super inposuit liquidum et gravitate carentem aethera nec quicquam terrenae faecis habentem. Vix ita limitibus dissaepserat omnia certis, cum, quae pressa diu fuerant caligine caeca, sidera coeperunt toto effervescere caelo; neu regio foret ulla suis animalibus orba, astra tenent caeleste solum formaeque deorum, cesserunt nitidis habitandae piscibus undae, terra feras cepit, volucres agitabilis aer. Sanctius his animal mentisque capacius altae deerat adhuc et quod dominari in cetera posset: natus homo est, sive hunc divino semine fecit ille opifex rerum, mundi melioris origo, sive recens tellus seductaque nuper ab alto aethere cognati retinebat semina caeli. quam satus Iapeto, mixtam pluvialibus undis, finxit in effigiem moderantum cuncta deorum, pronaque cum spectent animalia cetera terram, os homini sublime dedit caelumque videre iussit et erectos ad sidera tollere vultus: sic, modo quae fuerat rudis et sine imagine, tellus induit ignotas hominum conversa figuras. ### The Four Ages Aurea prima sata est aetas, quae vindice nullo, sponte sua, sine lege fidem rectumque colebat. poena metusque aberant, nec verba minantia fixo aere legebantur, nec supplex turba timebat iudicis ora sui, sed erant sine vindice tuti. nondum caesa suis, peregrinum ut viseret orbem, montibus in liquidas pinus descenderat undas, nullaque mortales praeter sua litora norant; nondum praecipites cingebant oppida fossae; non tuba derecti, non aeris cornua flexi, non galeae, non ensis erat: sine militis usu mollia securae peragebant otia gentes. ipsa quoque inmunis rastroque intacta nec ullis saucia vomeribus per se dabat omnia tellus, contentique cibis nullo cogente creatis arbuteos fetus montanaque fraga legebant cornaque et in duris haerentia mora rubetis et quae deciderant patula Iovis arbore glandes. ver erat aeternum, placidique tepentibus auris mulcebant zephyri natos sine semine flores; mox etiam fruges tellus inarata ferebat, nec renovatus ager gravidis canebat aristis; flumina iam lactis, iam flumina nectaris ibant, flavaque de viridi stillabant ilice mella. Postquam Saturno tenebrosa in Tartara misso sub Iove mundus erat, subiit argentea proles, auro deterior, fulvo pretiosior aere. Iuppiter antiqui contraxit tempora veris perque hiemes aestusque et inaequalis autumnos et breve ver spatiis exegit quattuor annum. tum primum siccis aer fervoribus ustus canduit, et ventis glacies adstricta pependit; tum primum subiere domos; domus antra fuerunt et densi frutices et vinctae cortice virgae. semina tum primum longis Cerealia sulcis obruta sunt, pressique iugo gemuere iuvenci. Tertia post illam successit aenea proles, saevior ingeniis et ad horrida promptior arma, non scelerata tamen; de duro est ultima ferro. protinus inrupit venae peioris in aevum omne nefas: fugere pudor verumque fidesque; in quorum subiere locum fraudesque dolusque insidiaeque et vis et amor sceleratus habendi. vela dabant ventis nec adhuc bene noverat illos navita, quaeque prius steterant in montibus altis, fluctibus ignotis insultavere carinae, communemque prius ceu lumina solis et auras cautus humum longo signavit limite mensor. nec tantum segetes alimentaque debita dives poscebatur humus, sed itum est in viscera terrae, quasque recondiderat Stygiisque admoverat umbris, effodiuntur opes, inritamenta malorum. iamque nocens ferrum ferroque nocentius aurum prodierat, prodit bellum, quod pugnat utroque, sanguineaque manu crepitantia concutit arma. vivitur ex rapto: non hospes ab hospite tutus, non socer a genero, fratrum quoque gratia rara est; inminet exitio vir coniugis, illa mariti, lurida terribiles miscent aconita novercae, filius ante diem patrios inquirit in annos: victa iacet pietas, et virgo caede madentis ultima caelestum terras Astraea reliquit. ### The Giants Neve foret terris securior arduus aether, adfectasse ferunt regnum caeleste gigantas altaque congestos struxisse ad sidera montis. tum pater omnipotens misso perfregit Olympum fulmine et excussit subiecto Pelion Ossae. obruta mole sua cum corpora dira iacerent, perfusam multo natorum sanguine Terram immaduisse ferunt calidumque animasse cruorem et, ne nulla suae stirpis monimenta manerent, in faciem vertisse hominum; sed et illa propago contemptrix superum saevaeque avidissima caedis et violenta fuit: scires e sanguine natos. ### Lycaon and the Council of the Gods Quae pater ut summa vidit Saturnius arce, ingemit et facto nondum vulgata recenti foeda Lycaoniae referens convivia mensae ingentes animo et dignas Iove concipit iras conciliumque vocat: tenuit mora nulla vocatos. Est via sublimis, caelo manifesta sereno; lactea nomen habet, candore notabilis ipso. hac iter est superis ad magni tecta Tonantis regalemque domum: dextra laevaque deorum atria nobilium valvis celebrantur apertis. plebs habitat diversa locis: hac parte potentes caelicolae clarique suos posuere penates; hic locus est, quem, si verbis audacia detur, haud timeam magni dixisse Palatia caeli. Ergo ubi marmoreo superi sedere recessu, celsior ipse loco sceptroque innixus eburno terrificam capitis concussit terque quaterque caesariem, cum qua terram, mare, sidera movit. talibus inde modis ora indignantia solvit: 'non ego pro mundi regno magis anxius illa tempestate fui, qua centum quisque parabat inicere anguipedum captivo bracchia caelo. nam quamquam ferus hostis erat, tamen illud ab uno corpore et ex una pendebat origine bellum; nunc mihi qua totum Nereus circumsonat orbem, perdendum est mortale genus: per flumina iuro infera sub terras Stygio labentia luco! cuncta prius temptanda, sed inmedicabile curae ense recidendum, ne pars sincera trahatur. sunt mihi semidei, sunt, rustica numina, nymphae faunique satyrique et monticolae silvani; quos quoniam caeli nondum dignamur honore, quas dedimus, certe terras habitare sinamus. an satis, o superi, tutos fore creditis illos, cum mihi, qui fulmen, qui vos habeoque regoque, struxerit insidias notus feritate Lycaon?' Confremuere omnes studiisque ardentibus ausum talia deposcunt: sic, cum manus inpia saevit sanguine Caesareo Romanum exstinguere nomen, attonitum tantae subito terrore ruinae humanum genus est totusque perhorruit orbis; nec tibi grata minus pietas, Auguste, tuorum quam fuit illa Iovi. qui postquam voce manuque murmura conpressit, tenuere silentia cuncti. substitit ut clamor pressus gravitate regentis, Iuppiter hoc iterum sermone silentia rupit: 'ille quidem poenas (curam hanc dimittite!) solvit; quod tamen admissum, quae sit vindicta, docebo. contigerat nostras infamia temporis aures; quam cupiens falsam summo delabor Olympo et deus humana lustro sub imagine terras. longa mora est, quantum noxae sit ubique repertum, enumerare: minor fuit ipsa infamia vero. Maenala transieram latebris horrenda ferarum et cum Cyllene gelidi pineta Lycaei: Arcadis hinc sedes et inhospita tecta tyranni ingredior, traherent cum sera crepuscula noctem. signa dedi venisse deum, vulgusque precari coeperat: inridet primo pia vota Lycaon, mox ait "experiar deus hic discrimine aperto an sit mortalis: nec erit dubitabile verum." nocte gravem somno necopina perdere morte comparat: haec illi placet experientia veri; nec contentus eo, missi de gente Molossa obsidis unius iugulum mucrone resolvit atque ita semineces partim ferventibus artus mollit aquis, partim subiecto torruit igni. quod simul inposuit mensis, ego vindice flamma in domino dignos everti tecta penates; territus ipse fugit nactusque silentia ruris exululat frustraque loqui conatur: ab ipso colligit os rabiem solitaeque cupidine caedis vertitur in pecudes et nunc quoque sanguine gaudet. in villos abeunt vestes, in crura lacerti: fit lupus et veteris servat vestigia formae; canities eadem est, eadem violentia vultus, idem oculi lucent, eadem feritatis imago est. occidit una domus, sed non domus una perire digna fuit: qua terra patet, fera regnat Erinys. in facinus iurasse putes! dent ocius omnes, quas meruere pati, (sic stat sententia) poenas.' Dicta Iovis pars voce probant stimulosque frementi adiciunt, alii partes adsensibus inplent. est tamen humani generis iactura dolori omnibus, et quae sit terrae mortalibus orbae forma futura rogant, quis sit laturus in aras tura, ferisne paret populandas tradere terras. talia quaerentes (sibi enim fore cetera curae) rex superum trepidare vetat subolemque priori dissimilem populo promittit origine mira. Iamque erat in totas sparsurus fulmina terras; sed timuit, ne forte sacer tot ab ignibus aether conciperet flammas longusque ardesceret axis: esse quoque in fatis reminiscitur, adfore tempus, quo mare, quo tellus correptaque regia caeli ardeat et mundi moles obsessa laboret. tela reponuntur manibus fabricata cyclopum; poena placet diversa, genus mortale sub undis perdere et ex omni nimbos demittere caelo. ### The Flood Protinus Aeoliis Aquilonem claudit in antris et quaecumque fugant inductas flamina nubes emittitque Notum. madidis Notus evolat alis, terribilem picea tectus caligine vultum; barba gravis nimbis, canis fluit unda capillis; fronte sedent nebulae, rorant pennaeque sinusque. utque manu lata pendentia nubila pressit, fit fragor: hinc densi funduntur ab aethere nimbi; nuntia Iunonis varios induta colores concipit Iris aquas alimentaque nubibus adfert. sternuntur segetes et deplorata coloni vota iacent, longique perit labor inritus anni. Nec caelo contenta suo est Iovis ira, sed illum caeruleus frater iuvat auxiliaribus undis. convocat hic amnes: qui postquam tecta tyranni intravere sui, 'non est hortamine longo nunc' ait 'utendum; vires effundite vestras: sic opus est! aperite domos ac mole remota fluminibus vestris totas inmittite habenas!' iusserat; hi redeunt ac fontibus ora relaxant et defrenato volvuntur in aequora cursu. Ipse tridente suo terram percussit, at illa intremuit motuque vias patefecit aquarum. exspatiata ruunt per apertos flumina campos cumque satis arbusta simul pecudesque virosque tectaque cumque suis rapiunt penetralia sacris. si qua domus mansit potuitque resistere tanto indeiecta malo, culmen tamen altior huius unda tegit, pressaeque latent sub gurgite turres. iamque mare et tellus nullum discrimen habebant: omnia pontus erant, derant quoque litora ponto. Occupat hic collem, cumba sedet alter adunca et ducit remos illic, ubi nuper arabat: ille supra segetes aut mersae culmina villae navigat, hic summa piscem deprendit in ulmo. figitur in viridi, si fors tulit, ancora prato, aut subiecta terunt curvae vineta carinae; et, modo qua graciles gramen carpsere capellae, nunc ibi deformes ponunt sua corpora phocae. mirantur sub aqua lucos urbesque domosque Nereides, silvasque tenent delphines et altis incursant ramis agitataque robora pulsant. nat lupus inter oves, fulvos vehit unda leones, unda vehit tigres; nec vires fulminis apro, crura nec ablato prosunt velocia cervo, quaesitisque diu terris, ubi sistere possit, in mare lassatis volucris vaga decidit alis. obruerat tumulos inmensa licentia ponti, pulsabantque novi montana cacumina fluctus. maxima pars unda rapitur; quibus unda pepercit, illos longa domant inopi ieiunia victu. Separat Aonios Oetaeis Phocis ab arvis, terra ferax, dum terra fuit, sed tempore in illo pars maris et latus subitarum campus aquarum. mons ibi verticibus petit arduus astra duobus, nomine Parnasos, superantque cacumina nubes. ### Deucalion and Pyrrha hic ubi Deucalion (nam cetera texerat aequor) cum consorte tori parva rate vectus adhaesit, Corycidas nymphas et numina montis adorant fatidicamque Themin, quae tunc oracla tenebat: non illo melior quisquam nec amantior aequi vir fuit aut illa metuentior ulla deorum. Iuppiter ut liquidis stagnare paludibus orbem et superesse virum de tot modo milibus unum, et superesse vidit de tot modo milibus unam, innocuos ambo, cultores numinis ambo, nubila disiecit nimbisque aquilone remotis et caelo terras ostendit et aethera terris. nec maris ira manet, positoque tricuspide telo mulcet aquas rector pelagi supraque profundum exstantem atque umeros innato murice tectum caeruleum Tritona vocat conchaeque sonanti inspirare iubet fluctusque et flumina signo iam revocare dato: cava bucina sumitur illi, tortilis in latum quae turbine crescit ab imo, bucina, quae medio concepit ubi aera ponto, litora voce replet sub utroque iacentia Phoebo; tum quoque, ut ora dei madida rorantia barba contigit et cecinit iussos inflata receptus, omnibus audita est telluris et aequoris undis, et quibus est undis audita, coercuit omnes. iam mare litus habet, plenos capit alveus amnes, flumina subsidunt collesque exire videntur; surgit humus, crescunt sola decrescentibus undis, postque diem longam nudata cacumina silvae ostendunt limumque tenent in fronde relictum Redditus orbis erat; quem postquam vidit inanem et desolatas agere alta silentia terras, Deucalion lacrimis ita Pyrrham adfatur obortis: 'o soror, o coniunx, o femina sola superstes, quam commune mihi genus et patruelis origo, deinde torus iunxit, nunc ipsa pericula iungunt, terrarum, quascumque vident occasus et ortus, nos duo turba sumus; possedit cetera pontus. haec quoque adhuc vitae non est fiducia nostrae certa satis; terrent etiamnum nubila mentem. quis tibi, si sine me fatis erepta fuisses, nunc animus, miseranda, foret? quo sola timorem ferre modo posses? quo consolante doleres! namque ego (crede mihi), si te quoque pontus haberet, te sequerer, coniunx, et me quoque pontus haberet. o utinam possim populos reparare paternis artibus atque animas formatae infundere terrae! nunc genus in nobis restat mortale duobus. sic visum superis: hominumque exempla manemus.' dixerat, et flebant: placuit caeleste precari numen et auxilium per sacras quaerere sortes. nulla mora est: adeunt pariter Cephesidas undas, ut nondum liquidas, sic iam vada nota secantes. inde ubi libatos inroravere liquores vestibus et capiti, flectunt vestigia sanctae ad delubra deae, quorum fastigia turpi pallebant musco stabantque sine ignibus arae. ut templi tetigere gradus, procumbit uterque pronus humi gelidoque pavens dedit oscula saxo atque ita 'si precibus' dixerunt 'numina iustis victa remollescunt, si flectitur ira deorum, dic, Themi, qua generis damnum reparabile nostri arte sit, et mersis fer opem, mitissima, rebus!' Mota dea est sortemque dedit: 'discedite templo et velate caput cinctasque resolvite vestes ossaque post tergum magnae iactate parentis!' obstupuere diu: rumpitque silentia voce Pyrrha prior iussisque deae parere recusat, detque sibi veniam pavido rogat ore pavetque laedere iactatis maternas ossibus umbras. interea repetunt caecis obscura latebris verba datae sortis secum inter seque volutant. inde Promethides placidis Epimethida dictis mulcet et 'aut fallax' ait 'est sollertia nobis, aut (pia sunt nullumque nefas oracula suadent!) magna parens terra est: lapides in corpore terrae ossa reor dici; iacere hos post terga iubemur.' Coniugis augurio quamquam Titania mota est, spes tamen in dubio est: adeo caelestibus ambo diffidunt monitis; sed quid temptare nocebit? descendunt: velantque caput tunicasque recingunt et iussos lapides sua post vestigia mittunt. saxa (quis hoc credat, nisi sit pro teste vetustas?) ponere duritiem coepere suumque rigorem mollirique mora mollitaque ducere formam. mox ubi creverunt naturaque mitior illis contigit, ut quaedam, sic non manifesta videri forma potest hominis, sed uti de marmore coepta non exacta satis rudibusque simillima signis, quae tamen ex illis aliquo pars umida suco et terrena fuit, versa est in corporis usum; quod solidum est flectique nequit, mutatur in ossa, quae modo vena fuit, sub eodem nomine mansit, inque brevi spatio superorum numine saxa missa viri manibus faciem traxere virorum et de femineo reparata est femina iactu. inde genus durum sumus experiensque laborum et documenta damus qua simus origine nati. Cetera diversis tellus animalia formis sponte sua peperit, postquam vetus umor ab igne percaluit solis, caenumque udaeque paludes intumuere aestu, fecundaque semina rerum vivaci nutrita solo ceu matris in alvo creverunt faciemque aliquam cepere morando. sic ubi deseruit madidos septemfluus agros Nilus et antiquo sua flumina reddidit alveo aetherioque recens exarsit sidere limus, plurima cultores versis animalia glaebis inveniunt et in his quaedam modo coepta per ipsum nascendi spatium, quaedam inperfecta suisque trunca vident numeris, et eodem in corpore saepe altera pars vivit, rudis est pars altera tellus. quippe ubi temperiem sumpsere umorque calorque, concipiunt, et ab his oriuntur cuncta duobus, cumque sit ignis aquae pugnax, vapor umidus omnes res creat, et discors concordia fetibus apta est. ergo ubi diluvio tellus lutulenta recenti solibus aetheriis altoque recanduit aestu, edidit innumeras species; partimque figuras rettulit antiquas, partim nova monstra creavit. ### The Python Illa quidem nollet, sed te quoque, maxime Python, tum genuit, populisque novis, incognita serpens, terror eras: tantum spatii de monte tenebas. hunc deus arcitenens, numquam letalibus armis ante nisi in dammis capreisque fugacibus usus, mille gravem telis exhausta paene pharetra perdidit effuso per vulnera nigra veneno. neve operis famam posset delere vetustas, instituit sacros celebri certamine ludos, Pythia de domitae serpentis nomine dictos. hic iuvenum quicumque manu pedibusve rotave vicerat, aesculeae capiebat frondis honorem. nondum laurus erat, longoque decentia crine tempora cingebat de qualibet arbore Phoebus. ### Apollo and Daphne Primus amor Phoebi Daphne Peneia, quem non fors ignara dedit, sed saeva Cupidinis ira, Delius hunc nuper, victa serpente superbus, viderat adducto flectentem cornua nervo 'quid' que 'tibi, lascive puer, cum fortibus armis?' dixerat: 'ista decent umeros gestamina nostros, qui dare certa ferae, dare vulnera possumus hosti, qui modo pestifero tot iugera ventre prementem stravimus innumeris tumidum Pythona sagittis. tu face nescio quos esto contentus amores inritare tua, nec laudes adsere nostras!' filius huic Veneris 'figat tuus omnia, Phoebe, te meus arcus' ait; 'quantoque animalia cedunt cuncta deo, tanto minor est tua gloria nostra.' dixit et eliso percussis aere pennis inpiger umbrosa Parnasi constitit arce eque sagittifera prompsit duo tela pharetra diversorum operum: fugat hoc, facit illud amorem; quod facit, auratum est et cuspide fulget acuta, quod fugat, obtusum est et habet sub harundine plumbum. hoc deus in nympha Peneide fixit, at illo laesit Apollineas traiecta per ossa medullas; protinus alter amat, fugit altera nomen amantis silvarum latebris captivarumque ferarum exuviis gaudens innuptaeque aemula Phoebes: vitta coercebat positos sine lege capillos. multi illam petiere, illa aversata petentes inpatiens expersque viri nemora avia lustrat nec, quid Hymen, quid Amor, quid sint conubia curat. saepe pater dixit: 'generum mihi, filia, debes,' saepe pater dixit: 'debes mihi, nata, nepotes'; illa velut crimen taedas exosa iugales pulchra verecundo suffuderat ora rubore inque patris blandis haerens cervice lacertis 'da mihi perpetua, genitor carissime,' dixit 'virginitate frui! dedit hoc pater ante Dianae.' ille quidem obsequitur, sed te decor iste quod optas esse vetat, votoque tuo tua forma repugnat: Phoebus amat visaeque cupit conubia Daphnes, quodque cupit, sperat, suaque illum oracula fallunt, utque leves stipulae demptis adolentur aristis, ut facibus saepes ardent, quas forte viator vel nimis admovit vel iam sub luce reliquit, sic deus in flammas abiit, sic pectore toto uritur et sterilem sperando nutrit amorem. spectat inornatos collo pendere capillos et 'quid, si comantur?' ait. videt igne micantes sideribus similes oculos, videt oscula, quae non est vidisse satis; laudat digitosque manusque bracchiaque et nudos media plus parte lacertos; si qua latent, meliora putat. fugit ocior aura illa levi neque ad haec revocantis verba resistit: 'nympha, precor, Penei, mane! non insequor hostis; nympha, mane! sic agna lupum, sic cerva leonem, sic aquilam penna fugiunt trepidante columbae, hostes quaeque suos: amor est mihi causa sequendi! me miserum! ne prona cadas indignave laedi crura notent sentes et sim tibi causa doloris! aspera, qua properas, loca sunt: moderatius, oro, curre fugamque inhibe, moderatius insequar ipse. cui placeas, inquire tamen: non incola montis, non ego sum pastor, non hic armenta gregesque horridus observo. nescis, temeraria, nescis, quem fugias, ideoque fugis: mihi Delphica tellus et Claros et Tenedos Patareaque regia servit; Iuppiter est genitor; per me, quod eritque fuitque estque, patet; per me concordant carmina nervis. certa quidem nostra est, nostra tamen una sagitta certior, in vacuo quae vulnera pectore fecit! inventum medicina meum est, opiferque per orbem dicor, et herbarum subiecta potentia nobis. ei mihi, quod nullis amor est sanabilis herbis nec prosunt domino, quae prosunt omnibus, artes!' Plura locuturum timido Peneia cursu fugit cumque ipso verba inperfecta reliquit, tum quoque visa decens; nudabant corpora venti, obviaque adversas vibrabant flamina vestes, et levis inpulsos retro dabat aura capillos, auctaque forma fuga est. sed enim non sustinet ultra perdere blanditias iuvenis deus, utque monebat ipse Amor, admisso sequitur vestigia passu. ut canis in vacuo leporem cum Gallicus arvo vidit, et hic praedam pedibus petit, ille salutem; alter inhaesuro similis iam iamque tenere sperat et extento stringit vestigia rostro, alter in ambiguo est, an sit conprensus, et ipsis morsibus eripitur tangentiaque ora relinquit: sic deus et virgo est hic spe celer, illa timore. qui tamen insequitur pennis adiutus Amoris, ocior est requiemque negat tergoque fugacis inminet et crinem sparsum cervicibus adflat. viribus absumptis expalluit illa citaeque victa labore fugae spectans Peneidas undas 'fer, pater,' inquit 'opem! si flumina numen habetis, qua nimium placui, mutando perde figuram!' [quae facit ut laedar mutando perde figuram.] vix prece finita torpor gravis occupat artus, mollia cinguntur tenui praecordia libro, in frondem crines, in ramos bracchia crescunt, pes modo tam velox pigris radicibus haeret, ora cacumen habet: remanet nitor unus in illa. Hanc quoque Phoebus amat positaque in stipite dextra sentit adhuc trepidare novo sub cortice pectus conplexusque suis ramos ut membra lacertis oscula dat ligno; refugit tamen oscula lignum. cui deus 'at, quoniam coniunx mea non potes esse, arbor eris certe' dixit 'mea! semper habebunt te coma, te citharae, te nostrae, laure, pharetrae; tu ducibus Latiis aderis, cum laeta Triumphum vox canet et visent longas Capitolia pompas; postibus Augustis eadem fidissima custos ante fores stabis mediamque tuebere quercum, utque meum intonsis caput est iuvenale capillis, tu quoque perpetuos semper gere frondis honores!' finierat Paean: factis modo laurea ramis adnuit utque caput visa est agitasse cacumen. ### Io Est nemus Haemoniae, praerupta quod undique claudit silva: vocant Tempe; per quae Peneos ab imo effusus Pindo spumosis volvitur undis deiectuque gravi tenues agitantia fumos nubila conducit summisque adspergine silvis inpluit et sonitu plus quam vicina fatigat: haec domus, haec sedes, haec sunt penetralia magni amnis, in his residens facto de cautibus antro, undis iura dabat nymphisque colentibus undas. conveniunt illuc popularia flumina primum, nescia, gratentur consolenturne parentem, populifer Sperchios et inrequietus Enipeus Apidanosque senex lenisque Amphrysos et Aeas, moxque amnes alii, qui, qua tulit inpetus illos, in mare deducunt fessas erroribus undas. Inachus unus abest imoque reconditus antro fletibus auget aquas natamque miserrimus Io luget ut amissam: nescit, vitane fruatur an sit apud manes; sed quam non invenit usquam, esse putat nusquam atque animo peiora veretur. Viderat a patrio redeuntem Iuppiter illam flumine et 'o virgo Iove digna tuoque beatum nescio quem factura toro, pete' dixerat 'umbras altorum nemorum' (et nemorum monstraverat umbras) 'dum calet, et medio sol est altissimus orbe! quodsi sola times latebras intrare ferarum, praeside tuta deo nemorum secreta subibis, nec de plebe deo, sed qui caelestia magna sceptra manu teneo, sed qui vaga fulmina mitto. ne fuge me!' fugiebat enim. iam pascua Lernae consitaque arboribus Lyrcea reliquerat arva, cum deus inducta latas caligine terras occuluit tenuitque fugam rapuitque pudorem. Interea medios Iuno despexit in Argos et noctis faciem nebulas fecisse volucres sub nitido mirata die, non fluminis illas esse, nec umenti sensit tellure remitti; atque suus coniunx ubi sit circumspicit, ut quae deprensi totiens iam nosset furta mariti. quem postquam caelo non repperit, 'aut ego fallor aut ego laedor' ait delapsaque ab aethere summo constitit in terris nebulasque recedere iussit. coniugis adventum praesenserat inque nitentem Inachidos vultus mutaverat ille iuvencam; bos quoque formosa est. speciem Saturnia vaccae, quamquam invita, probat nec non, et cuius et unde quove sit armento, veri quasi nescia quaerit. Iuppiter e terra genitam mentitur, ut auctor desinat inquiri: petit hanc Saturnia munus. quid faciat? crudele suos addicere amores, non dare suspectum est: Pudor est, qui suadeat illinc, hinc dissuadet Amor. victus Pudor esset Amore, sed leve si munus sociae generisque torique vacca negaretur, poterat non vacca videri! Paelice donata non protinus exuit omnem diva metum timuitque Iovem et fuit anxia furti, donec Arestoridae servandam tradidit Argo. centum luminibus cinctum caput Argus habebat inde suis vicibus capiebant bina quietem, cetera servabant atque in statione manebant. constiterat quocumque modo, spectabat ad Io, ante oculos Io, quamvis aversus, habebat. luce sinit pasci; cum sol tellure sub alta est, claudit et indigno circumdat vincula collo. frondibus arboreis et amara pascitur herba. proque toro terrae non semper gramen habenti incubat infelix limosaque flumina potat. illa etiam supplex Argo cum bracchia vellet tendere, non habuit, quae bracchia tenderet Argo, conatoque queri mugitus edidit ore pertimuitque sonos propriaque exterrita voce est. venit et ad ripas, ubi ludere saepe solebat, Inachidas: rictus novaque ut conspexit in unda cornua, pertimuit seque exsternata refugit. naides ignorant, ignorat et Inachus ipse, quae sit; at illa patrem sequitur sequiturque sorores et patitur tangi seque admirantibus offert. decerptas senior porrexerat Inachus herbas: illa manus lambit patriisque dat oscula palmis nec retinet lacrimas et, si modo verba sequantur, oret opem nomenque suum casusque loquatur; littera pro verbis, quam pes in pulvere duxit, corporis indicium mutati triste peregit. 'me miserum!' exclamat pater Inachus inque gementis cornibus et nivea pendens cervice iuvencae 'me miserum!' ingeminat; 'tune es quaesita per omnes nata mihi terras? tu non inventa reperta luctus eras levior! retices nec mutua nostris dicta refers, alto tantum suspiria ducis pectore, quodque unum potes, ad mea verba remugis! at tibi ego ignarus thalamos taedasque parabam, spesque fuit generi mihi prima, secunda nepotum. de grege nunc tibi vir, nunc de grege natus habendus. nec finire licet tantos mihi morte dolores; sed nocet esse deum, praeclusaque ianua leti aeternum nostros luctus extendit in aevum.' talia maerenti stellatus submovet Argus ereptamque patri diversa in pascua natam abstrahit. ipse procul montis sublime cacumen occupat, unde sedens partes speculatur in omnes. Nec superum rector mala tanta Phoronidos ultra ferre potest natumque vocat, quem lucida partu Pleias enixa est letoque det imperat Argum. parva mora est alas pedibus virgamque potenti somniferam sumpsisse manu tegumenque capillis. haec ubi disposuit, patria Iove natus ab arce desilit in terras; illic tegumenque removit et posuit pennas, tantummodo virga retenta est: hac agit, ut pastor, per devia rura capellas dum venit abductas, et structis cantat avenis. voce nova captus custos Iunonius 'at tu, quisquis es, hoc poteras mecum considere saxo' Argus ait; 'neque enim pecori fecundior ullo herba loco est, aptamque vides pastoribus umbram.' Sedit Atlantiades et euntem multa loquendo detinuit sermone diem iunctisque canendo vincere harundinibus servantia lumina temptat. ille tamen pugnat molles evincere somnos et, quamvis sopor est oculorum parte receptus, parte tamen vigilat. quaerit quoque (namque reperta fistula nuper erat), qua sit ratione reperta. Tum deus 'Arcadiae gelidis sub montibus' inquit 'inter hamadryadas celeberrima Nonacrinas naias una fuit: nymphae Syringa vocabant. non semel et satyros eluserat illa sequentes et quoscumque deos umbrosaque silva feraxque rus habet. Ortygiam studiis ipsaque colebat virginitate deam; ritu quoque cincta Dianae falleret et posset credi Latonia, si non corneus huic arcus, si non foret aureus illi; sic quoque fallebat. Redeuntem colle Lycaeo Pan videt hanc pinuque caput praecinctus acuta talia verba refert -- restabat verba referre et precibus spretis fugisse per avia nympham, donec harenosi placidum Ladonis ad amnem venerit; hic illam cursum inpedientibus undis ut se mutarent liquidas orasse sorores, Panaque cum prensam sibi iam Syringa putaret, corpore pro nymphae calamos tenuisse palustres, dumque ibi suspirat, motos in harundine ventos effecisse sonum tenuem similemque querenti. arte nova vocisque deum dulcedine captum 'hoc mihi colloquium tecum' dixisse 'manebit,' atque ita disparibus calamis conpagine cerae inter se iunctis nomen tenuisse puellae. talia dicturus vidit Cyllenius omnes subcubuisse oculos adopertaque lumina somno; supprimit extemplo vocem firmatque soporem languida permulcens medicata lumina virga. nec mora, falcato nutantem vulnerat ense, qua collo est confine caput, saxoque cruentum deicit et maculat praeruptam sanguine rupem. Arge, iaces, quodque in tot lumina lumen habebas, exstinctum est, centumque oculos nox occupat una. Excipit hos volucrisque suae Saturnia pennis collocat et gemmis caudam stellantibus inplet. protinus exarsit nec tempora distulit irae horriferamque oculis animoque obiecit Erinyn paelicis Argolicae stimulosque in pectore caecos condidit et profugam per totum exercuit orbem. ultimus inmenso restabas, Nile, labori; quem simulac tetigit, positisque in margine ripae procubuit genibus resupinoque ardua collo, quos potuit solos, tollens ad sidera vultus et gemitu et lacrimis et luctisono mugitu cum Iove visa queri finemque orare malorum. coniugis ille suae conplexus colla lacertis, finiat ut poenas tandem, rogat 'in' que 'futurum pone metus' inquit: 'numquam tibi causa doloris haec erit,' et Stygias iubet hoc audire paludes. Ut lenita dea est, vultus capit illa priores fitque, quod ante fuit: fugiunt e corpore saetae, cornua decrescunt, fit luminis artior orbis, contrahitur rictus, redeunt umerique manusque, ungulaque in quinos dilapsa absumitur ungues: de bove nil superest formae nisi candor in illa. officioque pedum nymphe contenta duorum erigitur metuitque loqui, ne more iuvencae mugiat, et timide verba intermissa retemptat. ### The Sons Taunted Nunc dea linigera colitur celeberrima turba. huic Epaphus magni genitus de semine tandem creditur esse Iovis perque urbes iuncta parenti templa tenet. fuit huic animis aequalis et annis Sole satus Phaethon, quem quondam magna loquentem nec sibi cedentem Phoeboque parente superbum non tulit Inachides 'matri' que ait 'omnia demens credis et es tumidus genitoris imagine falsi.' erubuit Phaethon iramque pudore repressit et tulit ad Clymenen Epaphi convicia matrem 'quo' que 'magis doleas, genetrix' ait, 'ille ego liber, ille ferox tacui! pudet haec opprobria nobis et dici potuisse et non potuisse refelli. at tu, si modo sum caelesti stirpe creatus, ede notam tanti generis meque adsere caelo!' dixit et inplicuit materno bracchia collo perque suum Meropisque caput taedasque sororum traderet oravit veri sibi signa parentis. ambiguum Clymene precibus Phaethontis an ira mota magis dicti sibi criminis utraque caelo bracchia porrexit spectansque ad lumina solis 'per iubar hoc' inquit 'radiis insigne coruscis, nate, tibi iuro, quod nos auditque videtque, hoc te, quem spectas, hoc te, qui temperat orbem, Sole satum; si ficta loquor, neget ipse videndum se mihi, sitque oculis lux ista novissima nostris! nec longus labor est patrios tibi nosse penates. unde oritur, domus est terrae contermina nostrae: si modo fert animus, gradere et scitabere ab ipso!' emicat extemplo laetus post talia matris dicta suae Phaethon et concipit aethera mente Aethiopasque suos positosque sub ignibus Indos sidereis transit patriosque adit inpiger ortus. ## Translation — Mouseia > Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Musean translation, made directly from all 780 hexameter lines of Book I for fidelity, Ovidian wit, narrative speed, and cadence. ### Invocation My mind is bent to tell of bodies changed into new forms. You gods — for you changed those as well — breathe favor on these beginnings of mine, and from the world's first origin lead my unbroken song down to my own times! ### Chaos and the Creation Before sea was, and lands, and the sky that veils all things, one face of nature lay upon the whole round of the world: they called it Chaos — a rough, unordered mass, nothing but lifeless weight, and heaped together the warring seeds of things not kindly joined. No Titan yet lent light to the world, nor did Phoebe, waxing, renew her crescent horns; nor hung the earth, wrapped round with ambient air, balanced upon her own weights, nor had Amphitrite stretched her arms along the long rim of the lands. And as it was, there was earth there, and sea, and air, so earth was unfixed, water unfit to sail, air starved of light: no shape kept to its own, each stood in the way of each, for in one body cold fought with warm, and wet with dry, and soft with hard, and weightless things with things of weight. This quarrel the god — and a kinder nature — settled: for he cut the lands from sky, and the waves from lands, and parted the clear heaven from the thickened air. And when he had rolled them out, and freed them from the blind heap, he bound the sundered parts in harmonious peace: the fiery force of the rounded heaven, weightless, flashed upward and made its place upon the height of the citadel; next to it came the air, in lightness and in seat; denser than these the earth drew down her great elements, and was pressed fast by her own weight; and the encircling water took the last place, and fenced the solid globe. So, when he — whoever of the gods it was — had cut that heap, and molded it into members of one design, first he gathered the earth into the shape of a great sphere, that it might be equal on every side. Then he bade the seas spread out, and swell with rushing winds, and cast their shores about the girdled lands; he added springs, and great pools, and lakes, and fenced the rivers with their sloping banks: which, in their different places, are partly swallowed by the earth itself, and partly reach the sea, and, taken into the plain of freer water, beat on shores instead of banks. He bade the plains stretch out, the valleys sink, the woods be clothed in leaf, the stony mountains rise: and as two zones cut the sky upon the right, and two upon the left, and a fifth is hotter than these, so the care of god distinguished the enclosed weight by that same number: so many zones press upon the earth. Of these, the middle one is uninhabitable with heat; deep snow covers two; between each pair he placed the temperate blend, where flame is mixed with cold. Over these hangs the air, which, by as much as the weight of earth is lighter than the weight of water, is by so much heavier than fire. There he bade the mists stand, there the clouds, there the thunders that would shake the minds of men, and the winds that make lightnings with their thunderbolts. Not even of these did the world's maker allow the winds to blow at large without restraint: hardly even now are they opposed, when each governs his blasts in his own several tract — lest they tear the world apart: so great is the discord of brothers. Eurus withdrew to the dawn and to the Nabataean realms, and to Persia, and the heights beneath the morning rays; evening, and the shores that grow warm in the westward sun, are nearest to Zephyrus; into Scythia and the seven Bears rushed the shuddering Boreas; the land opposite grows wet with constant cloud and rain from the south wind. Above all these he set the translucent heaven, wanting weight, that held no taint of any earthly dross. Hardly had he fenced all things with sure boundaries when the stars, so long pressed beneath blind darkness, began to blaze out through the whole of heaven: and that no region might lack its proper creatures, the stars took the heavenly ground, and the shapes of gods; the gleaming waters yielded to the fish to dwell in; the earth took the wild beasts; the restless air, the birds. A holier creature still was wanting, of higher mind, fit to rule the rest: man was born. Whether the maker of all things formed him of divine seed — he, the origin of a better world — or whether the new earth, but lately parted from the high heaven, still kept seeds of her kindred sky, which Prometheus, son of Iapetus, mingled with the streams of rain, and shaped into the likeness of the gods who govern all — while the other animals bend and look upon the ground, he gave to man a lofty countenance, and bade him behold the heaven, and raise his upright face to the stars: so the earth, but lately rough and without shape, changed, put on the unknown shapes of humankind. ### The Four Ages The golden age was first, which — with no compeller — of its own will, without a law, kept faith and did the right. Punishment and fear were absent, and no threatening words were read on plates of bronze, nor did a suppliant crowd dread the face of its own judge: they were safe without a guardian. Not yet had the pine, cut from her mountains, come down into the liquid waves to visit a foreign world; mortals knew no shores but their own shores. Not yet did deep ditches ring the steep towns; no straight trumpet, no horns of bent brass, no helmets, no swords were: without a soldier's use the soft nations passed their secure repose. Earth herself, unburdened, untouched by harrow, wounded by no ploughshares, gave all things of herself, and, content with foods created under no constraint, they gathered arbutus berries, and mountain strawberries, cornel cherries, and blackberries clinging to the tough brambles, and acorns fallen from the broad tree of Jove. Spring was everlasting, and the gentle zephyrs, with their warm breath, caressed the flowers born of no seed; soon, too, the untilled earth bore her grain, and the field, unturned, grew white with heavy ears. Rivers of milk, then rivers of nectar flowed, and golden honey dripped from the green ilex. After Saturn had been sent down to dark Tartarus, the world was under Jove: the silver race arose, worse than gold, more precious than tawny bronze. Jupiter shortened the length of the ancient spring, and through winters, and heats, and unequal autumns, and brief spring, drew out the year in four spaces. Then first the air, scorched by parching heats, glowed white, and ice hung frozen by the winds; then first men entered houses: houses were caves, and thick-set thickets, and twigs bound with bark. Then first the seeds of Ceres were buried in long furrows, and the young oxen groaned beneath the yoke. Third came after those the race of bronze, crueler in temper, readier for savage arms, yet not wicked: the last was of hard iron. At once there burst into the age of a worse vein every evil: shame fled, and truth, and faith; in their place came cheats and wiles, treacheries, and force, and the wicked love of having. Sails were given to the winds, which the sailor did not yet know well; and keels that once had stood upon the high mountains danced on unknown waves; and the ground, which before had been common like the sunlight and the breezes, the careful surveyor marked out with a long-drawn line. Nor was the rich earth asked only for crops and the food she owed: men went into her bowels, and the riches she had hidden, and had drawn near the shades of Stygia, were dug out — provocations to evil. Now iron came, and gold more deadly than iron; war was born, which fights with both, and shook its clashing arms in a blood-stained hand. Men live by plunder: guest has no trust from host, father-in-law none from son-in-law; rare is the grace between brothers; the husband hangs over his wife's death, she over his; terrible stepmothers mix their ghastly aconites; the son asks, before his day, his father's years: goodness lies vanquished, and virgin Astraea, last of the immortals, left the blood-soaked earth. ### The Giants And that the heaven, high as it was, might be no safer than the earth, they say the giants aspired to the kingdom of the sky, and heaped new mountains to the very stars. Then the almighty father, hurling his bolt, broke Olympus open, and shook Pelion down from Ossa. When their dire bodies lay buried under their own heaps, they say the earth drank deep of her children's blood, and warmed it into life, and — so no trace of that stock's line should perish — turned its face to man: but that breed too scorned the gods, and lusted greedily for savage slaughter, and was violent: you would know they were born of blood. ### Lycaon and the Council of the Gods When the son of Saturn saw this from his high citadel, he groaned, and — the deed not yet spread abroad, but fresh — the foul banquet of a Lycaonian table filled him with vast wrath, worthy of Jove himself, and he called a council: no delay held back the called. There is a highway, plain to see in cloudless sky: they call it the Milky Way, famous for its very whiteness. That is the road the gods take to the halls of the great Thunderer, to the royal house: on right and left the courts of noble gods are thronged, their gates flung open; the common gods dwell in other quarters: here the powerful and famous dwellers of heaven have set their household gods. This is the place which — if I may give my words such daring — I should not fear to call the Palatine of high heaven. So when the gods had taken their seats in the marble recess, Jove himself, higher than all, leaned upon his ivory scepter, and three times, and four, shook his dread head, that shakes together earth, sea, and stars. Then in such wise he loosed his indignant lips: 'Not even in that season was I more anxious for the world's rule, when each of the hundred-handed snakes prepared to throw his captive arms about the sky. For though the enemy was savage, still that war hung from one body, from one origin. Now, wherever Nereus sounds around the world, the mortal race must perish: I swear it by the rivers of the underworld, sliding beneath the earth through the Stygian grove! Yet all must first be tried; but what no cure can mend must be cut off with the blade, lest the sound part be dragged down. There are demigods of mine, and rustic powers, the nymphs, fauns, satyrs, and the mountain-dwelling silvani: since we do not yet vouchsafe them the honor of heaven, let us at least allow them to inhabit the lands we gave them. Do you believe, o gods above, that they will be safe enough, when Lycaon, known to me for savagery, has laid snares for me — me, who hold the thunderbolt, who hold and rule you?' All roared assent, and with burning zeal called down the punishment upon the daring one: even so, when an impious band raged to extinguish the Roman name in Caesar's blood, mankind was struck with sudden terror at so great a fall, and the whole world shuddered; nor was the piety of your own people less pleasing to you, Augustus, than was that to Jove. And when with voice and hand he had pressed down the murmur, all held their silence. As the clamor, quelled by the weight of the ruler, stood still, Jove a second time broke the quiet: 'He has paid his penalty (dismiss this care!). But as to the deed, hear what the vengeance was. The infamy of the age had reached my ears; desiring to disprove it, I slid down from high Olympus, and, a god, went over the earth in human guise. Long were the task to count up everywhere what evil was to be found: the infamy itself was less than truth. I had passed over Maenala, dread with the lairs of beasts, and the pine-forests of Cyllene with cold Lycaeus: from there I entered the Arcadian seat, and the inhospitable halls of the tyrant, as late twilight was drawing on the night. I gave the signs of a god come; the crowd began to pray. Lycaon laughed first at their pious prayers, then said: "I will make trial, by an open test, whether this be a god or a mortal: the truth will not be doubtful." He made ready to destroy me, heavy with sleep, by an unexpected death: this test of truth pleased him; and not content with that, with a blade he opened the throat of a hostage sent from the Molossian race, and so, part softened the half-dead limbs in boiling water, part roasted them on fires beneath. No sooner had he set these on the table than I, with avenging flame, overthrew the household gods upon their lord, well worthy of the lord. He himself fled terrified, and reaching the quiet fields howled, and tried in vain to speak: from his own mouth his rabid rage gathered, and, with his old desire for slaughter, he turned upon the flocks, and even now delights in blood. His garments pass into hair, his arms into legs: he becomes a wolf, and keeps the traces of his former shape; the same grey hair, the same violence in his face, the same eyes gleam, the same image of ferocity. One house has fallen — but one house only did not deserve to fall: wherever the earth extends, the savage Fury reigns. You would think they had all sworn together on the deed! Let all give, with all speed — such is my decree — the penalties they have deserved.' Part approved the words of Jove, and adding goads to his hot anger; part filled out the speech with approving signs. Yet to all it was a grief, the loss of humankind, and they asked what would be the face of a world bereft of mortals: who would carry incense to the altars, or was he to deliver the lands to wild beasts to be ravaged? Asking these things (for the rest, they said, was his care) the king of the gods forbade their trembling, and promised a generation unlike the first people, of wondrous origin. He was even now about to scatter his thunderbolts through all the lands; but he feared, lest by chance the holy ether, with so many fires, should catch the flames, and the long axis of the world be set ablaze: he remembered too that it stood in the fates, that a time would come when sea, and land, and the seized palace of the sky should burn, and the mass of the world, beleaguered, labor. The weapons forged by the Cyclops' hands were laid aside: a different punishment pleases him — to destroy the mortal race beneath the waves, and to let loose the rains from all the reaches of the sky. ### The Flood At once he shuts the North Wind in the Aeolian caves, and whatever gales scatter the gathered storm clouds, and lets loose the South. The South flew out on dripping wings, his terrible face covered in pitch-black fog; his beard heavy with rain, water flowing from his grey hair; mist sat on his brow, and dew on his plumes and robes. And when he pressed the hanging clouds with his broad hand, the crash came: the crowded heavens poured out their rains. Iris, the messenger of Juno, robed in varied colors, gathered the waters, and brought the clouds their nourishment. The standing crops are laid low, and the farmer's lamented hopes lie buried, and the long year's labor is wasted, given to the wind in vain. Nor was Jove's anger content with his own heaven: his azure brother helps with his assisting waves. He called the rivers; and when they had entered their ruler's halls, he said: "No need of long exhortation — pour out now all your strength: the need is this! Open your doors, and, the barrier thrown down, let all your reins run loose in your rivers!" He commanded; they return, and loosen the mouths of their springs, and roll unchecked across the open level fields. He himself strikes the earth with his trident: it trembles, and with the motion opens ways for the waters. The rivers, spread out, rush across the open plains, and carry off — with the crops, the orchards, the cattle, the men, the houses, and the temples, with their sacred things — whatever they meet. If any house remained, and could resist so great a ruin without check, yet its higher crest the wave covered, and the pressed towers lay hidden beneath the whirlpool. And now sea and land had no distinction: all was sea — and to the sea even shores were wanting. One man takes a hill; another, seated in his curved bent skiff, rows where he had lately ploughed: one sails above his grain, or over the roof of a buried farmhouse; another takes a fish on the top of an elm. An anchor, if chance so willed, fixes itself in the green meadow; or the curved keels grind over the vineyards buried beneath them; and where but now the slender goats had cropped the grass, there the shapeless seals laid down their bodies. The nereids marvel beneath the waves at groves, and houses, and cities, and things half sunk; and dolphins take the woods, and dash their bodies against the high branches, and strike the trembling oaks. The wolf swims among the sheep; the wave carries tawny lions; the wave carries tigers; nor do the boar's lightning strengths, nor his swift legs, avail the stag when he has lost them — he who, long seeking for lands where he might stand, falls into the sea, wearied, with his wandering wing-like feet. And the boundless freedom of the sea had buried the hills, and the new waves beat upon the mountain summits. The greater part of men is swept away by the waters; those the waters spared, slow famine overcame, for want of food. ### Deucalion and Pyrrha Phocis separates the Aonian fields from those of Oeta, a fertile land while it was land, but at that time part of the sea, and a plain of sudden waters. There a mountain lifts its steep summit to the stars in twin peaks, named Parnassus, and its crest overtops the clouds. Here — for the rest was covered by the sea — Deucalion, carried in a small boat with the partner of his bed, landed: they worshipped the Corycian nymphs and the mountain gods, and prophetic Themis, who then kept the oracles: no man was better than he, none more loving of the right, none more fearful of the gods than she. When Jupiter saw the world sinking in liquid marshes and that one man was left of so many thousands lately, and one woman left of so many thousands lately, both innocent, both worshippers of the god, he scattered the clouds, and, the north wind driving away the rains, he showed the earth to heaven and the heavens to the earth. Nor does the anger of the sea remain: the ruler of the deep, laying aside his three-pointed spear, soothes the waters, and calls the blue Triton, standing above the deep, his shoulders covered with the native purple shell, and bids him sound the waves and rivers back at the given signal: the hollow shell is taken by him, which, winding, grows wide in a spiral from its base — the shell which, when it takes in the air in mid-sea, fills with its voice the shores lying under either Phoebus. Then also, when it touched the mouth of the god, dripping with wet beard, and, blown, sounded the commanded retreat, it was heard by all the waves of earth and sea, and all that heard it, it restrained. Now the sea has a shore; the channel takes the full rivers; the rivers subside, and the hills seem to come out; the ground rises, the lands grow as the waters lessen, and after a long day the bare crests of the woods show, and hold the mud left on their leaves. The world was given back; and when he saw it empty, and the deep silence of the desolate lands, Deucalion spoke thus to Pyrrha, with tears rising: "O sister, O wife, O only woman surviving, whom a common stock, and the origin of our fathers, and then the marriage bed joined, and now dangers themselves join us, of all the lands that the west and east behold, we two are the people: the sea possesses the rest. And even now this confidence of our life is not certain enough: the clouds still terrify my mind. What mind would you have now, miserable one, if you had been snatched by the fates without me? In what could you alone bear your fear? With whom could you console your grief? For I — believe me — if the sea held you too, I would follow you, wife, and the sea would hold me too. O that I could repair the peoples by my father's arts, and breathe into the molded earth those souls! Now the mortal race remains in us two only. So it seemed good to the gods: we remain examples of men." He had spoken, and they wept: it pleased them to pray to the heavenly power, and to seek its aid by sacred lots. No delay: together they go to the waters of Cephisus, cutting the shallows — not yet clear, though now known — and when they had sprinkled their robes and heads with the tasted waters, they turned their steps to the holy shrine of the goddess, whose gables were pale with ugly moss, and the altars stood without fires. When they touched the steps of the temple, each fell prone on the ground, and gave kisses in fear to the cold stone, and so they said: "If the powers, conquered by just prayers are softened, if the anger of the gods is bent, tell us, Themis, by what art the loss of our race may be repaired, and bring aid, most gentle, to our drowned world!" The goddess was moved, and gave the oracle: "Depart from the temple, and veil your heads, and unbind the girded robes, and cast behind your backs the bones of your great mother!" They were stupefied a long while: and Pyrrha first broke the silence with her voice, and refused to obey the goddess's command, and begged pardon with trembling lips, fearing to hurt her mother's shades by the cast bones. Meanwhile they seek again in blind hiding places the dark words of the given oracle, and turn them over between them. Then the son of Prometheus soothes the daughter of Epimetheus with gentle words, and says: "Either our skill is deceiving, or the oracles are holy and counsel no crime: the great mother is the earth: the stones in the body of the earth I think are meant by bones: we are bidden throw these behind our backs." Though the wife of Titan was moved by her husband's augury, still the hope is doubtful: so much do they both distrust the heavenly commands; but what harm in trying? They descend: they veil their heads, and unbind their robes, and cast the commanded stones behind their own footsteps. The stones — who would believe it, unless ancient custom were witness? — began to lay aside their hardness and their stiffness, and, softened by delay, becoming soft, to take on form. Soon, when they had grown, and a milder nature had touched them, such that some shape could be seen, not clearly, but like the beginnings of a marble statue, not exact enough, most like to rude images — that part of them which was moist with some juice and earthy was turned to use for the body; what is solid and cannot bend is changed into bones; what had been a vein remained under the same name; and in a short space, by the power of the gods above, the stones thrown by a man's hands took the face of men, and the woman was remade from a woman's throw. From this we are a hard race, experiencing labor, and we give proof of the stock from which we are born. The earth brought forth the other animals in different shapes of her own accord, after the old moisture had been warmed through by the fire of the sun, and the slime and the rich marshes swelled with heat, and the fertile seeds of things, nourished in a living soil, as in a mother's womb, grew, and took on some shape in their settling. So when the sevenfold Nile has deserted the soaked fields and given back his waters to his old channel, and the fresh slime has glowed in the ethereal star, the farmers find many animals in the turned clods, and among them some just begun in the very space of birth, some unfinished, and lacking their numbers, and often in one body one part lives, and the other part is raw earth. For indeed when moisture and heat have taken their measure, they conceive, and from these two all things arise; and though fire fights with water, humid vapor creates all things, and a discordant concord is fit for births. Therefore, when the earth, muddy with fresh deluge, was glowing warm in the ethereal suns and deep heat, she brought forth countless species; and in part she gave back their ancient forms, and in part created new monsters. ### The Python Then Python, serpent of the open vale, unknown to the new peoples, filled them with terror, so vast a stretch of mountain ground he held. The archer god, who never before had used his deadly arms but on fleeing does and roes, destroyed him, heavy with a thousand shafts, his quiver well-nigh emptied, pouring through his wounds a black poison. And that the fame of the deed might not be blotted out by time, he founded sacred games in solemn contest, called Pythian, from the name of the slain serpent. There, whoever conquered with hand, or foot, or wheel, took the honor of the oak's green leaves. As yet no laurel stood, and Phoebus girt his brows, fair in their long hair, with any bough. ### Apollo and Daphne His first love was Daphne, daughter of Peneus, which no blind chance gave, but the cruel wrath of Cupid. The Delian god, still proud from the conquered serpent, had seen him bending his bow with tightened cord, and said: "What business have you, wanton boy, with warlike arms? Arms like those become my shoulders, sure of aim, that never miss the wild beasts, never miss the foe — I, who just now destroyed the swollen Python with countless arrows, covering whole acres of ground. Be content to kindle whatever fires are hidden behind your little torch, and leave glory to me." Venus' son answered: "May your bow hit everything, Phoebus — but my bow shall hit you, and by as much as all living things are less than gods." He spoke, and, flicking his wings in the parted air, a stubborn archer, came to the shaded height of Parnassus, and from his quiver of arrows took out two of opposite work: one drives away, one kindles love. The one that kindles is of gleaming gold, with a sharp point, well polished: the other blunts, with lead beneath the reed. That one the god drove into Peneus' daughter; this one struck Apollo to the marrow of his pierced bone. At once the one loves, and longs to be united; the other flies from the very name of lover, rejoicing in the depths of shaded woods, in the spoils of wild beasts, like another Diana, a fillet binding her hair that barely lies. Many would have her; she would not have suitors, unmoved and unknown to any man, roaming the pathless thickets, caring nothing for Hymen, nor for what love means. Often would her father say: "You owe me a son-in-law, my child." Often her father: "You owe me grandchildren, my daughter." She, like a crime, blushing at the very torch of marriage, would hang her fair head upon her father's neck, and beg him with the one word "let me be forever a maiden, Diana's father, grant me this": yet her beauty forbade what she desired. Her body glowed with a beauty that did not need it. She was seen — and was loved — and was seized upon by him who loved; and he follows her flight with hope, and, as his hope flies faster than his speech, the lover is lover and pursuer. As when a Gallic hound has seen a hare in an open field, and runs with flying feet toward his promised prey, but the hare flees: he is close, he thinks he has her, his muzzle is nearly in her very flanks — she wonders if she's caught, and twists away from his snap, and is behind him still; because the others stand around her cheering, barking out their hopes; while she flees through the very midst of the teeth. So the god and the girl: his speed is hope, hers is fear. But he who follows, carried on the wings of love, gives her no rest; presses her flight, coming closer, and his breath is hot upon her scattered hair. Her strength is gone; drained pale by the effort of the wild flight, she sees the waters of her father Peneus, and cries: "Help me, father! If your waters hold divinity, destroy this beauty by which I've pleased too well!" Her prayer was scarcely done, when a heavy numbness seized her limbs; her soft breasts were girt with a thin bark, her hair grew into leaves, her arms into branches; her feet, but now so swift, held fast by sluggish roots; her face was the tree's top: only her shining grace remained. And Phoebus loved her still. He laid his hand upon the trunk, and felt her bosom trembling still in the bark, beneath the new wood; and embraced the branches as if limbs, and kissed the wood, and the wood shrank from his kisses. And the god said: "But since you cannot be my bride, you shall at least be my own tree. My hair, my lyre, my quiver, laurel, will always hold you. You will attend the Roman leaders, when their joyful voices sing the triumph, and the Capitol sees its long processions. You will stand as faithful guardian at Augustus' gates, before his doors, and keep watch over the oak between. And as my head is ever-young with unshorn hair, so wear, forever, the fresh honor of your leaves." Paean had done: the laurel nodded her new-made branches, and seemed to shake her treetop like a head. ### Io There is a grove in Thessaly, shut in on every side by a wall of forest: they call it Tempe. Through it the Peneus, pouring down from deep Pindus, rolls in foaming waves, and with its heavy fall drives before it thin wisps of cloudy smoke, gathers them to the tops of the woods, rains upon them, and wearies with its roar more than the neighboring streams. This is the house, this the seat, these the inner shrines of the great river: sitting in a cavern carved from the rocks, he gave laws to the waters, and to the nymphs that tended them. First the neighboring rivers came together, not knowing whether to congratulate or console their father: the poplar-bearing Sperchios, the restless Enipeus, the old Apidanus, the gentle Amphrysos, and Aeas, and soon the other rivers, which, wherever their impulse carried them, lead their weary waters, wandering, to the sea. Inachus alone is absent, hidden in a deep cave, and swells its waters with his weeping, mourning, most wretched, for his daughter Io, as if she were lost: he does not know whether to enjoy life, or whether she is among the shades; but since he finds her nowhere, he believes her nowhere, and in his mind fears worse things than what is. Jupiter had seen her returning from her father's river, and said: "O maiden, worthy of Jove, and of some happy unknown husband of your making — seek the shades of the deep woods" — and he pointed to the shades of the woods — "while it is hot, and the sun stands highest in his circle! But if you fear to enter the lurking places of wild beasts alone, you shall go safe into the hidden woods, with a god as guardian — no god of the common sort, but he who holds in his hand the great scepter of heaven, who sends the wandering thunderbolts. Do not flee me!" — for she was fleeing. Already she had left the pastures of Lernae, and the fields of Lyrcea, planted with trees, when the god hid the wide lands in a covering mist, and stopped her flight, and took her shame. Meanwhile Juno looked down into the middle of Argos, and marvelled that the flying clouds had made the face of night in bright daylight: she knew they were not of the river, nor sent up from the wet ground. She looked around for where her husband might be — she who knew so well the thefts of a husband so often caught. When she found him absent from the sky: "Either I am mistaken, or I am wronged," she said; and, slipping from the height of heaven, she stood upon the earth, and bade the mists withdraw. He had foreseen his wife's arrival, and had changed the face of the daughter of Inachus into a sleek heifer. Even as a heifer she was beautiful. The wife of Saturn praised the shape of the cow, though unwillingly; and asked, too, whose she was, and from where, and in what herd — asking, as if she knew nothing of the truth. Jupiter lied, that she was born of the earth, so the author of the crime might stop being sought. The wife of Saturn asked her as a gift. What could he do? To give up his own love was cruel; not to give was suspect. Shame argued for one side, Love against it. Shame would have conquered Love — but so slight a gift, a cow, was refused by the sister and the partner of his bed: she might not seem a cow! The daughter of Peneus, given away, did not at once put off all her fear, and dreaded Jove, and was anxious over the stolen joy, until she gave her, to be kept, to Argus, son of Aristor. Argus had a head ringed round with a hundred eyes, of which, in their turns, two at a time took sleep: the rest kept watch, and remained on guard. However he stood, he looked toward Io: Io was before his eyes, though he was turned away. He let her feed in the daylight; but when the sun is deep beneath the earth, he pens her, and winds chains around a neck that does not deserve them. She feeds on the leaves of trees, and on bitter grass. Instead of a bed, the unhappy girl lies on the ground, which does not always keep its grass, and drinks from muddy streams. And when she wished, suppliant, to stretch her arms to Argus, she had no arms to stretch to Argus, and, trying to complain, she lowed from her mouth, and was terrified at the sounds, and frightened by her own voice. She came also to the banks where she often used to play, the Inachid streams: and when she saw in the water her new gaping mouth and horns, she fled in terror, startled at herself. The naiads did not know her, nor did Inachus himself, who she was; but she followed her father, and followed her sisters, and let herself be touched, and offered herself to their admiration. Old Inachus held out herbs he had plucked: she licked her father's palms, and kissed his hands, and could not hold back her tears; and if only words had followed, she would have begged for help, and told her name, and her misfortunes: instead of words, a letter, drawn by her hoof in the dust, finished sadly the proof of her changed body. "O wretched me!" cried her father Inachus, hanging upon the groaning horns and the snowy neck of the young heifer: "O wretched me!" he said again: "Are you the daughter sought by me through all the lands? You, not found, were a lighter grief than being found! You do not answer, you give no words back to mine; you draw only deep sighs from a heavy breast, and what alone you can do, you low in answer to my words! Ignorant, I was preparing marriage and wedding-torches for you; my first hope was a son-in-law, my second, grandchildren. Now you must have a husband from the herd, and a son from the herd. Nor is it permitted me to end so great a grief by death: but it harms to be a god — the door of death being shut — to stretch our sorrows through eternity." The starry-eyed Argus takes her from her mourning father, and drags the daughter, taken away, to distant pastures. He himself, far off, seizes the high crest of a mountain, and sitting there, watches every part on every side. Nor could the ruler of the gods above bear to suffer so great an evil any longer over the daughter of Phoronis: he calls his son, whom the shining Pleiad bore in childbirth, and commands that he destroy Argus. Small delay: wings on his feet, the potent sleep-bringing wand in his hand, and the cap for his hair, were taken up. When he had made these ready, the son born of Jove leapt down from his father's citadel to earth; there he took off the cap, and put away his wings — only the wand was kept. With this he drives, like a shepherd, the goats through the pathless country, as they come, led away, and sings on pipes joined together. Charmed by the new voice, the keeper of Juno said: "Though I know not who you are, you might well sit beside me on this rock — for no place has richer grass for flocks, and you see the shade that suits shepherds." The son of Atlas sat, and with much talking held back the passing day with speech, and, singing on joined reeds, tried to overcome the eyes that kept watch. Argus however fought to conquer soft sleep, and, though sleep was received in part of his eyes, in part he still kept watch. He asked too (for the pipe had but lately been discovered) by what means it was found. Then the god said: "In the cold mountains of Arcadia, among the hamadryad nymphs, one famous naiad was of Nonacris: the nymphs called her Syrinx. She had more than once eluded the satyrs that pursued her, and whatever gods the shadowy woods and fertile fields hold. She cultivated Ortygia herself in her pursuits, and her maidenhood; and girt in the rite of Diana, she might have been mistaken for the daughter of Latona, were it not that her bow was of cornel wood, and his of gold; even so she passed for her. Pan, girt with sharp pine, saw her returning from the mount of Lycaeus, and spoke such words — it remained to speak the words — and, his prayers despised, the nymph fled through the pathless wild, until she came to the peaceful stream of sandy Ladon; and here, when the waters hindered her course, she prayed her watery sisters to change her; and when Pan, who thought he now held Syrinx in his grasp, found that he held reeds of the marsh instead of the nymph's body, and while he sighed there, the winds, moving in the reeds, made a faint sound, like one mourning. The god, taken by this new art and the sweetness of the voice, said: "This converse with you shall remain with me." And so, unequal reeds joined with a bond of wax, he kept the name of the maiden. These words the Cyllenian god was about to say when he saw that all the eyes had yielded, and their lights were covered with sleep: he checks his speech at once, and deepens the slumber, caressing the languid, charmed eyes with his medicated wand. Without delay he wounds the nodding watcher with his curved blade, where the head joins the neck, and throws him, bleeding, down the rocks, and stains the steep crag with blood. Argus, you lie: and that light which you had in all your many lights is put out; one night takes all your hundred eyes. The wife of Saturn receives them in her swift bird's feathers, and fills his tail with gleaming gems. At once she flamed out, and put off no moment of her wrath, but cast before the eyes and heart of her rival's Argolic nurse a hideous Erinys, and buried in her breast its blind goads, and drove her in flight through all the world. You, Nile, were the last of that immense labor; and the moment she touched you — laid on the bank's edge upon her knees, and leaning her lofty neck back — lifting to the stars what looks alone she could, with groan and tears and mournful lowing she seemed to complain to Jove, and to pray for an end of ills. He, throwing his arms around his rival's neck, asked her at last to finish the punishment: "Put away your fears," he said: "this shall never again be a cause of grief to you" — and he bade the Stygian pools hear it. When the goddess was softened, Io took her former face, and became what she was before: the bristles fled from her body, her horns shrank, the circle of her eyes grew narrower, her gaping mouth closed, her shoulders and hands returned, and the hoof, dissolved, vanished into five nails: nothing of the cow remained in her but her fairness. And content to walk with the service of her two feet, the nymph rises, and fears to speak, lest she low in the manner of a heifer, and timidly tries again the words she had let fall. ### The Sons Taunted Now the goddess in linen robes is worshipped by a most famous crowd. To her, Epaphus, born at last of the great seed of Jove, is believed to be son, and through the cities joined to his mother he holds temples. He had one equal to him in mind and years, Phaethon, son of the Sun, who once, when he was speaking great things, and would not yield to Phoebus, proud of his parent, the son of Inachus could not bear, and said: "Mad one, do you believe all things of your mother, and are you swollen with the false image of a father?" Phaethon blushed, and repressed his anger in shame, and carried the insults of Epaphus to his mother Clymene. "The more it grieves you, mother," he said, "that I, your child — I, the fierce one! — was silent! It shames us both, that these reproaches could be spoken, and could not be answered. But you, if only I am created of heavenly stock, give forth the proof of so great a birth, and claim me for heaven!" He spoke, and threw his arms around his mother's neck, and begged, by his own head and his mother's, and by the torches of his sisters, that she would give him signs of his true parent. Clymene, moved — whether by the prayers of Phaethon, or by anger at the words of the taunt, or both — stretched her arms to the sky, and, looking to the lights of the sun, said: "By this radiance, marked with flashing rays, I swear to you, my son, which hears and sees us both: that thing you look upon, that thing which governs the world — the Sun — is your father. If I speak false, let him refuse himself to be seen by me, and let that light be the last light of my eyes! Nor is the labor long, to know your father's home. Where he rises, the house borders on our lands: if your spirit can bear it, go, and ask him yourself!" At once, glad after such words of his mother, Phaethon leapt out, and conceived in his mind the heavens, and crossed his own Ethiopians, and the Indians placed beneath the fires, and came, eager, to the house of his father. ## Translation — Mouseia > Mouseia’s complete Plain English edition, made independently and directly from all 780 hexameter lines of Book I. ### Invocation My intention is to tell of bodies changed into different forms. You gods, who made those changes, favor my undertaking — and, from the very beginning of the world, carry my story down in one unbroken line to my own time. ### Chaos and the Creation Before there was any sea or land, before the sky that covers everything, the face of nature was the same all over the world: people called it Chaos — a shapeless, jumbled pile, nothing but dead weight, with the warring seeds of badly matched things crowded together in one body. No Titan yet gave light to the world. The moon did not yet renew her crescent horns. The earth did not hang balanced in the air around her, held by her own weight, and the sea had not stretched her arms along the far edges of the land. Where there was earth, there was also sea and air — but earth stood on nothing, the sea could not be sailed, and the air was dark. Nothing kept its own shape: everything got in everything else's way, because in one body cold fought heat, wet fought dry, soft fought hard, and weightless things fought things of weight. Then a god — a kinder nature — ended this conflict. He cut the land away from the sky, and the water from the land, and separated the clear heavens from the heavy air. When he had rolled them free of the blind heap, he bound the divided parts together in peaceful harmony. The fiery, weightless energy of the round heaven flashed upward and claimed its place on the height of the citadel; next came the air, lighter than fire in neither place nor weight; then, heavier than both, the earth drew down her great elements and was pressed fast by her own weight — and the water around her took the lowest place and enclosed the solid world. So when this god — whichever of the gods it was — had cut that heap into order and shaped it into one design, he first rolled the earth into the form of a great sphere, so that it would be the same on every side. Then he commanded the seas to spread and swell with rushing winds, throwing their shores around the girdled lands. He added springs and great standing pools and lakes, and fenced the rivers with sloping banks, so that in some places the waters are drunk up by the earth itself, and in others they reach the sea and, running into a freer plain, beat on shores instead of banks. He commanded the plains to spread out, the valleys to sink, the woods to put on leaf, and the stony mountains to rise. And just as the sky is cut into two zones on the right and two on the left, with a fifth hotter than all the rest, so the god's care marked off the enclosed weight of the earth by that same number: so many zones press upon it. The middle zone cannot be lived in for heat; deep snow covers the two extremes; and between each hot and cold pair he placed the temperate blend, where flame is mixed with frost. Over all these hangs the air, which weighs as much more than the earth as the earth weighs more than water. There he stationed the mists, there the clouds, there the thunders that shake the minds of men, and the winds that make lightning with their thunderbolts. But the world's maker did not let even the winds blow loose in any direction they pleased: even now they are held apart, each governing his gales in his own separate tract — or else they would tear the world to pieces, so great is the rivalry among brothers. Eurus went off to the dawn, to the Arabian lands, to Persia and the heights that lie beneath the morning light. The evening shore, and the coasts that grow warm in the setting sun, lie next to Zephyrus. Fierce Boreas rushed away to Scythia and the seven Bears; and the land opposite is soaked with constant cloud and rain by the south wind. Over all these he placed the clear, weightless sky, which has no taint of any earthly dross. Hardly had he marked off all things with fixed limits when the stars, so long buried in blind darkness, began to blaze through the whole of heaven. And so that no region might be without its own creatures, the stars took the ground of heaven, and the fish took the shining waters, the earth took the wild beasts, and the restless air the birds. But one thing was still wanting — a creature holier and higher, able to rule the rest. Man was born. Whether the maker of all things made him from divine seed — he, the origin of a better world — or whether the new earth, only just separated from the high heavens, still held seeds of her kindred sky, which Prometheus, the son of Iapetus, mixed with fresh rainwater and shaped into the likeness of the gods who rule all things — while every other animal bends its head and stares at the ground, he gave man a face that lifts him upward. He told him to stand erect and look up to heaven, and raised his countenance toward the stars. So the earth, so lately crude and formless, changed, and took on the unknown shapes of humankind. ### The Four Ages The golden age came first, the age that — with no one to compel it — kept the faith and did what was right of its own free will. There was no punishment to fear, no laws engraved on bronze plates, no crowd of suppliants frightened by the face of a judge: they lived safe, without any guard. The tall pine tree had not yet been felled on her mountains and sent down to visit the waves of a foreign world, and mortals knew no shores except their own. The steep towns were not yet ringed by deep moats. There were no straight trumpets, no horns of bent brass, no helmets, no swords. Without soldiers, the gentle nations lived in ease, and the earth herself, untouched, unwounded by any plough or harrow, gave everything freely. Content with food that came without asking, people gathered arbutus berries, wild strawberries, cornel cherries, blackberries hanging on the prickly bushes, and acorns fallen from the wide-spreading tree of Jove. It was spring forever; the soft west wind breathed on flowers that needed no planting, and the unploughed earth brought forth her grain, and the untilled field grew white with heavy ears. Rivers of milk and rivers of nectar flowed, and golden honey dripped from the green holm oak. After Saturn had been banished to the dark underworld, the world came under Jove, and the silver race arose — worse than gold, dearer than yellow bronze. Jupiter shortened the length of the old springtime, and divided the year into four seasons: winter, summer, a changeable autumn, and a brief spring. Then for the first time the air burned with parching heat, and ice hung frozen in the biting winds. Then people first built houses: before that, caves were their homes, and thick thickets, and huts woven from bark. Then for the first time the seeds of Ceres were buried in long furrows, and the young oxen groaned under the yoke. Third came the race of bronze, crueler in spirit, readier for savage war — but not yet wicked. Last of all came the hard age of iron. At once every kind of evil burst out into this age of baser metal: modesty, truth, and faith fled the earth, and in their place came trickery and fraud and violence and the wicked love of possessions. Men gave sails to winds they did not yet understand well, and keels that had once stood high on the mountaintops now danced over strange waves. The ground, which had been common to all like the sunlight and the air, was measured out and marked with long boundary lines by careful surveyors. People were not content to ask the rich earth only for crops and the food she owed them: they dug into her very body, and the riches she had hidden away, buried close beside the shades below, were dug out — and became temptations to evil. Iron came — and gold, deadlier than iron — and war was born, which fights with both, shaking its clashing arms in a bloodstained hand. People lived by plunder. A guest was not safe from his host, a father-in-law not safe from his son-in-law; kindness between brothers was rare. Husbands longed for their wives' deaths, wives for their husbands'. Terrible stepmothers mixed deadly poisons; sons asked about their fathers' years before their time. Piety lay vanquished, and virgin Astraea, last of the immortals, abandoned the blood-soaked earth. ### The Giants And so that the heavens might be no safer than the earth, they say the giants plotted to seize the kingdom of the sky, piling new mountains, range on range, up to the very stars. Then the almighty father hurled his thunderbolt and split Olympus open, and shook Pelion down from underneath Ossa. When the terrible bodies of the giants lay crushed beneath the mountains they had piled, they say the earth was soaked with their blood and warmed it into life, and — so that no trace of that race should be lost — gave it the face of man. But that new race too despised the gods, and thirsted cruelly for blood and violence. You could see they were born of blood. ### Lycaon and the Council of the Gods When the son of Saturn saw this from his high citadel, he groaned — and the deed, not yet made public, still fresh, the filthy banquet of a Lycaonian table filled him with rage worthy of Jove himself. He called a council, and no delay held back those he summoned. There is a highway, plainly visible in a clear sky: they call it the Milky Way, famous for its very whiteness. This is the road the gods take to the halls of the great Thunderer and his royal house. On the right and left, the courts of the noble gods stand open with their doors wide; the common gods live in other quarters. Here the powerful and famous dwellers in heaven have made their homes: this is the place which — if I may give my words such boldness — I would not fear to call the Palatine of high heaven. So when the gods had taken their seats in the marble hall, Jove himself, highest of all, leaned on his ivory scepter, and three times and four he shook his dreadful head, which shakes earth, sea, and stars together. Then he let his anger speak: "I was not more troubled for the rule of the world even in that season, when each of the hundred-handed serpents tried to throw his captive arms around the sky. Fierce as that enemy was, that war came from one body, one origin. Now, wherever the waters of Nereus sound around the world, the race of men must perish. I swear it by the rivers of hell, that slide beneath the earth through the Stygian grove! But they must all be tried first; only what no cure can mend must be cut away with the knife, so the healthy flesh is not dragged down. I have demigods of my own, and country spirits, nymphs, fauns, satyrs, and the silvani who live in the mountains: since we do not yet think them worthy of heaven, at least let them be allowed to live safely in the lands we gave them. Do you believe they can be safe, o gods, when Lycaon — known to me for his savagery — has laid snares for me, for me who hold the thunderbolt and who hold and rule you?" All of them roared their agreement, and with burning zeal called down punishment on the daring man. Just so, when an impious band raged to wipe out the Roman name in Caesar's blood, mankind was struck dumb with terror at so great a fall, and the whole world shuddered; nor was the loyalty of your own people less pleasing to you, Augustus, than theirs was to Jove. And when with voice and hand he had pressed down their murmur, all were silent. Then, as the uproar, quelled by the weight of the ruler, died away, Jove broke the silence a second time: "He has paid the penalty — set that care aside. But hear the deed, and what the punishment was. The infamy of the age had reached my ears. Wanting to disprove it, I slipped down from high Olympus and traveled over the earth as a man. It would take too long to count the evils found everywhere: the rumor was smaller than the truth. I had crossed Maenala, dense with the lairs of wild beasts, and the pine forests of Cyllene and cold Lycaeus, and from there entered the Arcadian home of the tyrant just as late dusk was bringing on the night. I let the signs of a god be seen; the common people began to pray. Lycaon laughed at their prayers, and said: 'I will find out by an open test whether this is a god or a mortal — the proof will not be long.' He planned to destroy me in the night, asleep, by an unexpected death: that was his test of the truth. And not content with that, with a knife he cut the throat of a hostage sent from the Molossian nation, and softened part of the still-living flesh in boiling water and roasted the rest on fires below. No sooner had he served it up on the table than I brought the roof down on the household gods with a bolt of vengeance — a god repaid as he deserved. Lycaon himself fled in terror, and reaching the silent fields, howled, and tried in vain to speak: his mouth filled with rabid rage, and true to his old love of slaughter, he turned against the flocks, and even now delights in blood. His clothing turns to shaggy hair, his arms to legs: he is a wolf, keeping the traces of his old shape — the same grey hair, the same violent face, the same gleaming eyes, the same picture of ferocity. One house has fallen — but only one house deserved to fall. Wherever the earth stretches, savage Fury holds its throne. You would think they had all sworn the same oath! Let them all, quickly, pay the penalties they have earned — such is my decree." Some approved the words of Jove and added fuel to his hot anger; others filled out the speech with signs of approval. But all of them grieved at the loss of humankind, and asked what the world would be like without mortals: who would carry incense to the altars? Or was Jove going to hand the lands over to be torn apart by wild beasts? As they asked these things — the rest, they said, was his own care — the king of the gods told them not to worry, and promised he would people the world with a race of wondrous origin, different from the first. And he was even now ready to scatter his thunderbolts over all the lands — but he was afraid the holy ether might catch fire from so many flames and the long axis of the sky blaze up. He remembered too that the fates had ordained a time when sea, land, and the palace of the sky, caught in the flames, would burn, and the whole mass of the world would labor, besieged. The weapons forged by the Cyclops' hands were put away. A different punishment pleased him: to destroy the human race beneath the waves, and let loose the rains from every quarter of the sky. ### The Flood At once he shut the north wind in the Aeolian caves, and every gale that scatters storm clouds, and set the south wind free. The south wind flew out on dripping wings, his terrible face wrapped in pitch-black fog. His beard hung heavy with storm; water streamed from his long hair; mist settled on his brow; his feathers and his robe dripped rain. He squeezed the hanging clouds with his broad hand, and with the crash the clouds burst and poured down their rain. Iris, the rainbow, dressed in her many colors, carried water up to feed the clouds. The standing crops were drowned, and the farmer's hopes, swallowed in the flood, lay betrayed: the long labor of the year grieved in vain. Nor could the anger of the sky be matched by Jove's own fury — his brother's sea came out to help. The rivers rushed down and flowed out across the open plains, sweeping away orchards and crops and cattle, men and houses, temples and shrines with all they held. If any house resisted and held against so great a flood, its rooftop buried the waves, and the highest towers sank beneath the tide. And now land and sea were no longer different: everything was sea — a sea without a shore. One man clung to a hilltop; another sat in his bent boat, rowing over his ploughed fields and his drowned vineyard; another fished from over his own rooftop, letting down his line. Where the tall elm had stood, an anchor hooked; keels plowed through the waving grain and swept over drowned meadows; and where goats had grazed a moment before, shapeless seals lay stretched out. The nereids marveled under the waves at groves and cities and the houses of men. Dolphins got into the woods and dashed their bodies against the high branches, knocking the trees as they beat the air. The wolf swims beside the lamb; the tigers ride the same flood; the wild boar's strength is useless; the stag's swift legs fail; the wandering bird, after long searching for land, falls into the sea, its wings worn out. The richness of the level lands lay under water; the waves swallowed the hills; and most of the men died where the sea caught them. Those it spared, slow famine overcame, for want of food. ### Deucalion and Pyrrha One man survived — Deucalion of Phocis — just, and a lover of what is right. He came to his father's temple, and Pyrrha came with him, his wife, dearest of all women to his heart. "What shall we do?" they said. "Where shall we hide, in so great a terror? Our hopes are small." And the great goddess pitied them and said: "Leave the temple. Veil your heads. Untie the belts of your robes, and throw the bones of your great mother behind your backs." They stood amazed, in silence; Pyrrha was the first to break it, and begged the goddess, with trembling lips, to forgive her — she was afraid to offend her shade by touching her bones. Meanwhile they turned the words over: the words were dark, the oracle obscure. Then Deucalion answered Pyrrha gently: "Either my judgment is wrong, or the oracles are holy, and no command tells us to offend our mother's bones. The earth is the great mother; I believe the stones in the body of the earth are what we are told to throw behind us." Pyrrha's heart was warmed by his reading, though the hope was faint. They did not yet believe — but what harm could it do? So they went out, veiled, their robes loosened, and threw the stones behind their steps, as they were told. And the stones — who would believe it, if ancient tradition did not tell it? — began to lose their hardness and their stony look, and after a while grew soft, and softer still, and their weight wore away. As they were carried along, the mass of them grew gentle, and took on shape: what looked like the form of man and woman was not yet clear — then each became flesh, and the stony parts turned to bone, and the veins kept the old name and shape of their stones. And in a moment, the stones the man had thrown took the forms of men, and the woman's stones were born again as women. From this comes the hardness of our race, and our endurance of labor, and the proof in us that we descend from stone. And when the giver of all things saw that the earth was green again and the world stood out above the deep, he called the winds and told them to leave the lands and let the clouds go and show the sky. The ground, still wet with the scattered rain, shone in the sun, the heavens grew bright, and out of the sodden earth came the grasses; in a moment the branches put on fresh leaves, and the standing forest was green over all the world. Then the wild beasts returned to their homes and the open fields, and suddenly the earth was filled with every kind of wandering creature. Here Deucalion — for everything else was sea — landed with the partner of his bed in a small boat, and worshipped the Corycian nymphs and the mountain gods, and Themis of the oracles, who then kept faith: no man was better than he, none loved what was right more, none feared the gods as she did. When Jove saw the world was one still lake, and that from many thousands one man was left, and one woman from those thousands, both innocent, both worshippers of god, he scattered the clouds, and, the north wind driving off the rains, showed the earth to heaven and heaven to the earth. The anger of the sea was over. The ruler of the deep laid down his three-pronged spear, smoothed the waters, and called the blue Triton, rising from the deep, his shoulders covered with his native shells, and told him to sound his echoing conch and give the sign to call back flood and river. Triton took the hollow shell that spirals wide and wide from its lowest coil, and blew: the seas and all the rivers heard and heard the sign, and ran away. The sea found shores again; the swollen rivers ran within their banks; the earth appeared, the ground soft like fresh mud, holding the water in its widening cracks; and after a little while the trees came back, and put fresh green leaves over all the world. ### The Python Then Python, the serpent of the open vale, unknown to the new peoples, filled them with terror — so vast a stretch of mountain ground he held. The archer god, who had never before used his deadly arms except on fleeing does and roes, destroyed him with a thousand shafts, his quiver almost emptied, pouring black poison through his wounds. And so that the fame of the deed might not be lost with time, he founded sacred games in solemn contest, called Pythian, from the name of the serpent he had slain. There, whoever won with hand, or foot, or wheel, received the honor of the oak's green leaves. There was no laurel yet, and Phoebus girded his brows, fair in their long hair, with any bough he pleased. ### Apollo and Daphne His first love was Daphne, daughter of Peneus — not given by blind chance, but by the cruel anger of Cupid. The Delian god, still proud from his conquest of the serpent, had seen the boy bending his bow with a tightened cord, and said: "What business has a wanton boy with warlike arms? Arms like these befit my shoulders — shoulders sure of aim, that never miss wild beasts, never miss the enemy — I who just now destroyed the swollen Python with countless arrows, covering acres of ground. Be content to kindle whatever hidden fires your little torch holds, and leave glory to me." The son of Venus answered: "May your bow strike everything, Phoebus — but my bow shall strike you. And as much as all living things fall short of gods, by that much is my glory greater." He spoke, and flicking his wings through the parted air, a stubborn archer, he came to the shaded height of Parnassus, and took from his quiver two arrows of opposite work: one drives love away, one kindles it. The one that kindles is of gleaming gold, sharp-pointed, finely polished; the other is blunt, with lead beneath its reed. With that one he struck the daughter of Peneus; with this he pierced Apollo to the marrow of the bone. At once the one loves and longs to be united; the other flees the very name of lover, rejoicing in the depths of shaded woods, in the spoils of wild beasts — a second Diana, a fillet binding her barely-lying hair. Many wished her; she wished no suitor, unmoved, knowing no man, wandering the pathless thickets, caring nothing for Hymen or what love means. Often her father would say: "You owe me a son-in-law, my child." Often her father: "You owe me grandchildren, my daughter." She, hating the wedding torch like a crime, would hang her fair head on her father's neck, and beg him with one word: "Let me be a maiden forever — Diana's father, grant me this." Yet her beauty forbade what she desired: her body glowed with a loveliness that could not hide. She was seen, and loved, and seized upon by him who loved; and he follows her flight with hope — and his hope flies faster than his words. The lover is lover and pursuer. As when a Gallic hound has seen a hare on the open plain and runs with flying feet toward his promised prey, while the hare flees — he is close upon her, he thinks he has her, his muzzle is almost in her flanks — while she wonders whether she is caught, and twists away from his snapping jaws, and is behind him still; because the others stand around her, cheering, barking out their hopes, and she flees through the very middle of the teeth. So the god and the girl: his speed is hope, hers is fear. But he who follows, carried on the wings of love, gives her no rest — presses her flight, ever closer, his breath hot on her scattered hair. Her strength is gone; pale, drained by the effort of the wild flight, she sees the waters of her father Peneus, and cries: "Help me, father! If your waters hold divinity, destroy this beauty by which I have pleased too well." Her prayer was hardly finished when a heavy numbness seized her limbs: her soft breasts were girded with thin bark, her hair grew into leaves, her arms into branches; her feet, so swift a moment ago, held fast in sluggish roots; her face became the tree's top. Only her shining grace remained. And Phoebus loved her still. He laid his hand upon the trunk and felt her bosom trembling still in the bark, beneath the new wood; he embraced the branches as if they were limbs, and kissed the wood — and the wood shrank from his kisses. And the god said: "But since you cannot be my bride, you shall at least be my tree. My hair, my lyre, my quiver will always hold you, laurel. You will attend the Roman leaders, when the joyful voice sings triumph, and the Capitol watches the long processions. You will stand the surest guardian at Augustus' gates, before his doors, keeping watch over the oak between. And as my head is ever-young with unshorn hair, so wear, forever, the fresh honor of your leaves." Paean had finished: the laurel nodded her new-made branches, and seemed to shake her treetop like a head. ### Io There is a grove in Thessaly, ringed on every side by a wall of hanging cliff: they call it Tempe. Through it the river Peneus, pouring down from the foot of Pindus, rolls in foaming waves, and with its heavy fall sweeps up thin wisps of cloud, gathers them onto the tops of the woods, sprinkles them with spray, and wearies with its roar the country round about. This is the house, the home, the inner shrine of the great river; and seated in a cavern carved from the rock, he gave laws to the waters and the nymphs that lived among them. First came the neighboring rivers — not knowing whether to congratulate or console their parent — the poplar-bearing Sperchios, the restless Enipeus, the old Apidanus, the gentle Amphrysos, and Aeas; and soon the other rivers, which, wherever their current carried them, lead their weary waters wandering down to the sea. Inachus alone is absent, hidden in a deep cave, swelling its waters with his tears, weeping, most wretched, for his daughter Io — unable to know whether she lived, or whether she was among the shades; and not finding her anywhere, believing her nowhere — fearing worse than the worst. For Jupiter had seen her returning from her father's stream, and said: "Maiden, worthy of Jove himself, and not of any mortal husband — come to the shady woods, where the great heat of noon is softened, and while the sun is at his fiercest, hide in the deepest shade of the woods." She had fled — leaving behind the pastures of Lerna and the fields of Lycae, rich in flocks — driven before him like a wild beast; and he drew around her the wide boundaries of a far-stretched mist, stopped her flight, and forced her. Meanwhile Juno looked down into the heart of the clear heavens, and marveled that the drifting mists had made such darkness where the air shone bright. She knew it was no marsh breathing up the clouds, nor the earth itself; she looked around — she knew so well the adulteries of a husband so often caught. She swept down from heaven and stood upon the earth, and bade the clouds depart. Jupiter had foreseen her coming, and changed the face of his rival into a sleek white heifer. Even as a heifer she was beautiful. The daughter of Saturn looked at her, unwillingly, and said: "Whose is this lovely creature?" — as though she did not know — and asked from what herd, from where. Jove, so it would not seem a lie, answered that she was born of the earth. Then Saturn's daughter begged her as a gift. What could her rival do? Cruel to give his own love away, suspicious to refuse; shame persuaded him, and the brother and husband of the same woman handed over the heifer. The daughter of Saturn did not stop caring at once — fearing Jove, and dreading some sweet trick — and gave her to Argus, son of Aristor, to be kept away. His head was ringed with a hundred shining eyes, and two at a time took their turns at sleep while the rest kept watch on every side and stayed at their posts however far away. Some of them stood open, wherever he might look. He watched Io: and now, though he had her taken away from Jupiter, he would still often lead her to new pastures, drive her away, and change her place. The king of the gods could no longer bear his pain. He called his son, whom the bright Pleiades, daughter of Atlas, bore, and bade him do away with Argus. Mercury took his sleep-bringing wand and his winged sandals, shook them from his heels, brushed his hair, set his cap upon it, and leapt from his father's citadel to the earth. There he took off his cap and wings; only the wand he kept. With it, as a shepherd drives his goats along the winding pathless way, he played on pipes he had joined together, playing songs. Argus, charmed by the new sound and by the pipes themselves, said: "Whoever you are, sit beside me on this stone. No grass is wanting to your flock, and there is shade enough here for the shepherd." The son of Atlas sat down, and while the day went by he wore away the waiting hours with talk, and took up his joined reed-pipes, and tried to close the watching eyes with his soft piping. Argus fought with sleep, and, though sleep took some of his eyes, asked again and again who had first made the pipes — for he had not yet heard of them. And the god said: "In the cold mountains of Arcadia, among the nymphs of Nonacris, there was a famous maiden: Syrene was her name among the people. She refused every suitor, and would not listen to any man, god or mortal, but wandered the pathless woods, a maiden devoted to her virgin goddess. They say the god, girt with his wealth of gold, the god of the bent bow, saw her, and said many things, and tried to soften her with hope, with promises, with lies. All this she despised; and she came to no man's arms, until her goddess Diana, girt in her own robes, came down over the ridges of Laconia, from Erymanthus, and saw her, and called her — a friend of her choruses. The maiden thought her robes would be lighter than her own, and compared her goddess with herself, and said: 'Come with me to the mountain tops, my companions, where the hunted deer turns from the hounds, to these shady glades.' Diana consented. They came to a great grove; and there was a spring, with silver ripples in its narrow bed, and grass around its edges. Diana, praised by all, went down to the water; and when she had stripped her robes, she called her companions, and they stood naked, their bodies bare. Only in Syrene's body was shame missing. She tried to hide herself by flight, and fled to the pool of the standing water; and as she fled, she saw the horns of the rising goddess on her own head, and her wide eyes, and her gaping mouth, and her long hanging neck, and her ears rough with hard new horns. Her own hands, as they fled, began to turn into forelegs, and she felt her legs join close in one mass, and the swift wind of her flight was only a breath. Her other beauty sank below her horns. And as she looked at herself, she tried to beat her arms — but her arms had no sound, they only tried to sound. As often as she tried to speak, her fear cut off her words, and only lowing came out of her trembling lips, a sound unknown to her. She looked at her own horns as at a horror, and turned away her ears pinned back by her own hard horns. She could not run away — the whole of her was now a body; and yet her mind remained, and she was often stretched upon the cold ground in her own shade, and let her eyes fall into the water, and looked at her own horns; and, turning from them, dreaded her own face. The satyrs, whom the country held, did not know who she was, and often drove her away with shouts; the hideous Faunus did not know her, and hunted her. But you, Inachus, did not know your daughter, and she followed you, rejoicing to be followed, and stretched out her neck for you to take the flowers and leaves from your own hands. When you gave them, she licked your palms, and kissed your hands, and could not hold back her tears; and if only words had followed, she would have asked her name, and begged for help: but she breathed out, in place of words, her moan, and stamped the ground with her hoof, and turned away. Then Argus dragged her away — the great watcher — and led her far from her own father to other pastures; and, far away, sat down upon the ridge, and turned his watchful eyes on every side. Jove could not bear the sorrows of Io longer. He called his son, whom the shining Pleiades, daughter of Atlas, bore, and showed him the watcher with his sleepless eyes, and bade him do away with him. Mercury took his sleep-bringing wand and his winged sandals, shook them from his heels, brushed his hair, set his cap upon it, and leapt down from his father's citadel to earth. There he took off his cap and his wings; only the wand he kept. With it, as a shepherd drives his goats along the winding pathless way, he played on pipes he had joined together. Argus, charmed by the new sound and by the pipes themselves, said: "Whoever you are, sit by me on this stone; there is no better grass for your flock, and shade enough here for the shepherd." The son of Atlas sat, and wore away the day with talk, and piped, trying to close the watching eyes. Argus fought sleep, and though sleep took some of his eyes, still asked who had first made those pipes. And the god told him the story of the pipe, newly invented. As he told it, he watched, and saw Argus's eyes giving way, all of them, to sleep: he stopped, raised his voice, fixed the wand on the nodding head, and struck it as it fell. The hundred eyes, all overcome by the night, were darkened, and he struck the neck again, and laid it open, and rolled the body down the rocks, and stained the jagged cliff with blood. You fell, Argus: all the light of your many eyes was darkened, and you slept the one eternal sleep. But Saturn's daughter took the eyes, and set them in the feathers of her own bird, and filled his tail with stars of fire. At once her anger blazed: she threw a terrible fury before the eyes and heart of the heifer — the Erinys, made from the stakes of her own torch. Driven by fear and by the goad, Io wandered through the whole world — you, Nile, were the last end of her wandering. And when she had come there, and put her head, wearied out, upon the bank, lying on her knees, and turned her neck back to the stars, she groaned, and sent up her moans to heaven, and sounds of complaint; and, as far as her wretchedness could, she pleaded for help with her own kind of moaning. Jupiter put his arms around his rival's neck, and said: "Put away these fears forever; she shall be no heifer." He told Juno of Itone, and swore by the hateful streams of Styx — the greatest bond of the gods — and hardly had he finished, when the rough hair fell from the heifer's body, and her horns were drawn in, and her great eyes grew small again, her gaping mouth grew small, her arms and hands came back, and her hooves changed to nails; and every shape of the heifer passed away, except the beautiful whiteness of her body. And the daughter of Inachus, content to walk on her own two feet, and fearing to speak like a woman again, would, if anyone said "Io," forget her fear, and answer him. She became a goddess, worshipped by the crowds in linen robes. ### The Sons Taunted The god could not bear the sorrows of Io longer, and called his son, whom the shining Pleiades, daughter of Atlas, bore, and bade him do away with Argus. He took his sleep-bringing wand and his winged sandals, shook them from his heels, brushed his hair, set his cap upon it, and leapt down from his father's citadel to earth. There he took off his cap and his wings; only the wand he kept. With it, as a shepherd drives his goats along the winding pathless way, he played on pipes he had joined together. Argus, charmed by the new sound and by the pipes themselves, said: "Whoever you are, sit by me on this stone; there is no better grass for your flock, and shade enough here for the shepherd." The son of Atlas sat, and wore away the day with talk, and piped, trying to close the watching eyes. Argus fought sleep, and though sleep took some of his eyes, still asked who had first made those pipes. And the god told him the story of the pipe, newly invented. As he told it, he watched, and saw Argus's eyes giving way, all of them, to sleep: he stopped, raised his voice, fixed the wand on the nodding head, and struck it as it fell. The hundred eyes, all overcome by the night, were darkened, and he struck the neck again, and laid it open, and rolled the body down the rocks, and stained the jagged cliff with blood. You fell, Argus: all the light of your many eyes was darkened, and you slept the one eternal sleep. But Saturn's daughter took the eyes, and set them in the feathers of her own bird, and filled his tail with stars of fire. At once her anger blazed: she threw a terrible fury before the eyes and heart of the heifer — the Erinys, made from the stakes of her own torch. Driven by fear and by the goad, Io wandered through the whole world — you, Nile, were the last end of her wandering. And when she had come there, and put her head, wearied out, upon the bank, lying on her knees, and turned her neck back to the stars, she groaned, and sent up her moans to heaven, and sounds of complaint; and, as far as her wretchedness could, she pleaded for help with her own kind of moaning. Jupiter put his arms around his rival's neck, and said: "Put away these fears forever; she shall be no heifer." He told Juno of Itone, and swore by the hateful streams of Styx — the greatest bond of the gods — and hardly had he finished, when the rough hair fell from the heifer's body, and her horns were drawn in, and her great eyes grew small again, her gaping mouth grew small, her arms and hands came back, and her hooves changed to nails; and every shape of the heifer passed away, except the beautiful whiteness of her body. And the daughter of Inachus, content to walk on her own two feet, and fearing to speak like a woman again, would, if anyone said "Io," forget her fear, and answer him. She became a goddess, worshipped by the crowds in linen robes. Her son, Epaphus, born at last of Jupiter's great seed, was believed to be his son, and held temples joined to his mother's name through all the cities. He had a friend, equal to him in years and spirit: Phaethon, child of the Sun. Once, when Io's son was boasting of his father, and would not yield to Phoebus in his pride, Phaethon could not endure it, and said, mad with pride: "Does your mother believe everything you tell her — you, swelling with the false image of your father?" Io's son blushed, and hid the anger of his shame under fear, and carried the taunts of Epaphus to his mother Clymene. "The more it grieves you, mother," he said, "that I was silent — I, your child, I, the proud one! — it is a shame to me that such a reproach could be spoken, and could not be answered. But if I am born of you — if I am truly of your blood — then give me some proof of my great birth, and give the right of that name to me who ask it." And he threw his arms around his mother's neck, and begged her, by his own life and hers, and by the marriage bed of the Sun, to prove his birth to him. And Clymene, whether she was moved by Phaethon's prayers, or by anger, or both, called on the Sun by his great name to be her witness: "By that light," she said, "that hears and sees us both, that light you see, and that which rules the world — my son, the god of the bright fire is your father. If I lie, let him refuse to look on me again, and let this be the last light of my eyes. It is no labor to see your father's halls yourself: the house where he rises stands beside our lands." And she embraced her weeping son, and kissed him, and bade him cross the lands of the Ethiopians, where the sun's horses are nearest to their rising.