ONT Re: Excisions, Excuses, Exercises, Exergues, Exorabilities, Exordia

[Jon Awbrey <jawbrey@oakland.edu>]

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| Carmina qui quondam studio florente peregi,
|   Flebilis heu maestos cogor inire modos.
| Ecce mihi lacerae dictant scribenda camenae
|   Et veris elegi fletibus ora rigant.
| Has saltem nullus potuit pervincere terror,
|   Ne nostrum comites prosequerentur iter.
| Gloria felicis olim viridisque iuventae
|   Solantur maesti nunc mea fata senis.
| Venit enim properata malis inopina senectus
|   Et dolor aetatem iussit inesse suam.
| Intempestivi funduntur vertice cani
|   Et tremit effeto corpore laxa cutis.
| Mors hominum felix quae se nec dulcibus annis
|   Inserit et maestis saepe vocata venit.
| Eheu quam surda miseros avertitur aure
|   Et flentes oculos claudere saeva negat.
| Dum levibus male fida bonis fortuna faveret,
|   Paene caput tristis merserat hora meum.
| Nunc quia fallacem mutavit nubila vultum,
|   Protrahit ingratas impia vita moras.
| Quid me felicem totiens iactastis amici?
|   Qui cecidit, stabili non erat ille gradu.
|
| Verses I made once glowing with content;
| Tearful, alas, sad songs must I begin.
| See how the Muses grieftorn bid me write,
| And with unfeigned tears these elegies drench my face.
| But them at least my fear that my friends might tread my path
| Companions still
| Could not keep me silent:  they were once
| My green youth's glory;  now in my sad old age
| They comfort me.
| For age has come unlooked for, hastened by ills,
| And anguish sternly adds its years to mine;
| My head is white before its time, my skin hangs loose
| About my tremulous frame:  I am worn out.
| Death, if he come
| Not in the years of sweetness
| But often called to those who want to end their misery
| Is welcome.  My cries he does not hear;
| Cruel he will not close my weeping eyes.
| While fortune favoured me --
| How wrong to count on swiftly-fading joys --
| Such an hour of bitterness might have bowed my head.
| Now that her clouded, cheating face is changed
| My cursed life drags on its long, unwanted days.
| Ah why, my friends,
| Why did you boast so often of my happiness?
| How faltering even then the step
| Of one now fallen.
|
| Boethius (Anicius Manlius Severinus Boetius, c.480-524 A.D.),
|'The Consolation of Philosophy', Translation by S.J. Tester,
| New Edition, Loeb Classical Library, Harvard/Heinemann, 1973.

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