CYNTHIA

Cynthia is in her boudoir, seated, in front of a mirror.  Her room is sophisticated in its appointments.  Her handmaiden is behind her, combing her hair and listening to her tale.

Lucky me! radiant night! and you

couch made fertile by my pleasures!

As many words as we shared while the lamps were on --

once light was removed, that many bouts ensued!

First I wrestle him with naked breasts,

then my concealing tunic brings delay.

I push open his lids, as they slip into sleep,

and say, with my expression, “So, you lie there spent?”

With such varied embrace we exchange positions!

So many of his kisses linger on my lips!

“But if you,” he says, “intend to go to bed and keep your clothes on,

you'll feel my hands ripping your clothing:

in fact, if excessive rage provokes me,

you'll be showing your mom your battered arms.”

Drooping boobs don't yet preclude my play:

let her worry who knows the shame of having given birth.

While the fates permit us, let us sate our eyes on sex:

a long night is coming for us, daylight never to return.

If only he’d agree that we be bound like this in mid-embrace

by a chain no day would ever loosen!

He is mistaken, who seeks a limit for love’s madness:

true lust is incapable of moderation.

Propertius enters Cynthia’s bedroom, slowly approaches.  She does not yet notice his presence, even as she addresses him.

But you, while there's light, don't neglect the fruit of life!

If you give all your kisses, you give few.

And just as leaves fall from dried-up garlands,

and you see them floating, strewn over the wine bowls,

it’s the same for us, lovers who now breathe vigorously:

perhaps tomorrow shuts in our fate.