Epistulae

Oh that you had then visited our coasts in a nimble bark, when a thousand rivals solicited my virgin love! Had you appeared, you would have triumphed over the thousand; nor could my husband have justly blamed my choice. Now, alas! you come too late, to joys that are the right of another; and your slow hope invades a plighted love. But although it would have been

more to my wish, to live with you, yet does not Menelaus possess me against my will. Cease then, for heaven's sake, to urge a too sensible heart; nor strive to injure one whom you profess to love. Suffer me to live contented with the lot which fortune has given me, nor aim at the ruin of my unspotted fame. But Venus, you say, promised this reward; and three goddesses offered themselves naked to your judgment in the vales of towering Ida. One offered you a kingdom, another the glory of successful war; and the third promised to make you husband to a daughter of Tyndareus: but I can scarcely believe that heavenly Nymphs would have submitted to your decision in the case of beauty. And were this even true, yet the other part is undoubtedly feigned, where you pretend that I was offered to bribe your judgment. I am not yet so vain of my own charms, as to fancy myself the greatest reward, even in the opinion of the Goddess. I am fully contented with my share of human praise; the applause of Venus can only produce envy. But I deny nothing; these flatteries are also grateful; for why should I reject what I so fondly wish? Nor be you too much displeased, that I am rather incredulous; for things of moment are not credited with ease. My chief joy is to have the applause of Venus; and my next, that I was esteemed the greatest reward by you; that neither the honors offered by Pallas, nor those of Juno, were preferred to the famed beauty of Helen. You therefore chose me in place of valor, in place of a noble kingdom; it would be inhuman, not to receive a heart so wholly mine. But trust me, I am far from

being inhuman; and only struggle against loving a man, whom I scarcely can hope ever to possess.

Why do I vainly strive to tear up the thirsty sand with a bending plough, and cherish a hope which every thing conspires to deteat? I am a stranger to the artifices of love; witness beaven, that I never yet by any decent abused my faithful husband. And now that I privately commit my thoughts to writing, my hand engages in a new and unusual task. Happy are they whom practice hath rendered expert; I, un-killed in intrigue, imagine the way to vice hedged round with thorns. This fear perpetually haunts me; even now I am covered with blushes, and imagine the eyes of all fixed upon me. Nor is this apprehension wholly groundless; for already the rumor spreads among the crowd: and Æthra accidentally overheard some whispers. It is fit you dissemble

all, unless you think it better to desist; but why desist? you who can to well dissemble. Love still, but secretly: the absence of Menelaus gives more freedom, but does not allow of all. He is gone upon a long journey, called by urgent affairs; a great and weighty concern occasioned his sudden departure: at least so it appeared to me. I, seeing him unresolved what to do, said, Go and return with all possible dispatch.

He, pleased with the omen, fondly kissed me: To your care, says he, I recommend my palace, my kingdom, and the Trojan guest. Scarcely could I refrain from laughter; and, while I strove to stifle it, I would only answer, It shall be so. He, it is true, spread his sails for Crete with a favorable wind; yet do not, from this, fancy yourself wholly secure. My husband, though absent, has still watchful eyes over me. Are you unacquainted with the proverb, that princes have long hands? My fame too is a great obstacle; for the more lavish you are in my praise, the more reasonable ground has he for suspicion. That glory, once so grateful, is now my bane; far better it had been to be less known to fame. Nor wonder at his absence, or that I am here left with you: he trusted to my virtue and unspotted life. My beauty and shape implied danger; but my probity and fame made him secure. You desire me not to lose so fair a season, or neglect the opportunity given by the simple good-natured man. I am willing, but afraid; my resolution is still unfixed, and my breast glows with all the anguish of