cur ventos non ipse rogis, ingrate, petisti? cur nardo flammae non oluere meae? hoc etiam grave erat, nulla mercede hyacinthos inicere et fracto busta piare cado? Lygdamus uratur, candescat lamina vernae: sensi ego, cum insidiis pallida vina bibi.
Why, ungrateful man, did you not call the winds to fan my pyre? Why was my funeral fire not perfumed with spice? Was it then too much to cast hyacinths upon me, no costly gift, and to hallow my grave with wine from a shattered jar? Let Lygdamus be tortured, let the branding-iron glow white for that slave: I knew it was his doing, when I drank the wine that foully struck me pale.
final_alignments\Propertius_Elegies_Book4.json