[17] Kingston, Ontario

SVULPICIA MODERNE I

Sulpicia is the only Roman poet that we know of, and her poems only survive because they were preserved Tibullus. In fact, up until recently, people thought that her poems were written instead by Tibullus. Like Ovid, Propertius and Catullus, her poems address an elegaic lover (Ovid = Clodia, Propertius ="Singular" Cynthia, Catullus = Lesbia) Cerinithus, although that probably wasn't his real name. Lovers in in Roman Elegaic poetry traditionally have pseudonyms as a part of the persona created by the poet.

Sulpicia was surrounded by the literary world. Her uncle was Valerius Messalla Corvinus, who was a great statesman and the patron of an esteemed literary circle.

Last year I translated her poems for a latin reading course I was taking, and essentially forgot about them until my recent birthday. I started to think about what she was saying, and happened to agree. To me, her voice is nostalgic, mournful, and filled with a gloomy longing for love, not unlike my own on occasion.

I submit here for your reading pleasure the latin and my own translation of Sulpicia's first poem (more to follow, hopefully) to accompany my self-portrait study of a modern Sulpicia.

SVLPICIAE EPISTVLAE

I.

Tandem venit amor, qualem texisse pudori
quam nudasse alicui sit mihi fama magis.
Exorata meis illum Cytherea Camenis
adtulit in nostrum deposuitque sinum.
Exsolvit promissa Venus: mea gaudia narret,
dicetur siquis non habuisse sua.
Non ego signatis quicquam mandare tabellis
ne legat id nemo quam meus ante, velim,
sed peccasse iuvat, vultus conponere famae
taedet: cum digno digna fuisse ferar.

SULPICIA'S LETTERS

I.

My love is come at last, greater my shame for hiding
than revealing myself to anyone for fame
Pleading my case to Love in Verse
she brought him to me, laid him in my lap.
Venus kept her promise: let her be the author of my happiness
In case any woman does not share in it.
I would not want to entrust anything to sealed letters,
so that no one can unfurl me before him,
except that it's fun to be indiscreet; I'm so tired of
matching my face to my fame: I hope they
think I am a lover worthy of a love.