Propertius 4.11

Paullus, no longer burden my grave with tears:

   black gate opens to no prayer.

When once the dead obey the laws of infernal places,

   gate remains like adamant, unmoved by plea.

Though the god of dark courts may hear your request,

   surely shores of deafness will drink your tears.

Entreaty moves the living: when ferryman has received his coin,

   ghastly doorway closes on a world of shadows.

Mournful trumpets sang, when the unkindly torch was placed

   below my bier, and flames dragged down my head.                10

What use was my marriage to Paullus, or triumphal chariot

   of my ancestors, or such dear children, my glory?

Cornelia found Fates no less cruel: and I am now

   such a burden as five fingers might gather.

Wretched night, and you, shallow sluggish marshes,

   and whatever waters surround my feet,

I come here before my time, yet I am not guilty:

   Father grant sweet judgement to my soul.

Or if some Aeacus sits as judge, by his urn,

   let him protect my bones when the lot is drawn.                                  20

Let two brothers sit by him, and near to Minos’s seat,

   let stern band of Furies stand, in  hushed court.

Sisyphus, be free of your rock: Ixion’s wheel be still:

   deceptive water let Tantalus’s mouth trap you:

today let cruel Cerberus not attack the shades,

   and let his chain hang slack from silent bar.

I plead for myself: if I lie, may sisters’ punishment,

   unhappy urn, weigh down my shoulders.

If fame ever accrued to anyone from ancestral trophies,

   our statues tell of Numantian ancestry,                                                30

equalled by crowds of Libones on my mother’s side,

   and our house is strong in honour on both counts.

Then, when purple hemmed dress was laid aside for the marriage torches,

   and different ribbon caught and tied my hair,

I was united to your bed, Paullus, only to leave it so:

   read it on this stone, she was wedded to one alone.

I call as witness ashes of my forebears, revered by you, Rome,

   beneath whose honours trampled Africa lies,

and Perses, his heart stirred by having Achilles for ancestor,

   and Hercules, that shattered your house Avernus:                               40

and that the censor’s law was never softened for me:

   and that my hearth never blushed for any sin of mine.

Cornelia never harmed such magnificent war-trophies:

   she was more a pattern to be followed in that great house.

My life never altered: wholly without reproach:

   we lived in honour from wedding to funeral torch.

My birth gave me laws to follow from my blood,

   nor could I be rendered more in fear of judgement.

Let urn deal out whatever harsh measures to me,

   no woman shall be ashamed to sit by me:                                            50

not you, Claudia, rare servant of turret-crowned Goddess,

   who hauled on cable of Cybele’s laggard image,

or you Aemilia, whose white robe revealed living flame,

   when Vesta asked for signs of fire you swore to cherish.

Nor have I wronged you, Scribonia, mother, my sweet origin:

   what do you wish to change in me, except my fate?

My mother’s tears and city’s grief exalt me,

   and my bones are protected by Caesar’s moans.

He laments that living I was worthy sister to his daughter,

   and we saw god’s tears fall.                                                   60

Moreover I earned the robe of honour through child-bearing:

   it was not a childless house that I was snatched away from.

You Lepidus and Paullus, are my comfort in death:

   my eyes closed in your embrace.

And I saw my brother twice installed in the magistrate’s chair:

   at the time of celebration of his consulship his sister was taken. 

Daughter, you who are born to be a mirror of your father’s judgements,

   imitating me, make sure you have only one husband.

And strengthen the race in turn: willingly I cross on ferry

   with so many of my own as my champions:                             70

this is the final reward,  woman’s triumph,

   that free tongues should praise her deserving ashes.

 Now I commend our children to you, Paullus, our mutual pledges:

   this anxiety still stirs, stamped in my ashes.

The father must perform the mother’s duties:

   your shoulders must bear all my crowd of children.

When you kiss their tears away, do so for their mother:

   now whole household begins to be your burden.

And if you must weep, do it without their seeing!

   When they come to you, deceive their kisses with dry cheeks!            80

Let those nights be enough, Paullus, that you wear away for me,

   and dreams where you often think it is my image:

and when you speak secretly to my phantom,

   speak every word as though to one who answers.

But if bed that faces doorway should be altered,

   and careful stepmother occupy my place,

boys, praise and accept your father’s wife:

   captivated, she will applaud your good manners.

Don’t praise your mother too much: thoughtless speech that compares

   her with the first wife will become offences against her.                       90

Or if he remembers me, content that my shade suffices,

   and considers my ashes so worthy,

learn now to feel how old age advances,

   and leave no path open for widower’s cares.

What was taken from me let increase your years:

   so my children may delight aged Paullus.

And it is good: that I never dressed in mother’s mourning:

   all my flock came to my funeral.

My defence is complete. Rise, witnesses, who mourn me,

   while kindly Earth repays reward for my life.                           100

Heaven also is open to virtue: let me be worthy of honour,

   whose ashes are carried to lie among distinguished ancestors.