Fun

One of my students asked me yesterday if the Romans had a word for fun. I didn't know. I still don't. The concept of fun is a... well, a funny one I suppose. Easy to recognise, but hard to define. Romans played and laughed and enjoyed themselves just like humans throughout history, I assume, but did they have a specific word for fun? I suspect that someone like Cicero would have been a bit scornful of the notion of fun (virtue is much more important), while for an Epicurean such as Lucretius pleasure had a much more nuanced meaning than simply fun. No doubt Catullus or Ovid appreciated the concept, but what words did they use to express it? How would you say 'This is fun!' or 'I am having fun!' in Latin?

lente currite, noctis equi

[previous post]

Iam super oceanum venit a seniore marito
flava pruinoso quae vehit axe diem.
'Quo properas, Aurora? ...
nunc iuvat in teneris dominae iacuisse lacertis;
si quando, lateri nunc bene iuncta meo est.
nunc etiam somni pingues et frigidus aer,
et liquidum tenui gutture cantat avis.
quo properas, ingrata viris, ingrata puellis?
roscida purpurea supprime lora manu!

Now she rises over the ocean, come from her aged husband,
the golden girl, who brings day to the frozen sky.
‘Why hurry, Aurora?...
Now I delight to lie in my girl’s soft arms:
now she’s so sweetly joined to my side.
now sleep’s still easy, and the air is cool,
and the birds sing in full flow from a clear throat.
Why hurry, unwelcome to men, unwelcome to girls?
Restrain those dewy reins with rosy fingers!

(Ovid, Amores I.13)

[The cartoon is from here]

Doctor Faustus

I enjoyed going to the theatre last week to see Faustus. The production was (as far as I could work out) a bit of blend of Goethe's version (which I studied at uni) with Marlowe's version (with which I was completely unfamiliar), and a few other things thrown in for good measure.

Anyway, not knowing the Marlowe version I was pleasantly surprised when it started thusly:

Not marching in the fields of Thrasymene,
Where Mars did mate the warlike Carthagens;
Nor sporting in the dalliance of love,
In courts of kings where state is overturn'd;
Nor in the pomp of proud audacious deeds,
Intends our Muse to vaunt her heavenly verse:
Only this, gentles,--we must now perform
The form of Faustus' fortunes, good or bad:

Thrasymene refers to the Battle of Trasimene where Hannibal and the Carthaginians (Carthagens) destroyed the Roman army in one of the opening encounters of the Second Punic War.

Tiresias

Here's another passage from Eucalyptus, which reminded me of a story from Ovid's Metamorphoses.

So there he is in Bathurst, our traveller from Britain.

It is at Bathurst, or rather on the outskirts, that the story develops a sudden twist. On the second day he was wandering along the river when he came across two brown snakes - ne shedding its skin. He killed the wrong one, and was turned into a woman. That's apparently what happened.

When last heard of he was living in Seattle - or was it San Francisco? - as a woman.

Eucalyptus

I recently finished reading Eucalyptus, by Murray Bail. It's quite a slow-moving story, but I found it very captivating. On the surface the book is about a father who decides that the man who correctly names every eucalypt on his property will win the hand of his daughter, but it turns into a series of loosely connected stories suggested by the scientific  (i.e. Latin or Greek) names of the various eucalypts.

It reminded me a lot of Ovid's Metamorphoses, which likewise is a loosely connected series of myths, and at some points the resemblence goes even deeper. Have a look at the following passages and see if they remind you of some of the myths you might find in Ovid:

your favourite author

I've added a poll to my blog to let you vote for your favourite Roman author (you have to scroll down a bit to see it). I've only included the authors I've studied this year with my senior classes: Virgil, Cicero, Catullus, Horace and Ovid. If you vote, leave me a comment explaining who you voted for and why.

I had a similar poll set up ages ago, I don't remember what the figures were, but you can read a brief bio of each author as well as some of the comments here.

Birthplaces of Roman Authors

Strangely, most of the Latin authors we read today were not actually born in the city of Rome, but moved there from the provinces. This is true of Virgil, Cicero, Livy, Catullus, Ovid, Horace and many more.

This map shows the birthplaces of some of the most famous Roman writers:



View Birthplaces of Roman Authors in a larger map

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On flying to close to the sun...

Daedalus and Icarus as you've never seen them before.

You can find the original comic here; thanks to Sarah for bringing it to my attention.

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Metamorphosis

I've just started reading An Imaginary Life by David Malouf- a short novel, told from the perspective of the Roman poet Ovid, in exile at Tomis on the Black Sea.

I was struck by this passage I read on my way to school the other day:

...the stone sleeping in the sun has once been molten fire and became stone when the fire was able to say, in its liquid form: "I would be solid, I would be stone"; and the stone dreams now that the veins of ore in its nature might become liquid again and move , but within its shape as stone, so that slowly, through long centuries of aching for such a condition, for softness, for a pulse, it feels one day that the transformation has begun to occur; the veins loosen and flow, the clay relaxes, the stone, through long ages of imagining some further life, discovers eyes, a mouth, legs to leap with, and is toad.

Vivid descriptions of transformations are of course one of Ovid's strengths. Here are two of my favourites- the statue Galatea, crafted by Pygmalion, coming alive, and Daphne, pursued by Apollo, becoming a laurel tree:

vix prece finita torpor gravis occupat artus,
mollia cinguntur tenui praecordia libro,
in frondem crines, in ramos bracchia crescunt,
pes modo tam velox pigris radicibus haeret,
ora cacumen habet: remanet nitor unus in illa.
Hanc quoque Phoebus amat positaque in stipite dextra
sentit adhuc trepidare novo sub cortice pectus
complexusque suis ramos ut membra lacertis
oscula dat ligno; refugit tamen oscula lignum.

Scarcely had Daphne finished her prayer, when a heavy slowness seized her limbs, her soft breast is embraced by thin bark, her hair grows into leaves, her arms into branches, her feet, just now so speedy, stick fast with sluggish roots, the canopy hides her face: only her shining beauty remains unchanged. Apollo loves her still, and placing his right hand on her trunk, he feels her heart still trembling beneath the new bark, and he embraces her branches with his arms, as if they were really limbs, and kisses her woody trunk; yet even as a tree she shrinks from his kisses!

(Metamorphoses I.548-556)

ut rediit, simulacra suae petit ille puellae

incumbensque toro dedit oscula: visa tepere est;

admovet os iterum, manibus quoque pectora temptat:

temptatum mollescit ebur positoque rigore

subsidit digitis ceditque, ut Hymettia sole

cera remollescit tractataque pollice multas

flectitur in facies ipsoque fit utilis usu.

dum stupet et dubie gaudet fallique veretur,

rursus amans rursusque manu sua vota retractat.

corpus erat! saliunt temptatae pollice venae.

When Pygmalion returned, he made for the statue of his girl and, lying on the couch, began to kiss her: she seemed to be warm; again he brings his mouth near, and he also tries her breasts with his hands: the ivory softens as it is touched and having lost its hardness gives way beneath his fingers and yields, just as Hymettian wax softens in the sun and, kneaded by the thumb, is moulded into many shapes, and becomes usable by being used. While he gapes in amazement and doubtfully rejoices and fears that he is deceived, the lover strokes the answer to his prayer again and again with his hand. She was flesh! As he touches them, the veins throb beneath his thumb.

(Metamorphoses X.280-289)

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Warren Buffet, Horace and Ovid

I was reading something a couple of weeks ago (though I can't for the life of me remember what), and came across a quote from Warren Buffet (currently the world's richest person) that stuck in my head. He said something along the lines of that he had made so much money by being cautious when everyone else is greedy, and by being greedy when everyone else is cautious. Good on him.

A few days later I happened to be reading a Horace poem which contains a similar idea:

auream quisquis mediocritatem
diligit, tutus caret obsoletis
ordibus tecti, caret invidenda
sobrius aula.

saepius ventis agitatur ingens
pinus et celsae graviore casu
decidunt turres feriuntque summos
fulgura montis.

sperat infestis, metuit secundis
alteram sortem bene praeparatum
pectus.

Whoever cherishes the golden middle-way
will safely avoid the squalor of the slums
and will soberly avoid the palace
which brings only jealousy.

Often a huge pine tree is uprooted by the winds,
and tall towers fall with more serious
consequences, and lightning strikes
the highest mountains.

When times are tough, the well prepared heart
hopes for a change of fate, and, when they are favourable,
fears it.

(Horace, Odes II.10)

The idea of the 'golden middle-way' (auream... mediocritatem) was particularly dear to the Romans (especially Stoics), who took the story of Daedalus and Icarus as a kind of parable on the dangers of excess:

instruit et natum 'medio' que 'ut limite curras,
Icare,' ait 'moneo, ne, si demissior ibis,
unda gravet pennas, si celsior, ignis adurat...
me duce carpe viam!'

He fitted his son with the wings and said to him 'I warn you, Icarus, to fly on the middle course, so that, if you fly too low, the waves won't weigh down your wings, nor, if you fly too high, will the sun's fire burn them... With me as your leader, take to the sky!

(Ovid, Metamorphoses VIII.203ff)

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de scribendo

I've been reading Love in the Time of Cholera recently, and the other day I came across a passage which reminded me of something Ovid wrote. Firstly here's the passage from the book:

The worst years were the early ones, when he was appointed clerk to the Board of Directors... Florentino Ariza wrote everything with such passion that even official documents seemed to be about love. His bills of lading were rhymed no matter how he tried to avoid it, and routine business letters had a lyrical spirit that diminished their authority. His uncle came to his office one day with a packet of correspondance he had not dared put his name to, and gave him the last chance to save his soul.

"If you you cannot write a business letter you will pick up the trash on the dock," he said.

Florentino Ariza made a supreme effort to learn the mundane simplicity of mercantile prose, imitating models from notarial files with the same diligence he had once used for popular poets... But at the end of six months, no matter how hard he twisted he could not wring the neck of his die-hard swan.[His uncle] kept his threat to have him pick up trash on the dock, but he gave him his wod that he would promote him, step by step, up the ladder of faithful service until he found his place. And he did. No work could defeat him, no matter how hard or humiliating it was, no salary no matter how miserable, could demoralize him, and he never lost his essential fearlessness when faced with the insolence of his superiors... Florentino Ariza moved through every post during thirty years of dedication and tenacity in the face of every trial. He fulfilled all his duties with admirable skill... but he never won the honor he most desired, which was to write one, just one, acceptable business letter.

Late in life, in exile far from Rome, Ovid wrote of his own experience as a young boy, when he was first drawn to poetry:

frater ad eloquium viridi tendebat ab aevo,
fortia verbosi natus ad arma fori;
at mihi iam puero caelestia sacra placebant,
inque suum furtim Musa trahebat opus.
saepe pater dixit 'studium quid inutile temptas?
Maeonides nullas ipse reliquit opes.'
motus eram dictis, totoque Helicone relicto
scribere temptabam verba soluta modis.
sponte sua carmen numeros veniebat ad aptos,
et quod temptabam scribere versus erat.

(Ovid, Tristia IV X.17-26)

My brother tended towards oratory from a young age,
he was born for the bold weapons of the noisy forum;
but the holy rites of heaven pleased me more, even as a boy,
and the Muse was drawing me secretly to her service.
Often my father would say 'Why try such a useless pursuit?'
Even Maeonian Homer left no wealth behind.'
I was moved by what he said, and left Helicon behind completely
and tried to write words set free from rhythm.
But of its own accord, a poem came, in a suitable meter
and whatever I tried to write was poetry.

sputnik

I wrote a post about a guy called fusionman the other day, with some advice from Daedalus and Icarus (stay away from the sun!). Now I notice there's a guy with the nickname sputnik doing a similar thing- flying unassisted at 250km/h.

In the Metamorphoses when Daedalus creates wings to help him and his son escape from Crete, Ovid comments that he is 'changing nature' (naturam novat); it's not natural for people to fly, but it seems like there are a few people out there who just won't accept that.

hospites Romani

If you could have dinner with three Romans, who would you invite? I was thinking about this the other day, and here is my guest list:

Cicero was my first choice. I suspect that he was a bit of an arrogant git, but there’s no doubt that the man was a genius. From humble(ish) origins he rose to become one of the most influential men in Rome. He was consul in 63 BC, and Julius Caesar invited him to join the first triumvirate (Cicero refused because he hated Caesar, but that’s another story). He had a sense of humour and a bitterly sharp wit, and was incredibly educated- he studied oratory in Athens, and in his later years when he was effectively side-lined from politics he spent his spare time translating Greek philosophy into Latin. He also lived in one of the most interesting periods of time in Roman history- the final years of the republic- and knew lots of fascinating people- not only Caesar, but Antony, Octavian, Cleopatra, Catullus (and Lesbia/Clodia). He didn’t like most of them, but that only makes him a more entertaining guest.

It would be tempting to invite some of Cicero’s acquaintances (perhaps Catullus and Lesbia?) just to watch the fireworks, but in the interest of variety my next guest would be Agrippina, mother of the emperor Nero. Agrippina was one of the last of the fascinating, but troubled, Julio-Claudian family. Her brother was the emperor Caligula, and her uncle (later also her husband) was the emperor Claudius. Caligula didn’t like her much (he sent her into exile) but she had considerable influence over Claudius, and when Nero came to power she was for a time effectively co-emperor. Later Nero grew to resent her, and eventually had her killed. Such a powerful and ambitious woman so closely connected to three different emperors would undoubtedly have a few good stories to tell, though you’d probably need to watch the food closely (she was said to have poisoned Claudius).

I can imagine the conversation at my dinner party getting pretty heavy with those two, and can think of no one better to liven the mood than the poet Ovid. Whereas Cicero’s humour was (I suspect) bitter and vicious, Ovid comes across in his poetry as fun-loving, warm and generous, if sometimes a bit vulgar. At times he is completely over the top and it seems like he has trouble taking anything seriously, though he was by no means a light-weight- in addition to his love poems and manuals he wrote mythological poems (not just the light-hearted Metamorphoses, but the Heroides as well), a kind of historical calendar (the Fasti) and a version of Medea, sadly lost to us. As part of the literary circle of Maecenas he knew many of the other eminent poets of his day (Propertius, Tibullus and Horace for example), and probably Augustus himself. Whether he knew Augustus personally or not he certainly did something to upset him (we don’t know exactly what- it’s one of the things I would ask him if I had the chance), and he was banished from Rome in AD 17 never to return.

That’s my list, who would you invite?

fusionman

I hope that fusionman has read the story of Daedalus and Icarus in Ovid's metamorphoses, and takes Daedalus' wise advice:

instruit et natum “medio” que “ut limite curras,
Icare,” ait “moneo, ne, si demissior ibis,
unda gravet pennas, si celsior, ignis adurat
inter utrumque vola. nec te spectare Booten
aut Helicen iubeo strictumque Orionis ensem:
me duce carpe viam!”

Daedalus equips his son, and says "Icarus, I warn you to fly by the middle course, so that the waves won't weigh down your wings, if you go too low, and so that the fire of the sun won't burn them, if you fly too high; fly between the two. I order you not to look at the bear-watcher, nor Helike, nor the drawn sword of Orion: take to the sky with me as your leader."

Of course, we all know what happened next:

cum puer audaci coepit gaudere volatu
deseruitque ducem, caelique cupidine tactus
altius egit iter. rapidi vicinia solis
mollit odoratas, pennarum vincula, ceras:
tabuerant cerae; nudos quatit ille lacertos
remigioque carens non ullas percipit auras,
oraque caerulea patrium clamantia nomen
excipiuntur aqua, quae nomen traxit ab illo.

The boy began to revel in his daring flight, and deserted his leader, and touched with a longing for the heavens, he steered his course higher. The nearness of the scorching sun softened the sweet-smelling wax, the bonds of the feathers: the wax melted; he shakes his bare arms, but lacking the power of his wings he cannot catch any air, and his mouth, calling the name of his father, is swallowed up by the dark-blue sea which now bears his name.

[Ovid, Metamorphoses VIII.204-9, 223-30]

Narcissus

[Narcissus river, Cradle Mountain National Park, Tasmania]

My year 11 class have been looking at some of Ovid's Metamorphoses recently, in particular the stories of Pygmalion and Galataea. Pygmalion is a sculptor who carves a statue so beautiful it seems to be alive. In the story of Narcissus things are the other way round; Narcissus is so beautiful that he is compared to a statue.

hic puer et studio venandi lassus et aestu
procubuit faciemque loci fontemque secutus,
dumque sitim sedare cupit, sitis altera crevit,
dumque bibit, visae correptus imagine formae
spem sine corpore amat, corpus putat esse, quod umbra est.
adstupet ipse sibi vultuque immotus eodem
haeret, ut e Pario formatum marmore signum;
spectat humi positus geminum, sua lumina, sidus
et dignos Baccho, dignos et Apolline crines
impubesque genas et eburnea colla decusque
oris et in niveo mixtum candore ruborem...

Here the boy, worn out from his eager hunting and from the heat, lies down, attracted by the beauty of the place and its spring. While he seeks to calm his thirst, another thirst grows, and as he drinks, he is enchanted by the beautiful reflection he saw. He falls in love with a disembodied hope, he thinks that what is but a shadow, is a body. He is amazed by his very own self, and motionless stares at it with fixed gaze, just like a statue made from Parian marble. Lying on the ground, he watches the twin stars, his eyes, and that hair, worthy of Bacchus, worthy of Apollo, and those smooth cheeks and ivory neck, and the glory of his face and its blush, mixed with snow-white radiance…


inrita fallaci quotiens dedit oscula fonti,
in mediis quotiens visum captantia collum
bracchia mersit aquis nec se deprendit in illis!
quid videat, nescit; sed quod videt, uritur illo,
atque oculos idem, qui decipit, incitat error.

How often did he did he give vain kisses to the deceitful pool, how often did he sink his arms in to the middle of the waters, trying to embrace the neck he saw there! But he could not find himself in them. what he saw, he did not recognise; but what sees he burns for, and that same illusion which deceives him, excites his eyes.

[Ovid, Metamorphoses, III.413-23, 427-31]

Narcissus eventually wasted away, and was transformed into the flower which is named after him. He also survives in our language today in the word narcissism.

more than my eyes...

Reading a bit of Catullus recently, I was struck by a phrase I’d never noticed before. He speaks of loving someone ‘more than one's eyes’:

passer mortuus est meae puellae,
passer, deliciae meae puellae,
quem plus illa oculis suis amabat.

My girlfriend’s sparrow has died,
The sparrow, my girlfriend’s darling,
Whom she loved more than her eyes.

(Catullus, Carmen 3)

ni te plus oculis meis amarem,
iucundissime Calve, munere isto
odissem te odio Vatiniano

If I didn’t love you more than my eyes
Calvus you joker, then an account of your gift
I’d hate you with Vatinian hatred.

(Catullus, Carmen 14)

credis me potuisse meae maledicere vitae,
ambobus mihi quae carior est oculis?

Do you believe that I could have cursed my life
Who is dearer to me than both my eyes.

(Catullus, Carmen 104)

I had a quick look through Ovid’s Amores, to see if Ovid uses the same kind of idiom. I couldn’t find any examples, but he does often talk about swearing ‘by one’s eyes’:

at mihi te comitem iuraras usque futuram—
per me perque oculos, sidera nostra, tuos!

But you swore to stay with me forever,
By me and by your eyes, my stars.

(Ovid, Amores II 16.43-44)

perque suos illam nuper iurasse recordor
perque meos oculos: en doluere mei!

I remember that she swore recently, by her eyes
And by mine too: and look, now they’re in pain!

(Ovid, Amores III 3.13-14)

Parce, per o lecti socialia iura, per omnis
qui dant fallendos se tibi saepe deos,
perque tuam faciem, magni mihi numinis instar,
perque tuos oculos, qui rapuere meos!

O spare me, by the bed that made our bond, by all the
Gods who have let you take their names in vain,
By your face as great to me as the great gods of heaven,
And by your eyes, which ravished mine.

(Ovid, Amores III 11b.13-16)

Melbourne Cup

With the Melbourne cup on today, I thought would be a good time to share Ovid’s tips for finding love at the races.

Proximus a domina, nullo prohibente, sedeto,
Iunge tuum lateri qua potes usque latus;
Et bene, quod cogit, si nolis, linea iungi,
Quod tibi tangenda est lege puella loci.

No one can stop you from sitting as close as you want to your mistress; squash up side by side, as close as you can. Even if she’s shy, the girl will have to let you touch her, because the benches are so crowded.

Hic tibi quaeratur socii sermonis origo,
Et moveant primos publica verba sonos.
Cuius equi veniant, facito, studiose, requiras:
Nec mora, quisquis erit, cui favet illa, fave.

Then you should look to start some kind of friendly conversation, and let the occasion provide your first words. ‘Whose horses are they?’ you should ask, enthusiastically: and whichever horses she backs, you should back too, without delay.

Utque fit, in gremium pulvis si forte puellae
Deciderit, digitis excutiendus erit:
Etsi nullus erit pulvis, tamen excute nullum:
Quaelibet officio causa sit apta tuo.
Pallia si terra nimium demissa iacebunt,
Collige, et inmunda sedulus effer humo;
Protinus, officii pretium, patiente puella
Contingent oculis crura videnda tuis.

And if by chance (as sometimes happens) a speck of dust should fall into the girl’s lap, brush it away with your fingers: and even if there’s nothing there, brush that nothing away. Anything should be an opportunity for your courtship. If her cloak comes undone and trails on the ground, pick it up and carefully lift it from the filthy dirt. If the girl consents you’ll get the reward for your efforts straight away- a glimpse at her legs.

Respice praeterea, post vos quicumque sedebit,
Ne premat opposito mollia terga genu.
Parva leves capiunt animos: fuit utile multis
Pulvinum facili composuisse manu.
Profuit et tenui ventos movisse tabella,
Et cava sub tenerum scamna dedisse pedem.

Look back to see who sits behind you, to make sure he doesn’t prod her tender back with his knee. Small things please little minds: it’s a good idea to arrange her cushion with your skilful hands. It’s also helpful to fan her gently with your program, and to put a hollow stool under her dainty feet.

(Ovid, Ars Amatoria I.139ff)

Ankles

Today was the first day of a new term at the school where I teach, and to start off the term on the right foot (so to speak) the students were given a stern reminder of the school’s uniform policy. Of particular emphasis were socks, which must be white and cover the ankle completely. This is taken very seriously by the school hierarchy, and is a constant source of amusement and irritation to the students.

Of course, ankles are one of the most sensual parts of the body, and must be covered up to ensure decency, and to avoid driving men wild with desire. The Roman poet Ovid for one couldn’t resist a nice ankle. In his Ars Amatoria he expresses his frustration over long skirts:

Este procul, vittae tenues, insigne pudoris,
Quaeque tegis medios, instita longa, pedes.

Far away from here, you badges of modesty,
the thin headband, the ankle-covering dress.

(Ars Amatoria, I.31-2)

And later on, he instructs his reader how to steal a glimpse of a girl's ankle while flirting at the races:

Pallia si terra nimium demissa iacebunt,
Collige, et inmunda sedulus effer humo;
Protinus, officii pretium, patiente puella
Contingent oculis crura videnda tuis.

If her skirt is trailing too near the ground,
lift it, and raise it carefully from the dusty earth:
Straightaway, the prize for service, if she allows it,
is that your eyes catch a glimpse of her legs.

(Ars Amatoria, I.153-6)

My Fair Lady

On the weekend I went to see a production of My Fair Lady put on by my brother-in-law's school (he did a great job as freddy). If you don't know the story it's about a professor of phonetics who teaches a poor cockney girl to speak English the way he thinks it should be, and passes her off as an aristocrat.

The musical is based on the play Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw, which takes its title in turn from the myth of the sculptor Pygmalion, who made a sculpture so beautiful that he fell in love it (which should give you an idea of what happens in the musical). Here's how Ovid describes Pygmalion attempts to court his statue:

'...with marvellous artistry, he skillfully carved a snowy ivory statue. He made it lovelier than any woman born, and fell in love with his own creation... Often he ran his hands over the work, feeling it to see whether it was flesh or ivory, and would not yet admit that ivory was all it was. He kissed the statue, and imagined that it kissed him back, spoke to it and embraced it, and thought that he felt his fingers sink into the limbs he touched, so that he was afraid lest a bruise appear where he had pressed the flesh.

Sometimes he addressed it in flattering speeches, sometimes brought the kind of presents that girls enjoy: shells and polished pebbles, little birds and flowers of a thousand hues, lilies and painted balls, and drops of amber which fall from the trees that were once Phaeton's sisters. He dressed the limbs of his statue in woman's robes, and put rings on its fingers, long necklaces round its neck. Pearls hung from its ears, and chains were looped upon its breast. All this finery became the image well, but it was no less lovely unadorned.'

[Ovid, Metamorphoses X.247ff]

rain, rain, go away...

All the rain we've had lately made me think of the flood described in Ovid's Metamorphoses:

Protinus Aeoliis Aquilonem claudit in antris
et quaecumque fugant inductas flamina nubes
emittitque Notum. madidis Notus evolat alis,
terribilem picea tectus caligine vultum;
barba gravis nimbis, canis fluit unda capillis;
fronte sedent nebulae, rorant pennaeque sinusque.
utque manu lata pendentia nubila pressit,
fit fragor: hinc densi funduntur ab aethere nimbi.

Jupiter wastes no time, but shuts up the North wind in Aeolus' caves, together with all the gusts which scatter the gathering clouds; and he lets loose the South wind. On dripping wings the South wind flies, his terrible features shrouded in pitch-black darkness; his beard is heavy with clouds, water streams from his snowy locks, mist wreathes his brow, his robes and feathers dripped with moisture. When he crushes the hanging clouds in his broad hand, there is a crash; then the thick clouds are poured down from heaven.

[Metamorphoses, I.262-269]