Classic Poem

Corinna, having tried, with her own hand,
To cure herself of pregnancy, lies low.
I should be angry at the deed she planned,
The risk she took, and never let me know.
But anger yields to fear--I was the cause,
At least, I might have been; the chance was there.
Since posse may be esse, if I was,
O Isis, bring us comfort, hear my prayer!

Come from Canopus, Pharos rich in palms,
Where seven-mouthed Nile moves gliding to the sea,
Osiris speed you here, with healing balms,
Give life to her, and so give life to me.
She never failed your services beside
Those laurels where the Gallic horsemen ride.

And you, Birth-Goddess, pitying the dole
Of women in long labour, great with child,
Hear the entreaties of an anguished soul,
Have pity on her, merciful and mild!
Favour my prayers, and intercede for her--
She is not all unworthy of your grace--
And I, white-robed, will be your minister,
Bring you due fits, in proper time and place.
And more than that--by my own hand engraved
A verse upon a votive stone will read
"Ovid is grateful for Corinna saved,"
Memorial in word as well as need.
Frightened, and tactless, like so many men,
I add, "Corinna, don't do this again!"