Şiir 66
No, (so may I please Caecilius to whom I am now made over!)
it is not my fault, although it is said so to be, nor may anyone impute any crime to me; albeit the fabling tongues of folk make it so, who, whenever anything is found not well done, all clamor at me: Door, yours is the blame!
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It is not enough for you to say this by words merely, but so to act that everyone may feel it and see it.
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In what way can I? No one questions or troubles to know.
We are wishful: be not doubtful to tell us.
First then, the virgin (so they called her!) who was handed to us
was spurious. Her husband was not the first to touch her, he whose little dagger, hanging more limply than the tender beet, never raised itself to the middle of his tunic: but his father is said to have violated his son’s bed and to have polluted the unhappy house,
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either because his lewd mind blazed with blind lust, or because his impotent son was sprung from sterile seed, and therefore one greater of nerve than he was needed, who could unloose the virgin’s belt.
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You tell of an excellent parent marvellous in piety,
who himself urinated in the womb of his son!
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But Brixia says that she has knowledge of not only this, placed beneath the Cycnean peak, through which the golden-hued Mella flows with its gentle current, Brixia, beloved mother of my Verona.
For she talks of the loves of Postumius and of Cornelius, with whom that one committed foul adultery.
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Someone might say here: How do know you these things, O door? you who are never allowed absence from your lord’s threshold, nor may hear folk’s gossip, but fixed to this beam
are accustomed only to open or to shut the house!
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