The first thing you see will be the two Cyanean Rocks, at the end of the straits. To the best of my knowledge, no one has ever made his way between them, for not being fixed to the bottom of the sea they frequently collide, flinging up the water in a seething mass which falls on the rocky flanks of the straits with a resounding roar. Now if, as I take it, you are god-fearing travellers and men of sense, you will be advised by me: you will not rashly throw away your lives or rush into danger with the recklessness of youth. Make an experiment first. Send out a dove from Argo to explore the way. If she succeeds in flying in between the Rocks and out across the sea, do not hesitate to follow in her path, but get a firm grip on your oars and cleave the water of the straits. For that is the time when salvation will depend, not on your prayers, but on your strength of arm. So think of nothing else, be firm, and spend your energies on what will pay you best. By all means pray to the gods, but choose an earlier moment. And if the dove flies on, but comes to grief midway, turn back. It is always better to submit to heaven; and you could not possibly escape a dreadful end. The Rocks would crush you, even if Argo were an iron ship.
3rd century BC Greek epic poet
Apollonius of Rhodes (fl. first half of 3rd century BCE) is best known as the author of the Argonautica, an epic poem about Jason and the Argonauts and their quest for the Golden Fleece.
From: Wikiquote (CC BY-SA 4.0)
Native Name:
Ἀπολλώνιος Ῥόδιος
•
Ἀπολλώνιος Ἀλεξανδρεύς
Alternative Names:
Apollonius Rhodius
From Wikidata (CC0)
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Αἱ δ᾽, ὥστ᾽ ἠμαθόεντος ἐπισχεδὸν αἰγιαλοῖο
παρθενικαί, δίχα κόλπον ἐπ᾽ ἰξύας εἱλίξασαι
σφαίρῃ ἀθύρουσιν περιηγέι· αἱ μὲν ἔπειτα
ἄλλη ὑπ᾽ ἐξ ἄλλης δέχεται καὶ ἐς ἠέρα πέμπει
ὕψι μεταχρονίην· ἡ δ᾽ οὔποτε πίλναται οὔδει·
ὧς αἱ νῆα θέουσαν ἀμοιβαδὶς ἄλλοθεν ἄλλη
πέμπε διηερίην ἐπὶ κύμασιν, αἰὲν ἄπωθεν
πετράων.
Ὡς δ᾽ ὅτ᾽ ἐνὶ τρητοῖσιν ἐύρρινοι χοάνοισιν
φῦσαι χαλκήων ὁτὲ μέν τ᾽ ἀναμαρμαίρουσιν,
πῦρ ὀλοόν πιμπρᾶσαι, ὅτ᾽ αὖ λήγουσιν ἀυτμῆς,
δεινὸς δ᾽ ἐξ αὐτοῦ πέλεται βρόμος, ὁππότ᾽ ἀίξῃ
νειόθεν· ὧς ἄρα τώγε θοὴν φλόγα φυσιόωντες
ἐκ στομάτων ὁμάδευν, τὸν δ᾽ ἄμφεπε δήιον αἶθος
βάλλον ἅ τε στεροπή· κούρης δέ ἑ φάρμακ᾽ ἔρυτο.
Ἡ δὲ νέον κρήνης ἀνεδύετο καλλινάοιο
νύμφη ἐφυδατίη· τὸν δὲ σχεδὸν εἰσενόησεν
κάλλεϊ καὶ γλυκερῇσιν ἐρευθόμενον χαρίτεσσιν.
πρὸς γάρ οἱ διχόμηνις ἀπ᾽ αἰθέρος αὐγάζουσα
βάλλε σεληναίη. τὴν δὲ φρένας ἐπτοίησεν
Κύπρις, ἀμηχανίῃ δὲ μόλις συναγείρατο θυμόν.
αὐτὰρ ὅγ᾽ ὡς τὰ πρῶτα ῥόῳ ἔνι κάλπιν ἔρεισεν
λέχρις ἐπιχριμφθείς, περὶ δ᾽ ἄσπετον ἔβραχεν ὕδωρ
χαλκὸν ἐς ἠχήεντα φορεύμενον, αὐτίκα δ᾽ ἥγε
λαιὸν μὲν καθύπερθεν ἐπ᾽ αὐχένος ἄνθετο πῆχυν
κύσσαι ἐπιθύουσα τέρεν στόμα· δεξιτερῇ δὲ
ἀγκῶν᾽ ἔσπασε χειρί, μέσῃ δ᾽ ἐνικάββαλε δίνῃ.
Meanwhile Medea, though she was singing and dancing with her maids, could think of one thing only. There was no melody, however gay, that did not quickly cease to please. Time and again she faltered and came to a halt. To keep her eyes fixed on her choir was more than she could do. She was for ever turning them aside to search the distant paths, and more than once she well-nigh fainted when she mistook the noise of the wind for the footfall of a passer-by. But it was not so very long before the sight of Jason rewarded her impatient watch. Like Sirius rising from Ocean, brilliant and beautiful but full of menace for the flocks, he sprang into view, splendid to look at but fraught with trouble for the lovesick girl. Her heart stood still, a mist descended on her eyes, and a warm flush spread across her cheeks. She could neither move towards him nor retreat; her feet were rooted to the ground. And now her servants disappeared, and the pair of them stood face to face without a word or sound, like oaks or tall pines that stand in the mountains side by side in silence when the air is still, but when the wind has stirred them chatter without end. So these two, stirred by the breath of Love, were soon to pour out all their tale.