The following passage is taken from The Metamorphoses of Ovid, translated by Allen Mandelbaum. It is for the use of students in English 2332.001 and 2332.002 only and is not meant to be copied or used by anyone else. The course textbook (Norton Anthology of World Literature) uses this translation, although this passage has been cut by the editors. Foolishly.

Before the sea and lands began to be,

before the sky had mantled every thing,

then all of nature's face was featureless-

what men call chaos: undigested mass

of crude, confused, and scumbled elements,

a heap of seeds that clashed, of things mismatched.

There was no Titan Sun to light the world,

no crescent Moon - no Phoebe - to renew

her slender horns; in the surrounding air,

earth's weight had yet to find its balanced state;

and Amphitrite's arms had not yet stretched

along the farthest margins of the land.

For though the sea and land and air were there,

the land could not be walked upon, the sea

could not be swum, the air was without splendor:

no thing maintained its shape; all were at war;

in one same body cold and hot would battle;

the damp contended with the dry, things hard

with soft, and weighty things with weightless parts.

A god - and nature, now become benign -

ended this strife. He separated sky

and earth, and earth and waves, and he defined

pure air and thicker air. Unraveling

these things from their blind heap, assigning each

its place-distinct-he linked them all in peace.

Fire, the weightless force of heaven's dome,

shot up; it occupied the highest zone.

Just under fire, the light air found its home.

The earth, more dense, attracted elements

more gross; its own mass made it sink below.

And flowing water filled the final space;

it held the solid world in its embrace.

When he - whichever god it was - arrayed

that swarm, aligned, designed, allotted, made

each part into a portion of a whole,

then he, that earth might be symmetrical,

first shaped its sides into a giant ball.

He then commanded seas to stretch beneath

high winds, to swell, to coil, to reach and ring

shorelines and inlets. And he added springs

and lakes and endless marshes and confined

descending streams in banks that slope and twine:

these rivers flow across their own terrains;

their waters sink into the ground or gain

the sea and are received by that wide plain

of freer waters-there, they beat no more

against their banks, but pound the shoals and shores.

At his command, the fields enlarged their reach,

the valleys sank, the woods were clothed with leaves,

and rocky mountains rose. And as the sky

divides into two zones on its right side,

with just as many to the left, to which

the hottest zone is added as a fifth,

the god provided regions that divide

the mass the heavens wrap, and he impressed

as many zones upon the earth. Of these,

the middle zone, because of its fierce heat,

is uninhabitable; and thick snows

cover two outer zones; between them he

aligned two other regions, and to these

he gave a clement climate, mixing heat

and cold. Above, the air extends; and for

as much as earth is heavier than water,

so is the air more ponderous than fire.

He ordered fog and clouds to gather there -

in air - and thunder, which would terrify

the human mind; there, too, the god assigned

the winds that, from colliding clouds, breed lightning.

Yet he who was the world's artificer

did not allow the winds to rule the air

unchecked, set free to riot everywhere.

(But while each wind received a separate tract,

it still is difficult to curb their blasts,

to keep the world, which they would rend, intact:

though they are brothers, they forever clash.)

Eurus retreated toward Aurora's lands,

into the Nabataeans' kingdom and

to Persia, where the rays of morning meet

the mountain crests. And Zephyrus now went

to shorelines warm with sunset, in the west.

To Scythia, beneath the northern Wain,

swept horrid Boreas. Incessant rain

and mists that drench the southlands opposite-

this was the work of Auster. The god placed

above these winds the ether, without weight,

a fluid free of earth's impurity.

No sooner had he set all things within

defining limits than the stars, long hid

beneath the crushing darkness, could begin

to gleam throughout the heavens. That no region

be left without its share of living things,

stars and the forms of gods then occupied

the porch of heaven; and the waters shared

their dwelling with the gleaming fishes; earth

received the beasts, and restless air, the birds.

An animal with higher intellect,

more noble, able - one to rule the rest:

such was the living thing the earth still lacked.

Then man was born. Either the Architect

of All, the author of the universe,

in order to beget a better world,

created man from seed divine-or else

Prometheus, son of Iapetus, made man

by mixing new-made earth with fresh rainwater

(for earth had only recently been set

apart from heaven, and the earth still kept

seeds of the sky-remains of their shared birth);

and when he fashioned man, his mold recalled

the masters of all things, the gods. And while

all other animals are bent, head down,

and fix their gaze upon the ground, to man

he gave a face that is held high; he had

man stand erect, his eyes upon the stars.

So was the earth, which until then had been

so rough and indistinct, transformed: it wore

a thing unknown before-the human form.

That first age was an age of gold: no law

and no compulsion then were needed; all

kept faith; the righteous way was freely willed.

There were no penalties that might instill

dark fears, no menaces inscribed upon

bronze tablets; trembling crowds did not implore

the clemency of judges; but, secure,

men lived without defenders. In those times,

upon its native mountain heights, the pine

still stood unfelled; no wood had yet been hauled

down to the limpid waves, that it might sail

to foreign countries; and the only coasts

that mortals knew in that age were their own.

The towns were not yet girded by steep moats;

there were no curving horns of brass, and no

brass trumpets-straight, unbent; there were no swords,

no helmets. No one needed warriors;

the nations lived at peace, in tranquil ease.

Earth of itself - and uncompelled - untouched

by hoes, not torn by ploughshares, offered all

that one might need: men did not have to seek:

they simply gathered mountain strawberries

and the arbutus' fruit and cornel cherries;

and thick upon their prickly stems, blackberries;

and acorns fallen from love's sacred tree.

There spring was never-ending. The soft breeze

of tender zephyrs wafted and caressed

the flowers that sprang unplanted, without seed.

The earth, untilled, brought forth abundant yields;

and though they never had lain fallow, fields

were yellow with the heavy stalks of wheat.

And streams of milk and streams of nectar flowed,

and golden honey dripped from the holm oak.

But after Saturn had been banished, sent

down to dark Tartarus, love's rule began;

the silver age is what the world knew then –

an age inferior to golden times,

but if compared to tawny bronze, more prized.

love curbed the span that spring had had before;

he made the year run through four seasons' course:

the winter, summer, varied fall, and short

springtime. The air was incandescent, parched

by blazing heat-or felt the freezing gusts,

congealing icicles: such heat and frost

as earth had never known before. Men sought –

for the first time - the shelter of a house;

until then, they had made their homes in caves,

dense thickets, and in branches they had heaped

and bound with bark. Now, too, they planted seeds

of wheat in lengthy furrows; and beneath

the heavy weight of yokes, the bullocks groaned.

The third age saw the race of bronze: more prone

to cruelty, more quick to use fierce arms,

but not yet sacrilegious.

its name upon the last age was hard iron.

And this, the worst of ages, suddenly

gave way to every foul impiety;

earth saw the flight of faith and modesty

and truth - and in their place came snares and fraud,

deceit and force and sacrilegious love

of gain. Men spread their sails before the winds,

whose ways the mariner had scarcely learned:

the wooden keels, which once had stood as trunks

upon the mountain slopes, now danced upon

the unfamiliar waves. And now the ground,

which once - just like the sunlight and the air –

had been a common good, one all could share,

was marked and measured by the keen surveyor –

he drew the long confines, the boundaries.

Not only did men ask of earth its wealth,

its harvest crops and foods that nourish us,

they also delved into the bowels of earth:

there they began to dig for what was hid

deep underground beside the shades of Styx:

the treasures that spur men to sacrilege.

And so foul iron and still fouler gold

were brought to light - and war, which fights for both

and, in its bloodstained hands, holds clanging arms.

Men live on plunder; guests cannot trust hosts;

the son-in-law can now betray his own

father-in-Iaw; and even brothers show

scant love and faith. The husband plots the death

of his own wife, and she plots his. And dread

stepmothers ply their fatal poisons; sons

now tally - early on-how many years

their fathers still may live. Now piety

lies vanquished; and the maid Astraea, last

And in this age, not even heaven's heights

are safer than the earth. They say the Giants,

striving to gain the kingdom of the sky,

heaped mountain peak on mountain mass, star-high.

Then love, almighty Father, hurled his bolts

of lightning, smashed Olympus, and dashed down

Mount Pelion from Mount Ossa. Overwhelmed

by their own bulk, these awesome bodies sprawled;

and Earth soaked up the blood of her dread sons;

and with their blood still warm, she gave their gore

new life: so that the Giants' race might not

be lost without a trace, she gave their shape

to humans whom she fashioned from that blood.

But even this new race despised the gods;

and they were keen for slaughter, bent on force:

it's clear to see that they were born of blood.

When Jove, the son of Saturn, saw this scene

from his high citadel, he groaned; recalling

Lycaon's recent monstrous meal (a feast

the other gods had yet to hear about),

his heart was filled with anger such as Jove

can feel - a giant rage. And he convoked

a council of the gods; they came at once.

On high there is a road that can be seen

when heaven is serene: the Milky Way

is named - and famed - for its bright white array;

to reach the regal halls of mighty Jove,

the Thunderer, the gods must take this road.

On either side there range the homes of those

who are the noblest of the gods, the most

illustrious and powerful: their doors

are open wide; their halls are always thronged

(the lesser gods have homes in other zones).

And if this not be too audacious, I

should call this site high heaven's Palatine.

And now, within the marble council hall,

the gods were seated. Throned above them all,

and leaning on his ivory scepter, Jove -

three times and then a fourth - shook his dread locks

and so perturbed the earth and seas and stars.

Then, opening his angry lips, he said:

"Now, more than ever, I am plagued, beset

by cares in governing the world; I faced

those horrid Giants, with their snake-shaped feet;

each monster, with the hundred hands he had,

was ready to assail the sky, to seize

these heavens - but that challenge was much less

than what confronts us now. For, in the end,

however fierce they were, those Giants all –

when they attacked - formed part of one same pack.

But now I must contend with scattered men;

throughout the world, wherever Nereus' waves

resound, I shall destroy the mortals' race.

I swear on the infernal streams that glide

beneath the woods of Styx, that I have tried

all other means; and now I must excise

that malady which can't be cured: mankind –

lest the untainted beings on the earth

become infected, too. I have half-gods

and rustic deities - Nymphs, Satyrs, Fauns,

and woodland gods who haunt the mountain slopes:

we've not yet found them fit for heaven's honors,

but let's ensure their safety on the lands

we have assigned to them. Can you, o gods,

believe they are secure when I myself,

who am the lord of lightning and your lord,

met with the trap Lycaon set for me -

Lycaon, famed for his ferocity?"

All shouted, keen to hear who had been guilty

of such a sacrilege: even as when

an impious band was fierce in its attempt

to blot the name of Rome and, to that end,

shed Caesar's blood; and all of humankind,

faced with calamity, was horrified,

the whole world shuddering. And you, Augustus,

are no less pleased by all the firm devotion

your people show to you than Jove was then

to hear the gods outcry on his behalf.

But Jove, with word and gesture, curbed the uproar;

when they had quieted, his words once more

could break the silence in the hall: "Be sure –

he has already paid the penalty.

But I'll tell you his crime and punishment.

I'd heard about this age of infamy;

and hoping to disprove such tidings, I

descended from Olympus' heights; I went

from land to land, a god in human guise.

Just now, it would be useless to describe

each sacrilege I found-upon all sides:

the truth was far, far worse than what I'd heard.

And I had crossed Mount Maenala's dread slopes,

home of wild beasts; I passed Cyllene's peak

and chill Lycaeus' pine grove. So I reached

the region and the uninviting home

of the Arcadian tyrant. Dusk had fallen,

and night was soon to follow. I'd made known

I was a god, and an Arcadian crowd

began to worship me. At first Lycaon

just jeered at all their pious prayers, but then

he said: 'I mean to test him; let us see

if he, beyond all doubt – infallibly –

is god or man.' This was the test he'd planned:

by night - with me asleep - treacherously

to murder me. And not content with that,

he seized a hostage the Molossians

had sent to him; Lycaon cut his throat;

some of the still warm limbs he boiled in water,

and some he roasted on the fire. No sooner

had he set these before me as my meal

than I, with my avenging lightning bolt,

I struck down his home, which caved in on itself –

walls worthy of their owner. He ran off

in panic, and when he had reached the fields,

within the stillness, he began to howl:

he tried to utter words - to no avail.

Wrath rises to his mouth; he foams; and just

as he was always keen on slaughter, now

he turns against the sheep; indeed he's pleased

to shed more blood. His clothes are changed to fur,

his arms to legs: he has become a wolf.

But he keeps traces of his former shape.

His hair is gray; he has the same fierce gaze;

his eyes still glitter, and he still presents

a savage image. Yes, one house collapsed;

but it was more than one I should have smashed.

Wherever earth extends, fierce Fury reigns!

A vast cabal of crime - that's what I see.

Let them all pay the proper penalties

without delay. For such is my decree."

Some of the gods approve Jove's words with shouts,

inciting him still more; some indicate

assent with silent signs. In any case,

complete destruction of the human race

saddens them all. What aspect would earth take

once it was stripped of men? Who'd offer incense

upon the altars? Had Jove planned by chance

on wild beasts as earth's sole inhabitants

and overlords? Such were the things they asked.

Their king was quick to set their fears at rest:

he would take care of everything; he swore

a new race, one far different from the first,

emerging wondrously, would share the earth.

And now, as Jove was just about to hurl

his thunderbolts at the whole earth, he stayed

his hand: he was afraid that all those flames

might set the sacred sky ablaze, ignite

the world from pole to pole. He brought to mind

that, in the book of fates, this was inscribed:

a time would come when sea and land would burn,

a conflagration that would overturn

the palace of the sky-in fact destroy

the stunning fabric of the universe.

And so Jove set aside his lightning bolts

forged by the Cyclops; in their stead he chose

another punishment: he planned to drown

the race of men beneath the waves: he'd send

a deluge down from every part of heaven.

At once, within the caves of Aeolus,

Jove shuts up Boreas and other gusts

that might disperse the clouds. But he frees Notus,

who flies out on drenched wings: his awesome face

is veiled in pitch-black darkness, and his beard

is heavy with rainclouds, and water flows

down his white hairs; dark fog rests on his brow;

his wings and robes are dripping. Suddenly

his vast hands press against the hanging clouds;

and from the sky, rain pours as thunder roars.

Then Iris, Juno's messenger - her robes

are many-colored-fetches water, fuels

the clouds with still more rain. The crops are felled;

the wretched farmer weeps as he sees all

his hopes forlorn, in ruins on the ground –

the labor of the long years-useless, gone.

But angry Jove is hardly satisfied

with just the waters of his realm on high:

he needs his azure brother's aid, his waves –

and Neptune offers help without delay.

That lord of waters summons all his rivers;

they hurry to his halls. This is his speech:

"The time is late. No long harangues. In brief:

Set all your forces free-that's what we need!

Open your gates and let your currents speed:

loosen the reins; don't slow or stay your streams!"

So he commands. His river-gods disband;

returning to their homes, they all unleash

their founts and springs; and these rush toward the sea.

Neptune himself lifts high his trident, strikes

the earth: it shakes and, as it shudders, frees

a pathway for the waters. As they leap

across their banks, they flood the open fields;

orchards and groves, and herds, and men and homes,

and shrines and all the sacred things they hold

are swept away. And if some house remains

in place despite the fury it has faced,

the rising waters overtop the roof;

the towers can't be seen beneath the eddies.

Between the sea and land one cannot draw

distinctions: all is sea, but with no shore.

One man seeks refuge on a hill, another

rows in his curving boat where, just before,

he'd plowed; one sails across his fields of grain

or over the submerged roof of his villa;

sometimes an anchor snags in a green meadow;

sometimes a curving keel may graze the vines.

Where grateful goats had grazed along the grass,

the squat sea-lions sprawl. And undersea,

the Nereids, amazed, stare hard at cities

and homes and groves; through woodlands, dolphins roam;

they bump against tall branches, knock and shake

oak trees. The wolf now swims among the sheep;

the waves bear tawny lions, carry tigers;

the boar is swept along-his lightning force

is useless; and the stag's swift legs can't help;

the bird that searched so long for land where he

might rest, flight-weary, falls into the sea.

By now the heights are buried by sea swells;

the surge-a thing no one has seen before -

beats on the mountaintops. Most men are drowned

among the waves; and those who have escaped,

deprived of food, become starvation's prey.

The land that lies between Boeotia

and Oeta's fields is Phocis-fertile land

as long as it was land, but now a mass

the sudden surge had changed into a vast

sea-tract. There, Mount Parnassus lifts, star-high,

its two steep peaks that tower over clouds.

And here (the only place the flood had spared)

Deucalion and his wife, in their small skiff,

had landed. First, they prayed unto the nymphs

of the Corycian cave, the mountain gods,

and Themis - she, the goddess who foretells

the future, in those early days, was still

the keeper of the Delphic oracle.

One could not point to any better man,

a man with deeper love for justice, than

Deucalion; and of all women, none

matched Pyrrha in devotion to the gods.

And when Jove saw the flooded world - by now

a stagnant swamp - and saw that just one man

was left of those who had been myriads,

that but one woman had escaped the waves –

two beings who were pious, innocent –

he rent the clouds, then sent out Boreas

to scatter them; the sky could see again

the land, and land again could see the heavens.

The fury of the sea subsided, too.

And Neptune set aside his three-pronged weapon;

the god of waters pacified the waves

and summoned sea-green Triton, bidding him

to blow on his resounding conch - a sign

for seas and streams to end the flood, retreat.

And Triton, as he rose up from the deep -

his shoulders shell-encrusted-held his conch:

a twisting hollow form that, starting from

a point, then spiraled up to a wide whorl -

the conch that, when it's sounded in midsea,

reechoes on the shores to west and east.

Now, too, when Triton drew it to his lips -

wet with sea brine that dripped from his soaked beard –

and, just as Neptune ordered, blew retreat,

the sound reached all the waters of the sea

and those that flow on land-and having heard

his call, they all obeyed: they curbed their course.

The rivers fall back, and the hills emerge;

the sea has shores once more; the riverbeds,

however full their flow, now keep it channeled;

the land increases as the waters ebb;

the soil can now be seen; and then, at last,

after that long night, trees show their bare tops

with traces of the flood-slime on their boughs.

The world had been restored to what it was.

But when Deucalion saw earth so forlorn,

a wasteland where deep silence ruled, a bare

and desolate expanse, he shed sad tears

and said to Pyrrha:

"0 my wife, dear sister, the only woman left on earth, the one

to whom I first was linked as a dear cousin

and then as husband, now we are together

in danger: all the lands both east and west

are empty now - and we alone are left:

the sea has taken all the rest. And we

may not survive: we have no certainties -

that vision of the clouds still haunts my mind.

How would you feel, sad heart, if you'd survived

the fatal flood, but I had lost my life?

How would you, all alone, have borne the fear?

With whom would you-alone-have shared your tears?

For if the sea had swallowed you, dear wife,

I, too-believe me-would have followed you

and let the deluge drown me, too. Would I

were master of the arts my father plied;

then I, son of Prometheus, would mold

and so renew mankind - its many tribes.

But now the race of men has been reduced –

so did the gods decree - to me and you:

We are the last exemplars."

together they shed tears and then resolved

to plead with the celestial power, to pray

unto the sacred oracle for aid.

Then, side by side, they went without delay

to seek the waters of Cephisus' stream;

although its waters were not limpid yet,

the river flowed along its normal bed.

They took some water and, upon their heads

and clothing, sprinkled it, then turned their steps

to holy Themis' shrine. The roof was grimed

with pallid moss, the altars had no flame.

They reached the temple steps, and there they both

kneeled down, bent to the ground; in awe, they kissed

the cold stones, saying: "If the gods are pleased,

by righteous prayers, and their wrath can be

appeased, then tell us, Themis, by what means

the ruin of our race can be redeemed;

and, kindest goddess, help this flooded world."

The goddess had been moved; her oracle

gave this response: "Now, as you leave the temple,

cover your heads and do not bind your clothes,

and throw behind you, as you go, the bones

of the great mother."

and Pyrrha is the first to break their long

silence: she says she cannot do as told;

with trembling voice she begs the goddess' pardon,

but she cannot offend her mother's Shade

by scattering her bones. Again, again,

they ponder all the oracle had said;

those words-obscure and dark - leave them perplexed.

At last, Prometheus' son speaks words that would

allay the fears of Epimetheus' daughter:

"I may be wrong, but I think Themis' answer

did not involve impiety or ask

for any sacrilege. By the great mother,

the earth is meant; and bones, I think, mean stones,

which lie inside earth's body. It is these

that we must throw behind us as we leave."

Her husband's explanation solaced Pyrrha;

yet hope was not yet firm - for, after all,

they both were doubtful of the oracle.

But what is wrong in trying? They set out;

they veil their heads, they both ungird their clothes;

and they throw stones behind them as they go.

And yes (if those of old did not attest

the tale I tell you now, who could accept

its truth?), the stones began to lose their hardness;

they softened slowly and, in softening,

changed form. Their mass grew greater and their nature

more tender; one could see the dim beginning

of human forms, still rough and inexact,

the kind of likeness that a statue has

when one has just begun to block the marble.

Those parts that bore some moisture from the earth

became the flesh; whereas the solid parts -

whatever could not bend - became the bones.

What had been veins remained, with the same name.

And since the gods had willed it so, quite soon

the stones the man had thrown were changed to men,

and those the woman cast took women's forms.

From this, our race is tough, tenacious; we

work hard-proof of our stony ancestry.

The other animals - arrayed in forms

of such variety - were born of earth

spontaneously; the torrid sun began

to warm the moisture that the flood had left

within the ground. Beneath that blazing heat,

soft marshes swelled; the fertile seeds

were nourished by the soil that gave them life

as in a mother's womb; and so, in time,

as each seed grew, it took on its own form.

So, when the Nile, the stream with seven mouths,

recedes from the soaked fields and carries back

its waters to the bed they had before,

and slime, still fresh, dries underneath the sun,

the farmers, turning over clods, discover

some who are newly born, who've just begun

to take their forms, and others who are still

unfinished, incomplete - they've not achieved

proportion; and indeed, in one same body,

one part may be alive already, while

another is a lump of shapeless soil.

For, tempering each other, heat and moisture

engender life: the union of these two

produces everything. Though it is true

that fire is the enemy of water,

moist heat is the creator of all things:

discordant concord is the path life needs.

And when, still muddy from the flood, the earth

had dried beneath the sunlight's clement warmth,

she brought forth countless living forms: while some

were the old sorts that earth had now restored,

she also fashioned shapes not seen before.

And it was then that earth, against her will,

had to engender you, enormous Python,

a horrid serpent, new to all men's eyes –

a sight that terrified the reborn tribes:

your body filled up all the mountainside.

That snake was killed by Phoebus; until then

he had not used his fatal bow except

to hunt down deer and goats in flight: he smashed

that monster with innumerable shafts,

a task that left his quiver almost bare

before the Python perished in the pool

of poisoned blood that poured out of his wounds.

To keep the memory of his great feat

alive, the god established sacred games;

and after the defeated serpent's name,

they were called Pythian. Here all young men

who proved to be the best at boxing or

at running or at chariot racing wore

a wreath of oak leaves as their crown of honor.

The laurel tree did not exist as yet;

to crown his temples, graced by fair long hair,

Phoebus used wreaths of leaves from any tree.

OUR TEXTBOOK SELECTION CONTINUES from this point.