The Fall of Icarus

by Ovid

But surely every man is his own god: Fortune refuses her aid to those who merely pray, and take no action.

Daedalus, an architect famous for his skill, constructed the maze, confusing the usual marks of direction, and leading the eye of the beholder astray by devious paths winding in different directions. Just as the playful waters of the Macander in Phrygia flow this way and that, without any consistency, as the river, turning to meet itself, sees its own advancing waves, flowing now towards its source and now towards the open sea, always changing its direction, so Daedalus constructed countless wandering paths and was himself scarcely able to find his way back to the entrance, so confusing was the maze.

Ariadne, left all alone, was sadly lamenting her fate, when Bacchus put his arms around her, and brought her his aid. He took the crown from her forehead and set it as a constellation in the sky, to bring her eternal glory.

Minos may possess all the rest, but he does not possess the air.’ With these words, he set his mind to sciences never explored before, and altered the laws of nature.

‘I warn you, Icarus,’ he said, ‘you must follow a course midway between earth and heaven, in case the sun should scorch your feathers, if you go too high, or the water make them heavy if you are too low. Fly halfway between the two. And pay no attention to the stars, to Bootes, or

Helice or Orion with his drawn sword: take me as your guide, and follow me!’

He urged Icarus to follow close, and instructed him in the art that was to be his ruin,

Drawn on by his eagerness for the open sky, he left his guide and soared upwards, till he came too close to the blazing sun,

He laid his son to rest in a tomb, and the land took its name from that of the boy who was buried there.

Such was her attire – she had features which in a boy would have been called girlish, but in a girl they were like a boy’s.

Castor and Pollux, not yet raised to be stars in the heavens, rode up together, a striking pair on their horses whiter than snow, and both together sent their sharp javelins quivering through the air. They would have wounded the bristling brute, had it not retreated into the dark woods, where neither horse nor javelin could penetrate.

‘You will be honoured for your prowess as you deserve,’ he told Atalanta.

Then the Arcadian Ancaeus, armed with his two-headed axe, rushed furiously upon his fate, crying: ‘See how far superior to a woman’s weapons are those of a man! Make way for me! Even though Leto’s daughter herself protect this boar with her own arrows, none the less, in spite of Diana, my hand will destroy it.’

The boar charged down upon this daring foe and, aiming its tusks at the upper part of his loins, gored him in that most vital spot. Ancaeus collapsed: his inner organs slipped and trailed from his body in a mass of blood – the earth was soaked with the crimson stream.

Theseus, son of Aegeus, called to him: ‘Heart of my heart, dearer than myself to me, stop at a safe distance! We can show our courage from afar: his hot-headed valour did Ancaeus no good!’

turning to Atalanta, ‘Take the spoil I have secured, lady of Nonacris,’ he said, ‘and let me share my glory with you.’

but the others were jealous, and a murmur ran through the whole company.

‘Come now, put down these spoils, woman, and do not interfere with our claims to honour! Do not let confidence in your beauty mislead you, either, in case your love-sick benefactor should prove unable to help you.’ Then they took away the spoils from Atalanta, and deprived Meleager of the right to present them to her.

the wretched woman stood before the funeral altars and prayed: ‘Goddesses three, who preside over punishments, Furies, behold this unnatural sacrifice, by which I am at once avenging and committing crime. Death must atone for death, wickedness be piled on wickedness, slaughter upon slaughter, till this accursed household perish under its accumulation of woe. Shall Oeneus continue to enjoy the company of his victorious son, while Thestius is deprived of his? Better that both should have cause to mourn! Only do you, my brothers, ghosts but recently descended to the shades, recognize my devotion, and welcome this offering provided at such a cost, the child of my womb, born to my sorrow!

Let the guilty wretch perish too, and carry with him to the grave his father’s hopes, his kingdom, and his ruined country. But where is the affection a mother should feel for her son? Where are the loving ties that ought to bind parents to their children. Where the anguish I endured through ten long months? O my son, how much better had I allowed you to burn in those flames, when you were a baby! You received your life from my hands, but now you will die the death you have deserved! Accept the reward for what you have done: give me back the life I have twice bestowed on you, once when you were born, and again when I snatched the log from the fire. Either that, or send me to join my brothers in the tomb!

“Whom the gods love are gods themselves, and those who have worshipped should be worshipped too.”’