Now that sullen skies have gathered over London and summer has been banished, I am reminded, more than ever, of Ovid’s lament that in his exile, he is compelled to carry with him the memory of his sunny, warm Italy.
Quid melius Roma? Londoniensis quid frigore peius?
What is better than Rome? What is worse than cold London?
Ok, he doesn’t say London, but Scythia (Ex Ponto, I), and yet I think he would feel for me right now.
On days such as these, when the memory of the Mediterranean sun is so close, I am tempted to bemoan my self-imposed exile.
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