Ovid,
Ars Amatoria; or, The Art Of Love
“ What, wretched man, art thou about? 'Tis no wild beast; keep still thy weapons. Ah wretched me! by thy dart has the fair been pierced. "Ah me!" she cries aloud, "a loving heart hast thou pierced. That spot has ever retained the wound inflicted by Cephalus. Before my time I die, but injured by no rival; this, O Earth, will make thee light when I am entombed. Now is my breath departing in the breeze that I had thus suspected; I sink, alas! close my eyes with those dear hands." In his sorrowing bosom he supports the dying body of his spouse, and with his tears he bathes her cruel wounds. ”
