Historic present — vident
Emphasis — sponte suā... per sē
Sibilance — sponte suā... sē... succrēscere
Emotional response — attonitī
Religious gesture — manibus supīnīs
Naming — Baucis... Philēmōn
Pathos — ūnicus ānser
Dramatic irony — dīs hospitibus
Contrast — celer / tardōs
Climax — tandem
Divine revelation — dī sumus
Enjambment — impia
Tricolon — relinquite... comitāte... īte
Historic Present — vident
Line 37: vident succrēscere vīna
What's happening: Ovid switches to the present tense vident ("they see") even though he's narrating past events. This is called the historic present — it makes the action feel immediate and vivid, like you're watching it happen in real time. One moment the bowl is empty, the next it's full. The present tense captures that "wait, what?!" moment.
In an exam: "The historic present vident ('they see') creates immediacy, drawing the reader into the moment of discovery. Ovid makes us experience the miracle alongside Baucis and Philemon rather than hearing about it after the fact."
Emphasis — sponte suā... per sē
Line 37: sponte suā per sē-que... succrēscere
What's happening: Ovid really hammers home the miraculous nature here. Sponte suā means "of its own accord" and per sē means "by itself" — he's essentially saying the same thing twice. This repetition for emphasis (or pleonasm) stresses that nobody is topping up this wine. It's refilling itself. Magic.
In an exam: "The pleonasm sponte suā ('of its own accord') and per sē ('by itself') emphasises the supernatural nature of the miracle. Ovid's redundancy is deliberate — he wants readers to fully grasp that this is happening without any human intervention."
Sibilance — sponte suā... sē... succrēscere
Line 37: sponte suā per sē-que... succrēscere
What's happening: Listen to all those 's' sounds: sponte suā... sē... succrēscere. This sibilance creates a hissing, whispering effect — almost like an incantation or spell being murmured. It's sound mimicking meaning: the wine is magically rising, and the language itself sounds magical. Ovid's showing off his poetic chops here.
In an exam: "The sibilance in sponte suā per sē-que... succrēscere creates an incantatory effect through the repeated 's' sounds. This sonic quality reinforces the supernatural nature of the miracle — the language itself seems to whisper of magic."
Emotional Response — attonitī
Line 38: attonitī novitāte pavent
What's happening: Attonitī literally means "thunderstruck" — as in, struck by tonitrus (thunder). It's a strong word for shock, way beyond just "surprised." And here's the clever bit: they're being thunderstruck in the presence of Jupiter, the god of thunder. Ovid's winking at the audience. The couple have no idea why they feel this divine awe, but we do.
In an exam: "The participle attonitī ('thunderstruck') conveys the intensity of their shock at witnessing the miracle. The word literally means 'struck by thunder' (tonitrus), creating dramatic irony as they are in the presence of Jupiter, the thunder god himself."
Naming — Baucis & Philemon
Line 39: Baucis-que... timidus-que Philēmōn
What's happening: The couple are named together with the repeated -que ("and... and"), which is called polysyndeton. It emphasises their unity — they're a pair, a team, inseparable. The adjective timidus ("timid") is sandwiched between them, and while it grammatically agrees with Philemon, it characterises them both. They're humble, nervous, overwhelmed.
In an exam: "The polysyndeton with -que... -que ('both Baucis and... and Philemon') reinforces the couple's unity. The interposed timidus ('timid') applies grammatically to Philemon but characterises them both, emphasising their humble piety."
Religious Gesture — manibus supīnīs
Line 38: manibus-que supīnīs
What's happening: Manibus supīnīs literally means "with hands turned upward" — this was the standard Roman prayer posture, palms facing the sky to receive blessings from the gods above. Ovid uses this technical religious term to show that Baucis and Philemon instinctively know how to behave. They're proper, pious, doing everything right.
In an exam: "The ablative phrase manibus supīnīs ('with upturned hands') describes the traditional Roman prayer gesture. This detail emphasises the couple's instinctive piety — they respond to the miracle with proper religious reverence, not panic or greed."
Pathos — ūnicus ānser
Line 41: ūnicus ānser erat, minimae cūstōdia vīllae
What's happening: This single goose (ūnicus) is all they have. It's not just a pet — it's described as the cūstōdia ("guardian") of their tiny home (minimae vīllae). The pathos here is thick: they're willing to sacrifice literally their only possession to honour their guests. That's next-level hospitality.
In an exam: "Ūnicus ('only') emphasises how precious the goose is — their sole possession. Calling it cūstōdia ('guardian') elevates its importance, while minimae vīllae ('of the very small house') reinforces their poverty. Their willingness to sacrifice it shows the depth of their pietas."
Dramatic Irony — dīs hospitibus
Line 42: quem dīs hospitibus dominī mactāre parābant
What's happening: Dīs hospitibus means "for the gods, their guests" — but hang on, the couple don't know their guests ARE gods yet. That's dramatic irony: we (the readers) know the truth, but they don't. They're trying to sacrifice their goose "to honour the gods" by feeding... the actual gods. It's both touching and darkly comic.
In an exam: "The phrase dīs hospitibus ('for the gods, their guests') creates dramatic irony. The couple intend to honour the gods by sacrificing their goose to feed their guests — unaware that their guests literally are gods. This irony heightens both the pathos and the humour of the scene."
Contrast — ille celer / tardōs aetāte
Line 43: ille celer pennā tardōs aetāte fatīgat
What's happening: Picture the scene: the goose is celer ("swift"), zooming around on its wings (pennā), while the elderly couple are tardōs aetāte ("slow with age"), huffing and puffing trying to catch it. It's slapstick comedy — two old people chasing a goose around a tiny cottage. But there's pathos too: they're so desperate to honour their guests that they're exhausting themselves. The contrast between celer and tardōs is classic antithesis.
In an exam: "The antithesis between celer ('swift') and tardōs ('slow') creates both humour and pathos. The goose's speed (pennā, 'with its wings') contrasts sharply with the couple's age (aetāte), highlighting their vulnerability while adding a moment of comic relief."
Climax — tandem
Line 44: tandem-que est vīsus ad ipsōs cōnfūgisse deōs
What's happening: After all that chasing, we get tandem — "finally!" This little word marks the climax of the goose chase. And where does the goose flee? Ad ipsōs... deōs — "to the very gods themselves." The word ipsōs is emphatic: not just to the guests, but to the ACTUAL GODS. The goose inadvertently blows their cover. Comedy and plot advancement in one neat package.
In an exam: "Tandem ('finally') signals the climax of the scene. The phrase ad ipsōs... deōs ('to the gods themselves') is emphatic — ipsōs stresses that the goose fled to the very gods, not just their disguised human forms. This triggers the revelation."
Divine Revelation — dī sumus
Line 46: 'dī' -que 'sumus'
What's happening: After 10 lines of build-up — the miracle, the shock, the goose chase — Jupiter finally reveals himself with just two words: dī sumus ("we are gods"). That's it. No fanfare, no dramatic monologue. The brevity is the point. Gods don't need to explain themselves. They state facts. The contrast with all the frantic human activity beforehand makes this moment hit even harder.
In an exam: "The revelation 'dī sumus' ('we are gods') is deliberately terse — just two words for this momentous declaration. The brevity creates impact, and the first-person plural (sumus) confirms Jupiter and Mercury's divine identity after the extended dramatic irony."
Enjambment — impia
Lines 46-47: vīcīnia poenās / impia
What's happening: Look where impia ("irreligious") lands — it's pushed onto the next line, separated from the noun it describes (vīcīnia, "neighbourhood"). This enjambment makes you wait for the damning adjective. You read "the neighbourhood will pay the penalty it deserves..." and then BAM — "irreligious." It's like Jupiter pausing for effect before delivering the verdict. The delay adds weight to the condemnation.
In an exam: "The enjambment of impia ('irreligious') — pushed to line 47 and separated from vīcīnia ('neighbourhood') — creates a dramatic pause before the condemnation. This emphatic positioning highlights the moral contrast between the impious neighbours and the pious couple."
Tricolon — relinquite... comitāte... īte
Lines 48-50: relinquite tēcta... comitāte gradūs... īte simul
What's happening: Jupiter issues three commands in quick succession: "leave your home... accompany our steps... go together." This is a tricolon — a group of three parallel elements. It gives the speech a rhythmic, authoritative quality. Gods don't waffle; they give clear, clipped orders. The final simul ("together") is touching — even in their divine commands, the gods recognise the couple as a unit.
In an exam: "The tricolon of imperatives relinquite... comitāte... īte ('leave... accompany... go') creates a commanding, authoritative rhythm appropriate to divine speech. The brevity contrasts with the couple's humble prayers, and the final simul ('together') acknowledges their inseparable bond."