OVIDS TRISTIA

Containinge fiue Bookes of mournfull Elegies which hee sweetly composed in the midst of his aduersitie, while hee liu'd in Tomos a Cittie of Pontus where hee dyed after seauen yeares Banishment from Rome.

Translated into English by W. S.

‘ Veniam pro laude peto—’

LONDON, Printed by Andrew Clark.

T. Cecill. sculp.
The Explantion of the Frontispiece.
AUgustus Caesar in the front doth stand,
Who banish'd Ovid to the Pontick land.
One side shews Rome, the other doth present,
The Ship which carried him to banishment.
A happy Pyramid 'its self doth raise,
Built on those Books from whence he got his praise.
The sable Pyramid doth likewise show,
That his ruine from the Art of Love did grow.
B [...]neath poor Ovid rests his weary head
Upon his Coffin, when all hope was fled.
And thereupon his wreath of Bayes doth lye,
To shew he did in Pontus banish'd dye.
But yet his Muse new life to him doth give,
And by his lines sweet Ovid still doth live,
Vade Liber mundo, Dominus fuit exu [...], & inde
Disce pati á Domino, fer mala, vade Liber.

OVID's TRISTIA, CONTAINING Five Books of mournful ELEGIES. Which he sweetly composed in the midst of his Adversity, while he liv'd in Tomos a City of PONTƲS. Where he died after Seven Years Banishment from ROME.

Translated into English by W. S.

Veniam pro laude peto.—

The fourth Edition, Corrected.

LONDON, Printed by Andrew Clark, and are to be sold by Thomas Williams at the Golden Ball in Hosier-Lane, 1672.

TO THE Honourable, and wor­thy of Honour by Desert, S r. Kenelme Digby K t.

SIR,

YOur generous mind fra­med by nature to vertue and vertuous actions, is so well known to Souldiers and Scholars, that as Mars gives you Bayes, so the Muses do give you Books. Quis ergo generosus? Ad virtu­tem bene à natura cō ­positus. Sen. l. 5. p. 44. The consideration where­of hath emboldned me (though a stranger) to offer to your protection this translation of Ovids Elegys, who I think was even rocked in his cra­dle by the Muses and fed with sugar and Heliconian water, which made him have so sweet a vein of Poetry. So that the name of Ovid is a suffi­cient commendation for any work of his; if my English can but like the [Page]Eccho send back the soft Musick of his lines. And indeed if he write best of love that hath been in love; and that there is a certain [...] or efficacy in his words that feels the affection; I doubt not but my own sorrow hath learn'd me how to translate Ovids sorrow. For I con­fess I was never in Fortunes books, and therefore am not much indebt­ed to her, neither do I care for her frowns; but I am grieved for one who is my brother, in mis-fortune, who is exul in Patria, being enfor­ced to let that skill and experience which he hath gotten abroad in Marine affairs, and which hath been approved of both by the Eng­lish and Dutch Nations in several long voyages, lie dead in him for want of employment, which is the life of practical knowledge: And though he must be compelled by his present fates to accept of the im­ployment of foraign Nations, yet if a way might be opened unto him he is more willing (as he is bound by duty) to serve his native King and Country, which desire of his I [Page]know your generous disposition cannot but cherish, and approve of my love towards him. This book Ovid sent to the City of Rome a ap­pears by die first verse, Parve nec in­video &c. and I am now to send it forth into a City abounding with Criticks, and therefore it desires your worthy patronage and de­fence; for which (if Ovid lived) he would make his fluent Muse express his thankfulness: But I for any favour which you shall shew unto this translation, must acknowledge my self bound un­to your vertue, which I wish may shine forth in prosperous actions, until your fame be equal to Caesars, who banished Ovid.

The servant of your Vertues, W. SALTONSTAL,

To the Reader.

IT is now grown a common custome to seek thy good will by an Epistle, and therein to move thy affection to be fa­vourable to the present work, wherein I need not bestow any great pains, for this is a translation of Ovids last book which he writ in banishment, and therefore if you would set before your eyes the present estate wherein he then lived, it would exceedingly move your pitty towards him. Ima­gine that you saw Ovid in the Land of Pontus, where he whose company was so much desired, was now banish'd from all company; he that was once the Darling of the Muses, now made the subject of misery; he that drank choise wines, now drinks spring water; he that wore a wreath of Bayes, now wears a wreath of Cypress: and to conclude, he that was once so famous, was now as much un­fortunate, and all this was most unworthily in­flicted on him for some offence committed against Caesar, and also for writing that unhappy Book which he called the Art of Love; for these two he accuses as the causers of his banishment; du­ring which time he writ this last Book, entituling it his Tristium, because it contained his sorrow: [Page]And lastly consider, that after he had written this book, having divers times sought to be re­pealed from banishment; and despairing of any mercy from Caesar, he at last dyed, in the seventh year of his Banishment, from Rome: the Muses, together with Venus and a hundred little Cupids being mourners at his Funeral, If therefore you ever loved the sweetness of Ovids veine, or if the consideration of his sufferance in banishment, his want, his griefs, his afflictions, and lasty his death in a barbarous Land, can move your pitty and compassion, I doubt not but you will shew much love and affection to these Elegies, even for Ovids sake, whose compositions were so sweet and fluent, that his verses did run like a smooth stream fed by the spring of the Muses, so that he could hardly speak but in the manner of a verse, for so he testifies of himself: Quicquid conabor dicere versus erit. Now for my self, I have put these Elegies of Ovids into an English mourning habit, with a frontispiece to give thee a clear view of Ovids misery, and to make thy heart more apt to receive a deeper impression of his sorrow, that seeing how unworthily he was dealt withal, thou mayest both pitty Ovid, and love this work of his, which is all I desire.

Thine W. S.

Angelus Politianus his Epi­gram on the banishment and death of Ovid.

THe Roman Poet lies in the Euxine shore,
And barbarous earth the Poet covers o're
Him that did write of love, that land doth hide,
Through which the Isters colder streams do glide.
And were it not a shame to be (O Rome)
More cruel then the Geles to such a son?
Oh Muses while he sick in Scyshia lay,
Who was there that his sickness could allay?
Or keep his cold limbs in the bed by force,
Or pass away the day with some discourse?
Or that could feel his pulse when it did bear,
Or apply to him warm things to cherish heat?
Or close his eyes, even swimming round with death;
And at his mouth receive his latest breath?
There were none, for his ancient friend then were
In thee O Rome, from Pontus distant far.
His wife and Nephews were far off together,
His Daughter went not with her banish'd Father.
The Bessi and Coralli were in these parts,
And the skin-wearing Getes with stony hearts.
The Sarmate riding on his horse was there,
To comfort him with looks that dreadful were.
Yet when he was dead, the Bessi-wept, the Gete,
And stout Sarmatians did their faces bear.
Woods, mountains, beast, a mourning day did keep,
And Isters pearly streams they say did weep.
Some say that frozen Pontus did begin
To melt, with tears that Sea-Nimphs shed for him.
Light Cupids with their mother Venus ran,
And with torches set the funeral pile on flame:
And while his body did consume and burn,
They put his ashes in a closed Urn:
And on his Tombe-stone these words graven were
He that did teach the Art of Love lies here.
Then Venus with her white hand did bedew
His grave, whilst she sweet Nectar on him threw.
The Muses brought their Poet many a verse,
Which I am far unworthy to rehearse.

Julius Scaliger's Verses on Ovid, wherein he maketh Ovid speak to Augustus.

I Would thy cruelty had in me begun,
Nor by murders steps to ruine me hadst come.
It my wanton youth did move thy discontent,
Thou mayst condemn thy self to banishment.
For such foul deeds thy private rooms do stain,
That men condemned ne're did act the same.
Could not my wit, nor gentleness thee restrain,
Nor sweet tongue, second to Apollo's Veine?
My strain hath made the ancient Poets soft,
And to the new the weight of things hath taught.
I then did lye when as I praised thee,
For this my banishment mas deserv'd by me.

Umbra Ovidii, OR Ovids Ghost.

WHen I did live I got the wreath of Bayes,
From other Poets in my younger daies:
And soon my fame throug all the world was known,
While Ovid only was esteem'd at Rome.
But then at last as I did raise my fame
By verse, so from my verse my ruine came.
By an errour I great Caesar's wrath did move.
And then by writing of the Art of Love:
For which two faults by Caesar I was sent,
To the Pontick land to live in banishment.
I endeavour'd still to be repeal'd from hence.
But Caesar would not pardon my offence.
Thus seven years I in banishment did spend,
Until by death my sorrows had an end.
And then my soul to Charon's boat did go,
Who unto Ovid did much kindness show:
And row'd me straight to the Elisian fields,
Which unto happy souls such pleasure yields.
Where now I live, and every day converse.
With ghosts of Lovers who my lines rehearse.
And for my sake sweet Garlands they compose,
Of Lillies mingled with the crimson Rose:
Which they do give me, thereby to explain,
How lovers once did love sweet Ovids vein,
And now at last it joyes my ghost to see,
The world doth still preserve my memory.
And that my sorrows they translated have,
And have not buryed them within my grave,
For which my ghost unto the world gives thanks,
In these words writ on the Elysian banks.
Elegies themselves as much indebted know
To us, as Heroicks did to Virgil owe.

ELEGIE I.

In this Elegie at large
Ovid gives his book a charge,
To see Rome, and gives direction
How with time to varie action.
MY little Book the City thou shalt see,
Woe's me, thy Master may not go with thee:
Go, but undrest, and seeing thou art mine,
Put on a habit like unto the time.
Be not clothed with the Hyacinths purple juyce,
Such colours are in mourning out of use.
Paint not thy Title with Vermillion dye,
To draw unto thee every gazing eye:
No oyle of Cedar to thy leave allow;
Nor weare white corners on thy sable blow,
Such Ornaments may happy books invest,
But be thou like unto my fortune drest,
Thy forehead with no pumice stone make fair,
But come thou forth with loose and ragged hair.
Nor shame those blots which on thy face appears;
For some many think they were made with my tears.
Go book, salute the City in my name,
For on thy feet I will go back again;
And if by chance among the common crew,
Some mindful of me aske thee how I do?
Return this answer, tell them that I live,
And that my God this life doth freely give.
But if they more do seek, then silent be,
And speak not that should not be read in thee,
Then the angry Reader will repeat my fault,
While by the people I am guilty thought,
Defend me not, though they my fault repeat,
An ill cause by defence is made more great.
Some thou shalt find will sigh cause I am gone,
And read these verse with wet cheeks alone,
Who often wishes Caesar would but please,
Some lighter punishment might his wrath appease.
And I do pray he may ne're wreched be,
That wishes Caesar should thus pity me.
But may his wishes come to pass, that I
At last may in my native Country dye.
But book, I know, thou shalt receive much blame,
And be thought inferiour unto Ovid's veine:
Yet every Judge the time and matter weighs;
The time considered, thou deservest praise.
Smooth verses from a quiet mind do flow,
My ryhmes are over-cast with suddain woe,
Verses require much leisure and sweet ease,
But I am tost by windes and angry Seas.
Verses were never made in fear while I
Do look each minute by the sword to dye.
So that an equal judge may well approve
These lines of mine, and read them with much love.
Had Homer been distress'd so many wayes,
It would his sharp discerning wit amaze.
Then book be careless of all idle fame,
For to displease thy Reader, is no shame,
Since fortune hath not so kind to me been,
That [...]hou their idle praise should so esteem.
When I was happy, I did covet fame,
And had a great desire to get a name.
But now both verse and study I do hate,
Since they have brought me to this banisht state.
Yet go my book, thee in my place I assigne,
And would to God I could not call thee mine.
Though as a stranger thou dost come to Rome.
Thou canst not to the people come unknown:
Hadst thou no title, yet thy sable hew,
If thou deny me, will thy authour shew:
Yet enter secretly, least some disdain
My verse, which is not now esteem'd by fame.
And if by chance some when they hear me nam'd,
Do cast thee by out of their scornful hand.
Tell them that I do teach no Rules of Love,
That work was long since punish'd from above,
Perhaps thou dost imagine thou art sent,
To Caesar's Court, which is not my intent:
Aspire not thou unto those seats Divine,
From whence the thunder did on me decline.
Though once the Gods more favourable were.
Yet now their just deserved wrath I feare.
The fearful Dove once struck, still after springs,
When she doth hear the Hawks large spreading wings:
And from the fold the Lamb dare never stray,
That from the Wolf hath gotten once away.
Nor would young Phaeton desire to drive
His Fathers steeds, if be were now alive.
So having felt great Joves devouring flame,
I am afraip I should be struck again.
He that was in the Grecian fleet before,
Will bend his sails from the Euboean shore.
And so my weather-beaten bark doth shun,
That place from whence the furious storm begun.
Therefore be wisely circumspect, take heed,
It is enough if thee the people read.
While Icarus flew too high with waxen plumes,
The Icarian Seas from him their name assumes.
Yet it is hard to councel in this action,
Since time and place will give thee best direction.
For if thou see that Caesars wrath be spent,
And that his anger is to mildness bent:
Or if some Courtier thee to Caesar show,
And speake to him in thy behalf, then go
With lucky stars, and bring me some relief,
To lighten this my heavy weight of grief.
For he by whom I did these wounds obtain
Can like Achilles spear cure them again.
But take heed least thou do dis-favour find,
My hopes are small and fears perplex my mind,
Lest I another punishment obtain,
If thou do move his new-calm'd wrath again.
But when into my study thou dost get,
And there upon the little shelves art set.
There thou shalt see thy other brothers stand,
Brought all to life by one life-giving hand.
The rest are by their paper titles known,
Whose written names are on their fore-head shown.
Three other books thou shalt likewise discern,
Teaching loves Art which every one can learn.
But shun them, and if thou bast so much breath,
Tell them that Oedipus was his fathers death.
And if thy parents words have power to move,
Love none of those although they teach to love.
Fifteen volumes of changed shapes there lies,
Which were of late snatch't from my obsequies:
Bid them among their changed shapes relate,
The sad change of my Fortune and estate;
For she's unlike to what she was before,
Once happy, now my fate I must deplore.
I have more precepts to give thee in charge,
But that my words thy staying would enlarge?
And should'st thou carry all my thoughts with thee,
A burthen to thy bearer thou would'st be.
'Tis far, make hast, while here I live alone,
Within a Land far distant from my home.

ELEGIE II.

While fear of Shipwrack all amaze
He to the Gods devoutly prayes.
Describes the tempest and his fear,
At last the Gods his prayers hear.
YE Gods of Seas (for what remains but prayer)
Be pleas'd at last our beaten bark to spare,
Be not offended all for Caesars sake.
One God enrag'd, some other pitty take.
Mars hated Troy, Apollo did defend
The Trojans, and farr Venus was their is friend:
And though that Juno Turnus did respect,
Yet Venus did Aeneas still protect.
Though Neptune still Ulysses ruine sought,
Yet him Minerva unto barbour brought.
And though to them we far inferiour be,
One God displeas'd, some power may pleased be.
But yet alas it is in vain to spake,
Since on my face the angry waves do break,
And now the southern winds so cruel are,
The will not let the Gods even hear my prayer:
But coupling mischiefs, with their ruffling gales,
They take away my prayers, and drive our sails.
The waves like mountains now are rowled on,
Which even seem to touch the starry Throne,
And by and by deep vallies do appear,
As if that hell it self dissolved were.
Nothing but air and water can I see,
And both of them do seem to threaten me.
Whiles divers winds their forces do display,
The sea is doubtful which he should obey.
For now the winds comes from the purple cast,
And so again it bloweth from the west.
Then Boreas flies out from the Northern Wain,
While Southern winds do beat him back again;
Our Pilot knew not whither he should steer,
Are fails him, lost in his amazed fear.
Perish we must, all hope of life is past,
And while I spake the angry billows flash'd
Into my face, and with their waves did fill
My mouth, while I continued praying still.
I know my wife at home doth now lament,
And grieve to thimk upon my banishment,
Yet knows she not how I am tossed here,
And little thinks she that I am so near
Unto my death, and were she here with me,
My grief for her a second death would be.
Now though I dye, yet while that she is safe,
I shall survive in her my other half.
But now quick lightning breaketh through the Cloud,
And following Thunder roareth out aloud.
And now the waves upon the ship do beat,
Like bullets, and as one wave doth retreat,
Another comes that doth exceed the rest,
And thus their fury is by turns exprest.
I fear not death, yet I do grieve that I
Should here by Shipwrack in this manner dye.
Happy is he whom sickness doth invade,
Whose body in the solid earth is lade.
And having made his will, in his grave may rest,
Nor shall the fishes on his body feast.
And yet suppose my death deserved be,
Shall all the rest be punisht here for me?
O ye green Gods who do the Sea command,
Take off from us your heavy threatning hand.
And let me bear this wretched life of mine,
Unto that place which Caesar did assign.
If you desire with death to punish me,
My fault was Judg'd not worthy death to be,
Had Caesar meant to take my life away,
He need not use your help who all do sway.
For if that he do please my bloud to spill,
My life is but a tenure at his will.
But you whom I did never yet offend,
Have pity on me, and to mercy bend.
For though you save me in this great distress,
Yet you shall see my ruine ne're the less.
And if the windes and seas did favour me,
I should no lest a banish'd man still be.
I am not greedy, riches to obtain,
Nor do I plough the sea in hope of gain,
I go not to Athens, where I once have been,
Or Asian towns which I have never seen,
Nor unto Alexandria do I go,
To see how Nilus seven streams do flow.
I wish a gentle wind which may so stand,
To bring me safe to the Sarmatian Land.
And though to the shoares of Pontus I am sent,
I now complain of tardie banishment.
And though to Tomos I am sent away,
Yet for a speedy passage I do pray.
Then if you love me, calme the angry seas,
And gently guide our ship if so you please:
Or if you hate me, bring me to that Land,
Where death even for my punishment may stand.
Then bear me hence you windes, what do I here?
Or why doth Italy in sight appear,
Why stay you me who am by Caesar sent,
Unto the Pontick land to banishment,
Which I deserv'd, nor dare I to defend,
That fault which he so lately hath comdemn'd.
Yet if the Gods did know our secret thought,
There was no wicked meaning in my fault.
You know, blind errour carried me away,
While folly did my harmless mind betray.
If to his house I ever bore good will,
And have obeyed Augustus pleasure still:
If I have prayed even in Augustus name,
If have prayed even for his happy reign;
And offer'd incense in Augustus name:
If such my mind, then Gods from you I crave
Some pitty, or else make the sea my grave.
But stay, me thinks the Clouds away are blown,
And the seas vanquish't rage is orecome:
For these same Gods which I before implor'd,
Those Gods which I conditionally implor'd,
Being ne're deceived, do now their help afford.

ELEGIE III.

When that unhappy hour was come,
That he must now depart from Rome;
He shews how his Wife and friends lament,
His then approaching banishment.
WHen I remember that same fatal night,
The last that I injoy'd the Gities sight;
Wherein I left each thing to me most dear;
Then from mine eyes there slideth down a tear;
For when the morning once drew near that I,
By Caesars sentence must leave Italy;
I had no mind to think upon the way,
My heavy heart did seek out all delay.
Servants, nor yet companions did I chuse,
Nor coin, nor cloathes, which banisht men might use.
I stood amaz'd like one by thunder struck,
Who lives, yet thinks that life hath him forsook.
But when this cloud of sorrow was ote blown,
And all my senses were more able grown;
I bad forewel to each sad friend by name,
For now of many there did few remain.
My Wife wept, and me weeping did imbrace,
A shower of tears still raining on her face;
My daughter now was in the Affrick land,
Nor of my sad fate could she understand.
Through all my house deep groans and sighs I hear;
As if some funeral solemnized were.
My wife, my children, and my self were mourners,
And private grief did vent it self in corners.
If humble sorrows great examples brook,
Such was the face of things when Troy was took.
It was the deepest silence of the night,
And Luna in her chariot shined bright:
When looking on the Capitols high frame,
Which joyned was unto our house in vain:
You Gods (quoth I) whom these fair seats enfold,
And temples which I ne're shall more behold:
And all yee Gods of Rome whom I must leave,
I these my last tendred prayers do you receive;
Though wounded I the buckler use top late,
Let exile case me of the peoples hate.
Tell Caesar though I sin'd by ignorance,
There was no wickedness in my offence.
And as you know so let him know the same,
That so his wrath may be appeas'd again.
With larger prayers my wife did then beseech
The Gods until that sobs cut off her speech,
Then falling down with flowing hair long spred;
She kist the hearth whereon the fire lay dead;
And to our penates pourd forth many a word,
Which for her husband now no help afford,
Now growing night did haste delay again,
And Arctos now had turn'd about her Wain,
And loath was I to leave my countries sight,
Yet this for exile was my sentenc'd night.
If any urged my haste, I would reply,
Alass, consider, whither, whence I flye.
And then my self with flattery would beguile,
And think no hour did limit my exile.
Thrice went I forth, and thrice returning find,
Slow paces were indulgent to my mind.
O [...]t having bid farwel, I spake again,
And many parting kisses gave in vain.
Then looking back upon my children dear,
The same repeated charge I gave them there.
Why make we hast? 'tis just to seek delay,
Since I am sent from Rome to Scythia.
For I must leave my children, house, and wife,
Who while I live must lead a widdows life,
And you my loving friends that present be,
And were like Theseus faithful unto me:
Let us imbrace, and use times little store,
Perhaps I never shall imbrace you more.
And then my words to action did give place,
While I each friend did lovingly imbrace,
But while I spake and tears bedew'd my eyes,
The fatal morning star began to rise.
My heart was so divided therewithal,
As if my limbs would from my body fall.
So Priam griev'd when he too late did find,
The Grecian Horse with armed men was lin'd▪
Then sorrow was in one loud cry exprest,
And every one began to knock his breast;
And now my wife her arms about me cast,
And while I wept, she spake these words at last;
Thou shalt not go alone, for I will be
Thy wife in banishment and follow thee.
In the same ship with thee I'le go aboard,
And one land shall to us one life afford.
Thee unto exile Caesar's wrath commands,
Me love, which love to me for Caesars stands▪
This she repeats, which she had spoke before,
And could not be perswaded to give o're.
Till at the last when I my hair had rent,
Forth like some living Funeral I went.
And after (as I heard) when night grew on,
Being mad with grief, she threw her self along
Upon the ground, while as her hair now lies,
Soild in the dust, and when that she did rise,
She did bewail her gods, her self and all,
And on her husbands name did often call.
Grieving as much for this my late exile,
As if she saw me on the Funeral pile;
She wishes death her sorrows would relieve,
Yet then again for my sake she would live.
And may she live while I obey my fate:
And live to help me in this wretched state,
But now the keeper of the Beare was washt
With waves which even to the Heavens fl sht;
While we the Ionian seas now ploughing were,
Fear made us bold even in the midst of fear.
Alass, the winds the seas in black adorn,
And with the beating waves the sand grew warm,
When streight a Sea o're Poope and stern too came,
Washing those Gods were painted on the same,
And now the planks did groan, the ropes did crack,
As if the ship lamented her own wrack.
Our masters paleness did confess his fear,
And knowing not what to do; gives o're to stear.
And as a man unable to restrain
A head-strong Horse, doth slack the bridle rein,
So he let loose the sails unto the Seas,
Leaving the ship to drive on where it please.
And had not Aeolus other winds straight sent,
We had been driven back from whence we went,
Illyria being on our starboard hand,
We came in sight of the Italian Land.
Cease then you winds to drive us on that shore,
'Tis Caesars will we should go back no more.
Thus fearing that which I did much desire,
The leaping waves did to the decks aspire.
Spare me ye Gods of seas some mercy show,
Let it suffice that Caesar is my foe.
And let not death my weary soul invade,
If one already ruin'd may be sav'd.

ELEGIE IV.

Unto his friend whose love be found,
Constant when his fortune frown'd
And like a chimney hot to be,
In the winter of adversity.
O Friend, thy love deserves the foremost place,
Who pittiedst me as if 'twere thy own case:
For when I was amazed with my grief,
Thy gentle words did yield me great relief.
And didst perswade me still to live, while I,
Wearied with sorrow did desire to dye.
And though by signes thy name I do conceal,
Yet whom I mean thy conscience will reveal.
And of thy true love I will mindful be,
For I do owe my very life to thee.
My soul shall vanish into empty ayre,
My body to the funeral pile repair.
E're I forget thy love which I did find,
Or time do make it slip out of my mind.
But may the easie Gods to thee incline,
And give a fortune far unlike to mine.
Yet had my ship with gentle winds sail'd on,
Thy faithful love to me had been unknown.
Pirithous Theseus love could never know,
Till to the infernal waters they did go:
And Pylades love had never been exprest,
Till madde Orestes furies him distrest.
And had Eurialus scap'd the daring foe,
Of Nisus love who should the story know?
For as the fire the yellow gold doth try,
So love is proved by adversity.
While fortune helps us, and on us doth smile,
They will attend upon our wealth that while,
But if she frown, they flye, and scarce of any
Shall he be known, that had of friends so many.
This which before, I from examples drew,
In my own fortune now is proved true.
Since of my friends so few remaining be,
The rest did love my fortune and not me.
Then let those few aid me distress'd the more,
And bring my ship with safety to the shore:
And let not any fear to be my friend,
Least that his love great Caesar might offend.
For faithfulnesse in friendship he doth love,
And in his enemies doth it approve.
My case is better, since that no attempt,
'Gainst him, but folly wrought my banishment.
Be watchful then in my behalf and fee,
If that his anger may appeased be.
If any wish I should my griefs rehearse,
They are too many to be shew'd in verse.
My griefs are more than stars within the skies,
Or little motes which from the dust arise.
For to my sorrows none can credit give,
Posterity will scarce the same believe.
Besides those other griefs which ought to have,
Within my secret thoughts a silent grave.
Had I a voice and breast could ne're be tyr'd,
More mouths and tongues than ever grief desir'd;
Yet could not I expresse the same in words,
My grief so large a theam to me affords.
You learned Poets leave off now to write,
Ulisses troubles, and my woes recite.
I suffered more; he wandred many years
In comming home front Troy, as it appears▪
We saild so far to the Sarmatian shore,
Till we discover'd stars unknown before.
With him a faithful troop of Grecians went,
My friends forsook me in my banishment.
To bring him home his happy sails were spread,
While I even from my native country fled.
Nor do I saile from Ithaca, from whence,
It would not grieve me co be banisht thence:
But even from Rome, which doth the Gods enfold,
And from seven hills doth all the world behold.
He had a body hardned to endure,
To labour I my self did ne're inure,
In the stern wars great pains he daily took,
But I was still devoted to my book.
One God opposing me, no God brought aide,
But him Bellona helpt the warlike Maid.
And since that Neptune is than Jove far less,
Him Neptune, but great Jove doth me oppress.
Besides some fictions do his labours grace,
Which in our griefs sad story have no place.
And lastly though at last, his home he found,
And landed on the welcome long sought ground.
But ne're shall I my native country see,
Until the angry Gods appeased be.

ELEGIE V.

Unto his Wife whose faithful love,
And constancy he doth approve.
APollo Lyde never lov'd so well,
Nor did Philetas love so much excell
To Battis, as my constant love to thee,
Worthy a husband that might happier be:
Thou helpedst me when fortune did decline,
So if that I am any thing, 'tis thine.
And none through thee, to spoil me more were able,
Who wisht to see me bear a shipwrack table.
For as Wolf whom hunger doth make bold,
Doth dare to set upon the unwatcht fold:
Or as the Vulture round about doth flye,
To see what Carkass doth unburied lye:
In the like manner some unfaithful hand,
Had seiz'd my goods, but that thou didst withstand;
And by friends help didst frustrate his intent,
To whom I can no worthy thanks present.
This was a certain trial of thy love,
If any trial need the same approve.
Andromaches love to Hector when he fell
By stout Achilles, cannot parallel
Thine, more exprest to me in my sad fate,
Then was Laodamia's to her mate.
Hadst thou been Homers wife as thou art mine,
Thou shouldst in fame Penelope out-shine.
Whether thou ow'st thy vertues to thy self,
And liberal nature did impart this wealth;
Or else the example of some Matrons life,
Doth teach thee how to be a loyal wife;
And so by custome made thee like to either;
If things unequal may compare together.
Alas my verse hath now no strength to praise thee,
Nor to the height of thy deserts can raise thee:
And if we any lively vigour had,
Through length of misery it is now decay'd,
Else thy conspicuous vertues should appear,
'Mongst women that for vertue famous were:
Yet if my verses any praise can give,
Within my verse thou shalt for ever live.

ELEGIE VI.

Unto his friends who did engrave,
And on their Rings his Image have,
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Those he wishes him to view,
In those verses which he drew.
THou that my Image wear'st in Rings exprest,
Let not my brow with Ivie wreathes be drest.
Such ensignes happy Poets may adorne,
No Garland on my temples must be worne.
Though you conceal it, yet you know 'tis true,
Who on your finger do me often view.
And having made my counterfeit in gold,
Me in my banishment do so behold.
The sight whereof doth make thee to let fall
These words, How far is Ovid from us all?
I thank your love, but 'tis my verse which shews
My lively picture, therefore it peruse.
My verse which sings the changed shapes of men,
Which by my flight was left unperfect then.
Departing, these I with my hand at last
Into the fire with other riches cast.
As Thestias the brand her son did smother,
Being a better sister then a mother.
So I did cast those books into the flame,
Which by my fault had merited no blame.
Hating my Muse, which did my fault include,
Or else because my verse seem'd lame and rude.
But since I could not so destroy them quite,
But that some copies yet are come to light:
Now may they live, and still delightful be,
Unto the Reader put in mind of me.
Yet they with patience can be read of none,
That to the world are uncorrected shown.
Snatch'd from the forge before they could be fram'd,
Deprived of my last life-giving hand.
For praise I pardon crave, it shall suffice,
If Reader thou do not my Verse despise.
Yet in the front these verses placed be,
If with thy liking it at least agree.
Who meets this Orphan Volume poor in worth,
Within your City harborage afford.
To win more favour, not by him set forth,
But ravish'h from the funeral of his Lord.
This therefore which presents its own defect,
At pleasure with a friendly hand correct.

ELEGIE VII.

To his unconstant friend, whose love
He findes doth now unconstant prove,
And like a Glow-worm seems to shine,
But yields no heat in hardest time.
LEt Rivers now flow back unto their Spring,
And let the Sun from West his course begin:
The earth shall now with shining stars be fill'd,
The skies unto the furrowing plough shall yield.
The water shall send forth a smoaking flame,
The fire shall yield forth water back again.
All things shall go against old natures force,
And no part of the world shall keep his course.
This I presage because I am deceiv'd
Of him, whose love most faithful I believ'd.
What made thy hollow thoughts so soon reject me,
What did'st thou fear when fortune did afflict me.
That thou would'st never comfort me at all,
Or mourn at my living Funeral.
That name of friendship which should holy be,
Is not esteem'd or reckon'd of by thee.
What had it been to have seen a maim'd friend,
And with the rest some words of comfort lend?
And if no tears for me thou couldst have shed,
With fained pitty might'st have something sed.
Thou might'st have done as some who I ne're knew,
And in the common voice have bid adiew:
And lastly, while thou mightest take the pain
To see my face ne're to be seen again,
And might'st have then (which ne're shall more befall)
Give and receive a farewel last of all.
Which others did, whom no strict league did binde,
And made their tears the witness of their minde.
For were not we in love joyn'd each to other,
By length of time and living both together?
My business and my sports were known to thee,
And so were thy affairs well known to me.
Did not I know thee well at Rome of late,
Whom I for mirth-sake did associate?
Are these things vanisht into empty wind,
Drown'd in the Lethe of a faithless mind;
I do not think that thou wert born at Rome,
(Whither alas I never more shall come)
But on some Rock here in the Pontick land,
Or Scythian Mountains that so wildly stand.
And veins of flint are every where disperst,
In slender branches through thy Iron brest.
And sure thy Nurse some cruel Tiger was,
Who gave thee suck as she along did pass:
Else thou hadst made my grief by application
Thy own, nor wouldst thou need this accusation.
But since to encrease the burthen of my grief,
My first of miseries found such poor relief,
Repair this breach of love, that in the end
Thy now complain'd of love I may commend.

ELEGIE VIII.

He shews his friend that vulgar love,
Is fortunes shadow, and doth move
With it; then does congratulate
His worth deserving better fate.
MAist thou live happy even till thou dye,
Who readst this work here with a friendly eye,
And may my prayers unto the Gods nor fail
For thee, which for my self did ne're prevail.
While thou art fortunate thou shalt have friends,
But in adversity their friendship ends.
Thou see'st how Doves to new built houses come,
While as the ruin'd Tower all birds do shun.
The empty Barns no vermine ever haunt,
And no friend comes to him that is in want.
While the Sun shines, our shadows then will stay,
But when o're-cast, it vanishes away.
So do the people follow fortunes light,
Which clouded once, they vanish out of sight.
But may these truths to thee most false still seem,
Which by my ill chance have confirmed been.
A great resort of friends unto me came,
While I kept up my well-known house and name,
But when it fell, my ruine they did shun,
And all at once to fly from me begun.
Nor do I wonder if they thunder fear,
That blasteth every thing it cometh near:
Yet a friend constant in adversity,
Caesar approves even in his enemy.
Nor is he wont to be displeas'd to see,
Those that have loved once, still friends should be.
Even Troas when that he Orestes knew,
Did praise that love which Pylades did shew.
And that Patroclus was Achilles friend,
Though in his foe brave Hector doth commend.
When Theseus went down with his friend to Hell,
Pluto was griev'd to see them love so well.
And Turnus did with tears commiserate,
Euryalus and Nisus dismal fate.
Friendship is in an enemy approv'd;
Yet how few with these words of mine are mov'd?
For such my state of fortune now appears,
I ought to keep no measure in my tears.
Yet though my own times are unfotunate,
They are made more clear even by thy better fate,
I saw dear friend, that this to thee would come,
When a less wind did drive thy ship along.
If spotlesse life deserve to be esteem'd.
No man deserveth more to be esteem'd;
If liberal Arts can any man advance,
Thou mak'st each cause good by thy eloquence,
And mov'd herewith I do to thee presage,
A glorious Scene upon the worldly stage.
Not thunder told me this, nor yet the sight
Of sheeps entrails, nor birds voyce or flight.
Reason did me this augury afford,
When as I saw thy mind with vertue stor'd.
And now do gratulate this my divination,
In that thy venues have such publication.
Would I had kept in darknesse out of sight
My studies, which I wish had ne're known light:
For as thy fame from eloquence doth grow,
So from my verse, my ruine first did flow.
Thou know'st my life, and how I did abstain
From those same Arts of Love which I did frame.
Thou know'st I writ it in my younger daies,
In jesting manner, not to merit praise.
Though I dare nothing urge in my defence,
I think I may excuse my late offence.
Excuse me then, nor e're forsake thy friend,
But as thou hast begun, so also end.

ELEGIE IX.

Ovid here his ship doth praise,
That carried him through many Seas.
YEllow Minerva doth my ship maintan,
Which of her painted Helmet bears the name.
For with the least wind she will nimbly sail,
And go with Oars when as the wind doth fail.
She will out-sail her company out-right,
And fetch up any ship that is in sight.
She can endure the waves which on her bear,
Yet will she never open any leake.
I boarded her in the Corinthian bay,
From whence she stoutly brought me on my way▪
By Pallas help, by whom she was protected,
Through many dangerous seas she was directed.
And may she now cut through the Pontick strand,
And bring me safely to the Getick Land.
Who when that she had carryed me at last,
Through the Ionian Seas, when we had past
Along those coasts, we stood to the left hand,
And so we came unto the Imbrian Land.
Then with a gentle wind she sailed on,
And touch'd at Samos as she went along.
Upon the other side there stands a Wood,
Thus farre my ship did bring me through the flood.
Through the Bistonians fields on foot I went,
And then from Hellespont her course she bent.
For to Dardania she her course intended,
And Lampsace which Priapus defended.
So to the walls of Cyzicon she came,
Which the Maeonian people first did frame.
Thence to Constantinople was her way,
Whereas two Seas do meet within one bay.
Now may my other ship with a strong gale,
Pass by the moving Isles; while she doth sail,
By the Thinnian bay, while her course doth fall,
To come hard by Anchialus high wall.
Then to Messembria, Odesson, and the Tower,
Which is defended by God Bacchus power:
And to Megara which did first receive
Alcathous, who did his Country leave.
So to Miletus which is the place assign'd,
To which by Caesars wrath I am confin'd.
Where for an offering of a greater price,
A Lambe to Pallas I will sacrifice,
And you two Brothers that are stellifi'd,
I pray that you my ship may gently guide,
One ship to the Cyanean Isles is bound;
The other goes to the Bistonian ground.
And therefore grant the winde may fitly stand,
To bring them safely to a diverse land.

ELEGIE X.

Unto the Reader here he showes,
That he this first Book did compose
In his journey, and so doth crave
His pardon, if some faults it have.
EAch letter that thou readest in this Book,
I did indite, while I my journey took.
And while I writ the Sea did me enfold,
While I did tremble with December's cold.
Or when having past the Isthmus through the main,
We were enforced to take ship again;
I think it did amaze the Cyclades,
To see me writing verses on the Seas.
I wonder too, that I with stormes of mind,
And waves opprest, could such invention find.
For if that Poetry be nam'd a madness,
Yet it did ease my minde in mid'st of sadness.
Now by the stormy winds our ship was beaten,
Then Sterope did make the seas to threaten.
Arctophylax did cloud the day again,
And Southern windes did bring down showers of rain.
The Sea leak'd in a pace, yet then I drew,
With trembling hand these verses here in view.
And now the winds did whistle in the shrowds,
The waves did seem to rise up to the clouds.
The Pilot lifting up his hands and heart
Besought the Gods for help, and left his Art:
Where e're I look, deaths shape behold I may,
Which maketh me at once, to fear, and pray.
The Heavens sight would but encrease my fears,
The Land more fearful then the Sea appears.
The fear of cruel men my thoughts doth trouble,
The sword, and seas, do make my fears seem double.
For that would fain deprive me of my breath,
And this would have the glory of my death.
On the left hand a barbarous Nation stood,
Who do delight in slaughter, warre, and blood:
And while the waves do give the sea no rest.
The sea is not more troubled than my breast.
So that the Reader ought to pardon these
Few lines of mine, if that they do not please.
I writ them not within my garden Arbour,
Or while my bed my weary limbs did harbour.
But on our ship the angry waves did beat,
And the blew water did my paper wet.
Winter grew angry for to see me write,
While he in threatning stormes did shew his might.
I yield to him, and may his stormy weather,
Here with my verse be ended both together.

LIB. 2.

Unto Caesar he excuses
Himself, and condemns his Muses.
And many Poets doth recite,
Who in their times did loosely write;
Yet in that age were never sent,
Though like in fault, to banishment.
WHat have I to do with you my unhappy book?
On whom as on my ruine I must look.
Why do I returne unto my Muse again,
Is't not enough one punishment to obtain.
It was my verse that first did overthrow me,
And made both men, and women wish to know me.
It was my verse did make great Caesar deem,
My life to be such, as my verse did seem.
Amongst my chiefest faults I must rehearse,
My love of study, and my looser verse.
In which while I my fruitless labour spent,
I gained nothing but sad banishment.
Those learned Sisters I should therefore hate,
Who their adorers still do ruinate.
Yet such my madnesse is, that folly armes me,
To strike my foot against that stone that harmes me;
Even as some beaten Fencer after tries
To re [...]gain honour, by a second Prize.
Or as some torne ship that newly came
To shore, yet after stands to sea again.
Perhaps as Telephus was healed by a sword,
So that which hurt me shall like help afford.
And that my verse his mov'd wrath may appease,
Since verses have great power the Gods to please.
Caesar hath bidden each Italian Dame.
To sing some verses to great Opis name:
And unto Phoebus when he set forth plaies,
To him once seen within an age of daies.
So may my verse great Caesars now obtain,
By examples to appease thy wrath again.
Just is thy wrath, which I will ne're deny,
Such shameful words, from my mouth do not flie:
And this offence makes me for pardon crie,
Since faults are objects of thy clemencie.
Jove would be soon disarm'd, if he should send,
His thunder-bolts as oft as men offend.
Now though his thunders make the world to fear,
It breaks the clouds, and makes the aire more clear:
Whom therefore father of the Gods we name,
Than Jove none greater doth the world contain.
Thou Pater Patriae too art call'd, then be,
Like to those Gods in name and clemencie.
And so thou art, for no more moderate hand,
Could hold the reines of Empire and command,
Thy enemie once overcome in field
Thou pardon'st, which he victor would not yield.
And some thou did'st with honours dignifie,
That have attempted 'gainst thy majestie.
Thy warres on one day did begin and cease,
While both sides brought their offerings unto peace:
That as the Victor in the vanquisht Foe,
The vanquisht in the victor gloried so.
My case is better since I ne're did joyne,
With those who did in arms 'gainst thee combine.
By Sea, by Earth, and Stygian Gods I swear,
And by thy self whose God-like power I fear.
My thoughts, though wanting means to be exprest,
As faithful were, as those who most profest.
For I did joyne my frequent prayers with them,
That thou might'st here long wear thy Diadem.
And for thy safety made a poor expence,
To please the Gods with offered Frankincense,
Besides, those faulty books of mine contain,
In many places, thy most sacred name.
And if thou would'st that worke of mine peruse.
Of changed shapes, snatcht from my banisht Muse;
In it thy name still mention'd thou shalt finde,
And many things which shew my humble minde.
For though my hapless Muse cannot aspire,
To raise thy fame and glory any higher;
Jove's pleas'd when we his glorious acts rehearse,
And make him be the subject of our verse.
And when we do the Giants warres recite,
In his own praises be doth sure delight.
Others may celebrate thy sacred name,
And sing thy praises in a fluent veine.
Though we an hundred Bulls do sacrifice,
The Gods the smallest gifts do not despise.
But oh! more cruel then a foe was he,
Who first did shew my wanton lines to thee.
Lest that my verses which thy fame do spread,
Might so with equal favour now be read.
Y t thou being angry, who durst love profess?
For I did hate my self in my distress,
As in some falling house the heavy weight,
The first declining posts oppresses streight.
So when that fortune an estate doth rend,
All things by their own weight to ruine tend.
The people likewise hate me for my books,
And so compose themselves unto thy looks.
Yet I remember in my younger daies,
My life and manners thou didst often praise.
For though unthriving honesty obtain
No honour, yet no crime did soile my fame.
The Defendants cause sometimes in hand I took,
On which the hundred Senators should look.
And when I private matters did compound,
Each side the justice of my sentence found.
And if at last I had not thus offended,
I know thou hast me formerly commended.
This last destroyes me, sinks my ship below
The waves, which often did in safety go.
Nor did some small and little wave distress me,
But a whole Ocean did at once oppresse me.
Alas, why have my eyes thus hapless been,
To give me knowledge of a private sin.
Acteon did Diana naked spie,
And yet for this he by his hounds did die.
Though fortune did offend in this, nor he,
Yet errours 'gainst the Gods must punisht be.
Even so that day that errour me betray'd,
A small, but not ignoble house decay'd.
Yet such as from antiquity hath shown,
Armes that have been inferiour unto none.
Not Wealthy, nor yet e're with want disgrac'd,
But with the houses of the Gentry plac'd.
And if my house had borne an humble name,
It had been famous by my fluent veine.
Which though I us'd more lightly then became,
Yet all the world beareth up my name.
The learned too have Naso known, nor fear
To place him with those that renowned were.
Yet now this house which by my Muse was rais'd
Is by one fault of mine again disgrac'd.
Yet fallen so as it it self may rear,
If Casar's wrath would once more milde appear.
Whose mercie in my sentence was exprest,
Farre short of that my fear did first suggest,
Whose anger reacht not to this life of ours,
But with great mildness us'd thy Princely powers,
And thou my forfeit goods to me did'st give,
And with my life did'st grant me means to live.
Nor by the Senates sentence was I sent,
Or private judgement into banishment,
But didst thy self pronounce those heavie words,
Whose execution full revenge affords.
Besides, thy Edict forcing my exile,
Did with great favour my late fault enstile.
Whereby I am not banisht but Confin'd,
And misery is in gentle words assign'd.
For there's no punishment though ne're so strict,
Can more then thy displeasure me afflict.
Yet sometimes angry Gods appeased are,
And when the Clouds are gone, the day is fair.
I have seen the Elm loaden with Vines again,
That had before been strucken by Joves flame:
Therefore Ile hope, since thou canst not deny
To grant me this even in my misery.
Thy mercy makes me hope, till I reflect
Upon my fault, which doth all hope reject:
And as the rage of Seas by winds incens'd,
Is not with equal fury still commenc'd:
But that sometimes a quiet calm it hath,
And seems to have laid by his former wrath:
Even so my various thoughts do make me fare,
Now calm'd by hope, then troubled with despair,
By those same Gods that grant thee long to reign,
That thou maist still maintain the Roman name.
And by thy Countrie happie in thy fate,
Where I a subject were of thine of late.
May so the City render thee due love,
For thy great acts which do thy mind approve.
So may thy Livia live here many years,
Who only worthie of thy love appears.
Whom nature kept for thee, else there had been,
None worthie to have been thy Royal Queen.
So may thy Son grow up, and with his father,
Rule this same Empire happily together.
And by his acts and thine, which time can't bide,
May both your off-springs so be stellifi'd.
May victory so accustom'd to thy Tent,
Come to his coulours, and her self present;
And fly about him with displayed wings,
While she a Laurel wreath to crown him brings.
To whom thou dost thy wars command resign,
And givest him that fortune that was thine.
While thou thy self at home in peace dost reign,
Thy other self doth foraign Wars maintain.
May he return a victor o're his soe,
And on his plumed horse in triumph go.
Oh spare me therfore! and do now lay by
Thy Thunder, which hath bred my misery.
Spare me thou Pater Patriae, let that name,
Give me some hope, to please thee once again.
I sue not to repeal my banishment,
Though unto greater sutes the Gods assent.
For if thou wouldst some milder place asign
Of exile, it would ease this grief of mine.
For here I suffer even the worst of woes,
While I do live amongst the barbarous foes▪
Being sent unto Danubius seven-fold stream,
Whereas Calistho drives her frozen Team.
And while the silver waves do gently slide,
The Colchians from the Getes can scarce divide:
And though for greater faults some are profcrib'd,
Yet none in farther banishment abide.
Beyond this, nought but cold and foes remain,
And seas that are bound with an Icye Chain.
Part of the Euxine sea which Rome commands
Runs here, and then below Sarmatia stands.
Here doth the spreading Roman Empire end,
Whose utmost bounds do hither scarce extend,
This makes me pray to be removed hence,
A peaceful exile granting my offence.
Nor with those people may a captive bide,
Who once enrag'd the Ister can't divide.
Besides, a free-born Roman cannot be,
By foreign hands held in captivity.
Though two faults, verse, and errour me opprest,
The latter shall in, silence be supprest.
I am unworthy to renew the wound,
O Caesar, by which I the smart have found.
But of my fault they urge a second part,
In that I taught Loves wanton idle Art.
I see that human acts the Gods deceive,
My fault is not such as thou dost believe.
For as great Jove that heaven beholding sits,
No leisure unto small affairs admits:
So when this under Orbe thou dost o're-look ,
Thy royal thoughts no meaner cares do brook.
As that thou shouldst (my Leige) have so mush leisure,
To read my verse, fram'd with unequal measure.
It seems the weight of the Roman name does lye,
Not on thy shoulders very heavily.
That thou wouldst deign to mark those idle lines;
And view what I had writ at idle times.
Now thou rebelling Hungary dost tame,
While as the Thracians menace arms again.
The Armenians seeking peace, the Parthian shows
His spreading colours, and do bend their bows.
Germany feels thy valour in thy Son,
While Caesars foes, young Caesar doth o're-come.
And lastly through thy Empires large extention.
No part doth fall away through thy prevention.
The City and the Laws thou dost defend,
And by example dost thy subjects mend.
Nor with thy people dost thou live at ease,
When by thy wars thou settest them in peace.
'Mongst such affairs I wounder thou hadst time
For to peruse those Idle jests of mine.
Or if thou readst them with a quiet thought,
I wish that in my art thou hadst read no fault.
It was not for severer judgements writ,
And for thy princely view it was unfit.
Yet such as doth not 'gainst thy laws offend,
Or wanton rules to marryed Wives commend.
And least thou doubt to whom they written were,
In one book of the three, these verses are.
Away all you whose fillets bind your hair:
And you that ankle-touching garments wear:
The lawfull scapes of love we here rehearse,
That so their may be no fault in my verse.
What though we banish from this Art all such
As the robe and fillet bids us not to touch.
Yet may the Matron use another art,
And draw from thence what I did ne'r impart.
Let the Matron then not read, for she may find,
Matter in all verse to corrupt her mind.
What e're she touches, she that delights in ill,
Of vices knowledge she may learn the skill.
Let her the Annales take (though most severe)
The fault of Ilia will thereby appear.
And in the Aeneads read as in the other,
How wanton Venus was Aeneas mother.
And I will shew beneath in every kind,
That there's no verse but may corrupt the mind,
Yet every book is not for this to blame,
Since nothing profits but may hurt again.
Than sire what better, yet he that doth desire
To burne a house, doth arm himself with sire.
Health-giving physick, health doth oft empair,
Some hearbs are wholesome and some poyson are.
The chief and traveller swords wear, to th' end,
Th' one may assault, the other may defend.
Though eloquence should plead the honest cause,
It may defend the guilty by the laws.
So if my verse be read with a good mind,
Thou shalt be sure in it no hurt to find.
He therefore erres who led by self-conceit,
Doth mis-interpret whatsoe're I write.
Why are there Cloisters, wherein Maids do walk,
That with their Lovers they may meet and talk?
The Temple though most sacred let her shun,
That with an evil mind doth thither come,
For in Joves temple her thoughts will suggest,
How many Maids by Jove, have been opprest:
And think in Junoe's temples when shes praying,
How Juno injur'd was by Joves oft straying;
And Pallas seen, she thinks some faulty birth,
Made her to hide Ericthon born of earth:
If she come to Mars's temple, o're the gate,
There standeth Venus with her cuning mate.
In Isis temple, she revolveth how,
Poor Io was transform'd into a Cow.
And something then her wandring fancy moves,
To think of Venus and Anchises loves.
Jasus and Ceres next her thoughts encite,
And pale Endimion the Moons favourite,
For though those statues were for prayer assign'd,
Yet every thing corrupts an evil mind,
And my first leaf bids them not read that Art,
Which I to Harlots only did impart.
And since in maidens it is thought a crime,
For to press farther than the Priests assign:
Is she not faulty then, who not forbears
To read my verses, prohibited chaste cares?
Matrons to view those pictures are content,
Which various shapes of venery present?
And Vestal Virgins do peruse the same,
For which the Author doth receive no blame.
Yet why did I that wanton vein approve?
Why doth my Book perswade them unto love?
It was my fault which I do hear confess,
My wit and judgement did therein transgress.
Why did not I of Troy's sad ruin tell,
(That vexed theme) which by the Graecians fell.
Or Thebes seven gates which severally kept,
Where by mutual wounds those brothers dy'd and slept.
An ample subject warlike Rome afforded,
Whose acts I might have piously recorded.
And though great Caesars deeds abroad are known,
Yet by my verse some part I might have shown:
For as the Suns bright rayes do draw the sight,
So might thy acts my willing Muse incite.
Yet 'twas no fault to plough a little field,
Knowing that theme doth fertile matter yield.
For though the Cock-boat through the Lake do row,
She dare not venture unto sea to go.
This I did fear, for though my lighter vein,
To frame some slender measures can attain;
Yet had I took to write the Gyants war,
That work for me had been to heavy far.
That happy wits of Caesars acts may tell,
Whose high strain'd lines his acts can parallel.
And though I once attempted such an act,
Me thought my verse did from thy worth detract.
Then to my Youthful Layes I went again,
And writ of love, under a fained name.
The fates did draw me 'gainst my own intent,
By writing to obtain a banishment.
Why learnt I by my parents care, or why
Did tempting books detain my busie eye?
For this thou hat'st me, since thou dost distrust,
I taught by art how to solicite lust.
When I to wives no theft of love did show,
How could I teach what I did never know?
For though some smooth soft verses I did frame,
No ill report could ever wound my fame.
Nor can some husband of the vulgar rank,
For being made a doubtful father, thank
My verse, by which my thoughts are not exprest,
My life is modest, though my muse love jest.
Besides, my works are Fictions, and do crave
Some liberty, which their Authour may not have.
Nor do books shew the mind, whose chief intention,
Is to delight the ear with new invention.
Should Accius cruel be, Terence delight
In bankets, and all warriours who do write
Of wars, and lastly some have love-layes fram'd,
Who though like faulty, yet are not like blam'd.
What did the harping old man teach in rhyme,
But to steep Venus in the heat of Wine?
And Sappho doth instruct maids how to love,
Yet he nor Sappho no man doth reprove.
Who blames Battiades that abus'd his leasure,
In wanton verse to set forth his own pleasure?
Menanders pleasant merry tales of love,
The harmless thoughts of virgins do approve.
What do the Iliads shew, but wars sad shape,
In the regaining an adulterous rape.
And how Achilles Chryses love enflam'd,
And how the Grecians Helen back regain'd.
The Odysses shew how in a wooing strife,
Those sutors vainly sought Ulysses wife.
And Homer tells how Mars and Venus ty'd▪
In close embraces, by the Gods were spy'd.
Whom but from Homer could we ever know,
How two fair Ladies lov'd a stranger so?
The tragedies in stateliness excel,
Yet those of loves affairs do often tell.
Hyppolitus was loved of his mother,
And fait Canace did affect her brother.
When Menelaus Helen bore away,
Cupid did drive the chariot on that day.
When in the Childrens bloud the mother dyes
The sword, this act from frantick love did rise,
Love to a Lapwing chang'd the Thracian King,
And fitted Progne with a Swallows wing.
And 'twas a brothers love that did affright,
The Sun, and made him for to hide his light.
Never should Scylla on the stage appear.
But that love made her clip her fathers hair.
And whoso reads Orestes frantick fears,
Of murthered Pyrrhas and Aegisthus heares.
What name I him did the Chimaera tame?
Whose treacheous hostess sought his life in vain.
What of Hermione or the Arcadian Maid?
Phoebe whose course the Latmian lover staid.
Or what of Danae, by Jove a mother grown,
And Hercules got, in two nights joyn'd in one.
To these adde Yole, Pyrrhus and that Boy,
Sweet Hylas, with Paris, fire-brand unto Troy.
And should I here recite loves tragick flames,
My book would scarce contain their very names.
Thus tragedies to wanton laughter bend,
And many shameful words in them they blend.
Some blameless have Achilles acts defac'd,
And by soft measures have his deeds disgrac'd.
Though Aristides his own faults compil'd,
Yet Aristides was not straight exil'd.
Eubius did write an impure history,
And does describe unwholsom venery.
Nor he that Sybarin luxuries composed,
Nor he that his own sinful acts disclosed▪
These in the libraries by some bounteous hand,
To publick use do there devoted stand.
By strangers pens I need not seek defence,
Our own books with such liberty dispence.
For though grave Ennius of wars tumults writ,
Whose artless works do shew an able wit.
The cause of fire Lucretius doth explain,
And shews how three causes did this world frame.
Wanton Catullus yet his Muse did task,
To praise his Mistress, whom he then did mask
Under the name of Lesbia, and so strove;
In verse to publish his own wanton love.
And with like licence Calvus too assaies,
For to set forth his pleasure divers waies.
Why should I mention Memnons wanton vein?
Who to each filthy act doth give a name.
And Cinna striving by his verse to please
Cornificus, may well be rank'd with these:
And he that did commend to after fame,
His love disguised by Metellus name.
And he that sailed for the fleece of gold,
His secret thefts of love doth oft unfold.
Hortensius too, and Servius writ as bad,
Who'd think my fault so great examples had?
Sisenna Aristides works translates,
And oft in wanton jests expatiates.
For praising Lycoris, none doth Gallus blame,
If that his tounge in wine he could contain.
Tibullus writes that womens oathes are wind,
Who can with outward shews their husbands blind,
Teaching them how their keepers to beguile,
While he himself is consen'd by that wise,
That he would take occasion for to try
Her ring, that he might touch her hand thereby.
By private tokens he would talk sometime,
And on the table draw a wanton sign:
Teaching what oyles that blewness shall expel,
Which by much kissing on their lips doth dwell.
And unto husbands do strict rules commend,
If they be honest, wives will not offend.
And when the dog doth barke, to know before,
That 'tis their Lover that stands at the door.
And many notes of Love-thefts he doth leave.
And teacheth wives their husbands to deceive.
Yet is Tibullus read and famous grown,
And unto thee great Caesar he was known.
And though Propertiue did like precepts give,
Yet his clear fame doth still unstained live.
To these did I succeed, for I'le suppress
Their names who live, and faulty are no less.
I fear'd not where so many ships had past,
That my poor bark should shipwrackt be at last.
For some do shew the Art to play at dice,
Which was in former times esteem'd a vice.
And how to make the dice still higher run,
And so the little loosing Ace to shun.
Or how to cast and strike a Dye again.
To run that chance which any one shall name.
And how at Drafts a crowned King to make,
And play your man where none the same can take.
To know to chase, and to retire, and then
In flying how to back your man again.
And some the game of three-stones likewise show,
Where he does win that brings them on a row.
Others in sundry games like pains do take,
Wherein we lose our time to win a stake.
And some of Tennis-play do also sing,
And do instruct us how by art to swim.
Here one the secrets of face-drugs discloses,
Another laws of crowned feasts composes.
And the best day he likewise doth assign.
And what Cups do become the sparkling wine.
And in December merry ryhmes ate sung,
By which the Winter doth sustain no wrong.
So I to write some merry verses meant,
Which straight were punisht with sad banishment.
Of all these former writers there was none,
Whose Muse did ruine him, but I alone.
If I had jested in some Mimick vein,
Which wanton Sceanes of love doth still contain.
In which the Lover does come forth to wooe,
And wanton wives do cheat their husbands too:
Yet these, Maids, Matrons, and old men delight,
And 'fore the Senate acted are by night.
Whose wanton language doth the ear prophane.
Making loose offers at those acts of shame.
When husbands are beguil'd by pretty waies,
They applaud the Poet, and do give him bayes.
He gains by being punish'd for his crimes,
And makes the Praetor pay more for his lines.
And when (great Caesar) thou dost set forth playes,
The Poet's pay'd, that did the plot first raise.
Which thou beholdest, and hast set out to view,
Whereby thou dost thy gracious mildness shew.
And with those eyes which make the world to fear,
Thou saw'st the Scenes of love that acted were.
If Mimicks may write in a wanton strain,
Why should my verse such punishment obtain?
Are they by licence of the stage protected?
Which makes the Mimicks bawdy jests affected.
My poems too have made the people rise,
To help attention with their greedy eyes.
Though in your house the lively pictures stand,
Of Noblemen drawn by the painters hand:
Yet have you wanton tables hanging by,
Which shew the divers shapes of venery.
Though you have Ajax picture full of ire,
And fierce Medea with her eyes like fire.
Yet Venus seems to dry her moystned hairs
As if from sea she newly did repair.
Let others of wars bloudy tumults write,
And of thy acts which learned pens invite.
Nature hath scanted me and doth restrain,
To meaner subjects this my humble vein.
Yet Virgil who is read with much delight,
Doth of the acts of brave Aeneas write.
And no part is with greater favour read,
Then where he brings him to Queen Dido's bed.
Yet in his youth he did commend fair Phillis,
And sports himself in praising Amarillis.
And though I formerly in that same vein
Offended, yet I now do bear the blame.
I had writ verses, when before thee I,
Amongst the other horse-men passed by.
And now my age doth even bear the blame
Of those things which my younger years did frame,
My faulty books are now reveng'd at last,
And I am punish'd for a fault that's past.
Yet all my works are not so light and vain,
Sometimes I lanch'd into the deeper main.
And in six books Romes holidaies have shew'd,
Where with the Month each Volume doth conclude.
And to thy sacred name did dedicate
That work, though left unperfect by my fate.
Besides, I stately Tragedies have writ,
And with high words the Tragick stile did fit:
Besides, of changed shapes my muse did chant,
Though they my last life-giving hand did want.
And would thy anger were but so appeas'd,
As that to read my verse thou wouldst be pleas'd.
My verse, where from the infant birth of things,
My Muse her work unto thy own time brings.
Thou shouldst behold the strength of every line,
Wherein I strive to praise both thee and thine.
Nor are my verses mingled so with gall,
As that my lines should be Satyrical.
Amongst the vulger people none yet found,
Themselves once touch'd, my Muse my self doth wound.
Therefore each generous mind I do believe.
Will not rejoyce, but at my ill fare grieve.
Nor yet will triumph o're my wretched state.
Who ne're was proud even in my better fate.
O therefore let these reasons change thy mind
That in distress I may thy favour find,
Not to return, though that perhaps may be,
When thou in time at last maist pardon me.
But I intreat thee to remove me hence,
To safer exile fitting my offence.

LIB. 3.

The Book doth to the Reader shew,
That he it loath to come to view;
And tels how he was entertain'd
By some, while others him disdain'd.
I Am that Book who fearfully do come,
Even from a banisht man to visit Rome:
And coming weary from a foraign land,
Good Reader let me rest within thy hand.
Do not thou fear or be asham'd of me,
Since no love verses in this paper be.
My Master now by fortune is opprest,
It is no time for him to write in jest;
Though in his youth he had a wanton vein,
Yet now he doth condemn that work again▪
Behold! here's nothing but sad mourning lines,
So that my verse agreeth with his times.
And that my second verse is lame in strength,
Short feet do cause it, or the journies length.
Nor are my rough leaves cover'd o're with yellow,
For I my authors fortune mean to follow.
And though some blots my clearer letters stain,
Know that my authors toars did make the same.
If thou my language scarcely understand,
Know that he writ me in a barbarous land.
Therefore good Reader teach me where to go,
Some place of rest unto a strange book show.
This having said, with words which grief made slow,
One ready was the way to me to show.
I thankt him, and did pray the Gods that he,
Might like my Master never banisht be.
Lead on, and I will follow by thy hand,
Though I am tir'd with passing sea and land.
He did consent, and as we went, quoth he,
This is the holy street which thou dost see.
Here's Vestaes Temple that keeps holy fire,
Here Numa's lofty pallace doth aspire,
Here is Evanders gate, and now you come,
Unto that place where they first builded Rome.
And then quoth I, this is the house of Jove,
This oaken crown doth my conjecture prove.
He told me it was Caesars, nay then, quoth I,
I see great Jove dwels here in Majesty.
Yet why doth Bayes upon the gates appear?
And thus incircle Caesars statue here?
In it because his house doth merit praise?
And is beloved of the God of Bayes.
Or doth it now denote a Festival?
In token of that peace he gives to all.
Or as the Lawrel evermore is green,
So still his house most flourishing hath been.
Or do those letters on the wreath engrav'd,
Shew that that City by his power was sav'd.
Oh Caesar! save one Citizen at last,
Who now into the utmost world is cast.
Where he sad punishment doth still sustain,
Which he by errour only did obtain.
Alass while I view Caesars pallace here,
My letters seem to quake with trembling fear.
Dost thou not see my paper does look pale,
And how my trembling feet begin to fail?
I pray that this same house which now I see,
May to my master reconciled be.
From thence we to Apollo's Temple went,
To which by steps there is a fair ascent.
Where stand the signes in fair outlandish stone,
Of Belus and of Palamed the sonne.
There ancient books, and those that are more new,
Do all lye open to the readers view.
I sought my brethren there, excepting them,
Whose hapless birth my father doth condemn.
And as I sought, the chief man of that place,
Bid me be gone out of that holy space.
I went to Temples to the Theater-joyn'd,
But here no entertainment could I finde,
Nor could I come unto the outward yard,
Which unto learned books is not debar'd,
We are heirs unto mis-fortune by descent,
And we his children suffer banishment.
Perhaps when time doth Caesar's wrath subdue,
He will to him and us some favour shew.
Since for the peoples help I do not care,
O Caesar hearken to my earnest prayer.
Since publick stalls are unto me deny'd,
In private corners I my self may hide:
And you Plebeians take in hand again,
My verses which you once repuls'd with shame.

ELEGIE II.

In Swan-like tunes he doth deplore
His exile, and knocks at the door
Of death, desiring hasty fare,
His wretched life would terminate.
WAs it my fate that I should Scythia see,
And the land whose Zenith is the Axle-tree?
And would not you sweet Muses nor Apollo,
Help me, who did your holy rites still follow?
Could not my hamless verses me excuse,
And life more serious then jesting Muse?
But that I must when I the seas had past,
Unto the Pontick land be brought at last.
And I that still my self from care with-drew,
Loving soft ease, and no rough labour knew.
Having past great dangers both by sea and land,
Here worst of miseries is by me sustain'd.
Yet I endure these evils, for I find,
My body doth receive strength from my mind.
And in my passage to my sad exile,
I with my studie did my cares beguile.
But when I did my journies end attain,
And that unto the hated shore I came:
Then from mine eyes a shower of tears did flow,
Like water runing from the melted snow.
And then my house and Rome comes in my mind,
And every thing that I had left behind.
Alass that I should knock still at the grave,
To be let in, yet can no entrance have.
Why have I still escaped from the sword?
Could not the sea to me a death afford?
You Gods who constant are in your just ire,
And do with Caesar in revenge conspire.
I do beseech you hasten on my fate,
And bid death open unto me the gate.

ELEGIE. III.

He lets his wise here understand.
Of his sickness in a forraign land.
Then writes his Epitaph, with intent
To make his Books his monument.
THat this my Letter by a strangers hand
Is writ, the cause, my sickness understand.
For in the worlds remotest part I lye
Sick, and uncertain of recovery.
What comfort can within that climate shine.
On which the Getes and Sauramates confine?
My nature does not with the soile agree,
The air and water does seem strange to me.
My shelter poor, my diet here is bad,
No health-estoring physick can be had.
No friend to comfort me, who will assay,
With some discourse to pass the time away.
But here upon my bed of sickness cast,
I think of many things which now are past.
And thou my dearest wife above the rest,
Dost hold the chiefest place within my breast.
Thy absent name is mentiond still by me,
And every day and night I think on thee.
Sometimes I speak things without sense or wit,
That I may name thee in my frantick fit.
If I should swound, and that no heating wine,
Could give life to this faultring tongue of mine,
To hear of thy approach would make me live,
Thy very presence would new vigor give.
Thus I most doubtful of life an grown,
But thou perhaps liv'st merrily at home.
No, I dare say, that thou my dearest wife.
Dost in my absence lead a mourning life.
Yet if the number of my years de done,
And that my hasty thread of life is spun.
You Gods you might with ease have let me have,
Within my native land a happy grave.
If that you would have let my death prevent,
My fatal journey unto banishment;
Then had I dy'd in my integrity,
But now I here a banish'd man must dye.
And shall I here resigne my weary breath,
The place makes me unhappy in my death.
Upon my bed I shall not fall asleep,
And none upon my Coffin here shall weep.
Nor shall my wives tears, while that they do fall
Upon my face, me unto life recal.
I shall not make my will, nor with sad cries
No friendly hand shall close my dying eies▪
Without a Tomb or Funeral I shall be,
While as the barbarous earth doth cover me.
Which when thou hearest, be not with grief opprest,
Nor do not thou for sorrow beat thy breast.
Why shoudst thou wring thy tender hands in vain?
Or call upon thy wretched husbands name?
Tear not thy cheeks, nor cut thy hair for me,
For I am not (good wife) now took from thee.
When I was banisht then I dy'd, alass!
For banishment then death more heavy was.
Now I would have thee to rejoyce (good wife)
Since all my grief is ended with my life.
And bear thy sorrows with a valiant heart:
Mis-haps have taught thee how to play thy part.
And with my body may my soul expire,
That so no part may scape the greedy fire.
For if to Pythagoras we may credit give,
Who saith the soul eternally doth live:
My soul 'mongst the Sarmatick shades shall stray,
And to the cruel ghosts ne'r find the way.
Yet let my ashes be put in an Urn,
So being dead I shall again return.
This lawful is, the Theban being dead,
His loving sister saw him buried.
And let sweet powders round my bones be laid,
And so into some secret place convey'd;
Graving these Verses on a Marble stone,
In Letters to be read by every one.
I Ovid, that did write of wanton Love,
Lye here, my Verse my 'overthrow did prove.
Thou that hast been in Love, and passest by,
Pray still that Ovids bones may softly lye.
This Epitaph shall suffice, since my books be
A far more lasting Monument to me.
Which though they hurt me, yet shall raise my name,
And give their Authour everlasting fame.
Yet let thy love in Funoral gifts be shew'd,
And bring sweet Garland with thy tears be-dew'd.
Those ashes which the funeral fire shall leave,
Will in their Urn thy pious love perceive.
More would I write, but that my voyce is spent,
Nor can my dry tongue speak what I invent.
Then take my last words to thee; live in health,
Which though I send to thee, I want my self.

ELEGIE IV.

Ovid doth his friend advise,
A life of greatness to despise.
Since Thunder doth the hill assail.
While quiet peace lives in the vale.
MY always dearest friend, but then most known,
When I by adverse Fortune was o're-thrown.
If thou wilt take the Counsel of a friend,
Live to thy self, do not too high ascend.
Since Thunder from the highest Tower doth come,
Live to thy self, and glittering titles shun.
For though the beams of greatness may us warm,
Yet greatest men have greatest power to harm.
The naked sail-yard sears no storms at all,
And greater sails more dangerous are then small.
The floating Cork upon the waves doth swim,
While heavy Lead doth sink the Net therein.
Of these things had some friend admonisht me,
Perhaps I had been still at Rome with thee.
While as a gentle wind did drive me on,
My boat through quiet streams did run along.
He that by chance doth fall upon the plain,
He falleth so that he may rise again.
But when Elpenor fron a high house fell,
His ghost went down to Pluto King of Hell.
Though Daedalus his wings did him sustain,
Yet falling Icarus gave the Sea his name.
Because that he flew high, the other low,
While both of them their wings abroad did throw.
The man that unto solitude is bent,
Doth live most happy if he be content.
Eumenes of his Son was not deprived,
Until that he Achilles Horses guided.
And Phaethon had not dyed in the flame,
If that his Father could his will restrain.
Then fear thou still to take the higher way,
And in thy course draw in thy sails I pray.
Thou worthy art to live most fortunate,
And to enjoy a candid happy fate.
Thy gentle love deserves this praise of mine,
Since thou didst cleave to me in every time.
I saw how that thy grief for me was shown,
Even in thy looks most like unto my own.
I saw thy tears which on my face did fall,
And with my tears I drunk thy words withal.
Now to thy absent friend thou yield'st relief,
Thereby to lighten this my heavy grief.
Live thou unenvy'd, honour crown thy end,
For thou art worthy of a noble friend.
And love thy Ovid's name, which cannot be,
Banisht, though Scythia now containeth me.
For me a land near to the Bear doth hold,
Whereas the earth is frozen up with cold.
Here Bosphorus and Tanais do remain,
And places which have scarcely any name.
Unhabitable cold doth dwell beyond,
For I am near unto the farthest land.
My Country and my wife are absent far,
And with them two, all things that dearest are.
Yet though with them I cannot present be,
Within my fancy I their shape do see.
My house, the City stand before my eies,
And all my actions in their place do rise.
My wif es dear Image doth it self present
Which doth increase and lighten discontent.
Her absence grieveth me, but then again,
My comfort is she constant doth remain.
And you my friends do cleave unto my breast,
Whose names I wish by me might be exprest.
But wary fear doth my desire restrain,
And you I think do even wish the same,
For though that heretofore you pleased were,
When as your names did in my Verse appear:
Yet now Ile talk with you within my brest,
Nor shall your fears by my Verse be increast.
Nor shall my Verse disclose a secret friend,
Love secretly, and love me to the end:
And know though we by absence are dis joyn'd,
Yet you are alwaies present in my mind.
Then strive to case those griefs which I sustain,
And lend your hand to help me up again.
So may your fortune prosperous remain,
And never have just cause to ask the same.

ELEGIE V.

By a feigned name he doth commend
One Carus that had been his Friend:
And then doth mitigate his fault,
Since error him to ruine brought.
MYuse of friendship with thee was but small.
And if thou wilt thou may'st say none at all:
But that thy love most faithful I did find,
When as my ship sail'd with a gentle wind,
When once I fell, then all did shun my wrack,
And all my friends on me did turn their back.
Yet thou, when I was strucken with Joves flame,
Didst visit me, and to my house then came:
And in thy fresh acquaintance thou didst show
More love, than all my ancient friends would do,
I saw thy amazed count'nance at that time,
Thy face bedew'd with tears, more pale than mine.
And seeing tears fall at each word, my ears
Did drink thy words, my mouth did drink thy tears:
Thou didst imbrace my neck, and then betwixt
Some loving kisses with thy sighs were mixt.
Now absent thou defendest me again,
Thou know'st that Carus is a feigned name:
And many tokens of thy love appear,
Which I in memory will ever bare.
The gods still make thee able to defend
Thy friends unto a far more happy end.
To know how I do live if thou require,
As it is likely that thou dost desire:
I have some hope, which do not take from me,
That those offended powers will pleased be.
Which being vain or if it may befal,
Do thou allow my hope though it be small.
Bestow thy eloquence upon that theam,
To shew it may fall out as I do mean.
The greatest men are placable in wrath,
A generous mind a gentle anger hath.
When Beasts unto a Lion prostrate lye,
He ends the combate with his enemy.
But Wolves and Bears their yielding foes do kill,
And the inferiour beasts are cruel still.
Who like Achilles? yet even he appears,
To be much mov'd with Dardanus sad tears.
Emathion's clemency is best declar'd,
Even by those funeral rites which he prepar'd.
And that I may not mans calm'd anger show,
Even Juno's Son in law was once her foe.
Lastly, I needs must hope, since at this time,
I am not punisht for a hainous crime.
I did not plot against great Caesar's life,
To ruine him by sowing civil strife.
I never yet did rail against the time,
Or spake against him in my cups of wine.
But am punisht for beholding of a fault,
Which I through ignorance beheld, unsought.
Yet all my fault, I cannot well defend,
Though in part thereof I did not ill intend.
So that I hope that he will pleased be,
To grant in easier banishment to me.
I wish the morning star that brings the day,
Would bring this news and quickly post away.

ELEGIE VI.

His friends fidelity he doth praise,
And to excuse himself assaies.
Desiring if he have any grace
At Rome, to use it in his case.
OUr league of friendship thou wilt not conceal:
Or if thou wouldst, it would it self reveal.
For while we might, none was more dear to me,
And I do know I was belov'd of thee.
And this our love was to the people known,
So that our Love more than our selves was known.
The candor of thy mind is easily seen,
Of him who for thy friend thou dost esteem.
Thou nothing from my knowledge didst conceal,
And I my secrets did to thee reveal.
For all my heart and secrets thou didst know,
Excepting that which wrought my overthrow.
Which hadst thou known, thou wouldst have councell'd me
So well, that I should never banisht be.
But 'twas my fate drew on my punishment,
And crossed me in any good intent.
Yet whether that I might this evil shun,
Our reason cannot fortune overcome:
Yet thou to me my old acquaintance art,
And of my love thou holdst the greatest part.
Be mindful then, and if thou gracious be
At Court, then try what thou canst do for me.
That Caesar being unto mildness bent,
May change the place of my sad banishment.
Even as I did no wickedness devise,
Since that my fault from errour did arise.
It would be tedious not safe to unfold,
By what chance these eyes did that act behold.
Such shameful deeds as do the ear affright,
Should be concealed in eternal night.
I must confess therefore my former fault,
Yet no reward by my offence I sought.
And for my fault I may my folly blame,
If to my fault thou wilt give a true name.
If this be false then further banish me.
These places like unto Romes Suburbs be.

ELEGIE VII.

The Letter here he doth command,
To flye unto Perhilla's hand
And sheweth that the Muses give,
Immortal same which still shall live.
GO thou my Letter being writ so fast,
And to salute Perhilla make thou haste.
To sit hard by her mother she still uses,
Or else to be amongst her Books and Muses:
What ere she does, when she knows thou art come,
She'l ask thee how I do that am undone;
Tell her I live, but wish I did not so,
Since length of time can never case my woe.
Yet to my Muse I now returned am,
Making my words to Verse to flow again:
And ask her why she doth her wind apply
To common studies, not sweet Poesy?
Since Nature first did make thee chaste and fair,
Giving thee wit, with other things most rare.
I first to thee the Muses spring did show,
Lest that sweet water should at waste still flow.
For in thy Virgin years thy wit I spy'd,
And was as 'twere thy father and thy guide.
Then if those fires still in thy breast do dwell,
There's none but Lesbia that can thee excell:
But I do fear that since I am orethrown,
That now thy breast is dull and heavy grown:
For while we might we both did read our lines,
I was thy Judge and Master oftentimes.
And to thy Verses I an car would lend,
And make thee blush, when thou didst make an end.
Yet now perhaps it may be thou dost shun
All books, because my ruine thence did come:
Fear not Perhilla, but all fear remove,
So that thy writings do not teach to love:
Then, learned Maid, no cause of sloath still frame,
But to thy sacred art return again.
That comely face will soon be spoild with years,
While aged wrinekles in thy brow appears.
Old age will lay hold on thy outward grace,
Which cometh on still with a silent pace.
To have been fair it will a grief then be,
And thou wilt think thy glass doth flatter thee.
Thy wealth is smal, though thou deservest more,
But yet suppose thou hadst of wealth great score:
Yet fortune when she lists doth give and take,
And of rich Croesus she can Irus make.
All things are subject to mortality,
Except the mind and ingenuity.
For though I want my Country, Friends, and home,
And all things took from me that could be gone.
Yet still my Muses do with me remain,
And Caesar cannot take away my vein.
Who though he should me of my life deprive,
Yet shall my Fame when I am dead survive.
While Rome on seven hills doth stand in sight,
My works shall still be read with much delight.
Then of thy study make this happy use,
To shun the power of death even by thy Muse.

ELEGIE VIII.

His Country he desires to see,
If Caesar would so pleased be.
Then mournfully he doth complain,
And shews what grief he doth sustain.
I Wish I could Triptolemus Wain ascend,
Who first did seed unto the earth commend:
Or guide Medea's Dragons through the aire,
With which she once from Gorinth did repair:
I wish that I had Perseus wings to fly
Or Daedalus his wings to cut the Sky.,
That while the aire did yield unto my flight,
I might in joy again my Countries sight,
And see my poor forsaken house again,
My wife, and those few friends that do remain.
But why dost thou so foolishly require,
When thou can'st ne'r attain to thy desire?
In stead of wishes unto Casar send,
And strive to please him whom thou didst offend.
If he repeal thy banishment, his word,
Can give thee wings to flye like to a bird.
Perhaps when once his wrath doth milder grow,
He to my sure will then some favour shew:
And I beseech him now in the mean time,
Some easier place of exile to assign.
This air and climate both contrary be,
Continual sickness seizeth here on me.
Either my sick mind makes my body ill,
Or else the air doth some disease instill.
Since I to Pontus came, each night I dream,
I do distaste my meat, my limbs grow lean,
Like that pale colour which in leaves is seen,
When they by Autumns frost have nipped been.
So do I look being pin'd away with grief,
Having no friend to yeild me some relief.
For I am sick in body and In mind,
In both of which I equal pain do find.
Methinks my fortune stands before my eyes,
In a sad shape repleat with miseries.
When I behold the people and the place,
Comparing past time with my present case,
Then I am willing to resign my breath,
Wishing I had been punished with death:
But yet since that he was more milder bent;
Let him now grant me milder banishment.

ELEGIE IX.

Ovid briefly doth explain,
How Tomos first did get that name.
ARe here some Cities (who can it believe)
That from the Grecks did first their name receive?
While husbandmen even from Miletus came,
And 'mongst the Getes did Graecian houses frame.
Yet this same place doth anciently retain,
Still from Absyrtus murder, this same name:
For in that ship which Pallas name did bear,
And in those unknown Seas her course did stear.
While fierce Medea from her father fled,
Unto these shores her fatal sails she spread:
Which from a hill one veiwing on the land,
Cries out, Medea's sails do hither stand.
The Myniae trembled, and without delay,
Unty their ropes, and all their anchors weigh:
While that Medea struck her guilty breast,
With that same hand which had in bloud been drest.
And though her former courage did remain,
Yet still her bloud in paleness went and came,
But when she saw the sails, we are betray'd
Quoth she, my fathers course must be delay'd,
By some new Art: while thus she doth devise,
By fatal chance, her brother she espies.
And having spide him, now quoth she 'tis done,
For from his death my safety now shall come.
And with a sword she ran him through the side,
Who little thought by her hand to have dy'd.
Then tear's his Limbs in peeces, and on the ground,
She scatters them that so they may be found
In many places: and that her father may
Not pass by it, she places in the way
His bleeding Head, and both his pale cold hands,
Which set upon a rock before him stands.
And while that horrid sight did stop her father▪
He stay'd his course those scattered limbs to gather,
Whence Tomos got that name, because that here,
Medea first her brothers limbs did tear.

ELEGIE X.

Ovid lively doth describe
The Country where he doth abide:
Which in this short map you may view,
Which he in banishment then drew.
IF any yet do think of Naso's name,
Which yet within the City doth remain:
Know that I live within a barbarous Land,
Which neer unto the Northern pole doth stand.
The Sauromates and Getes do hemm me in,
Whose ruder names my Verse do not beseem.
While the aire is warm, we then defended are,
By Isther, whose fair stream keeps back the war.
But when that Boreas once doth fly abroad,
Those Countries he with heavy snow doth load.
Nor doth the snow dissolve by Sun or Rain,
But the North-wind doth make it still remain:
New snow doth fall on that which fell before,
While that the earth is doubly covered o're.
Such is the North winds force when it doth blow,
That Towers and Houses it doth overthrow.
The people wear short mantles 'gainst the cold,
So that their faces you can scarce behold;
From their Icy hair a ruffling sound is heard,
A hoary frost doth shine upon their beard.
The frozen wine doth keep the Vessels shape,
And in stead of draughts, they peeces of it take.
Of Rivers frozen, what should I here tell?
Or yet of water digged from the Well:
For Isther, which with Nile may equall be,
Whose many mouth do fall into the Sea,
His blue waves hidden o're with ice doth keep,
And so unseen into the Sea doth creep.
Where ships did sail, their feet they now do set,
And on the ice the Horses hoof doth beat.
The Sarmatian Oxen draw their waggons over
New Bridges, which the running waters cover.
'Tis strange, yet lying brings me no reward,
And therefore my report you may regard.
We have seen when as the ice the Sea did cover,
While that a shell of ice a did glaze it over:
And on the frozen sea have often gone,
While with a dry foot we could walk thereon.
And had Leander such a shore descri'd,
Then in that narrow sea he had not dy'd.
The crooked Dolphins, cannot then repair
Unto the upper waves to take the air,
And though that Boreas blustering wings were heard,
Yet no waves in the frozen sea appear'd.
The ships were frozen up that there did ride,
Nor could the Oars the stifned waves divide.
We have seen the fish within the ice lie bound,
While that in some of them some life was found.
If Boreas therefore with too powerful force,
Do freez the sea or stop the rivers [...]ourse:
When Isther by dry winds is once congeal'd,
The barbarous foe no longer is conceal'd.
Who skilful in their horseman-ship and bow,
Do waste the Country wheresoere they go.
While some do fly, and none defend the fields
Their unkept wealth some little pillage yields.
Their riches is their cattle and their wains,
And that which their poor Cottages contains:
And some that by the foe are captive took,
Do leave their Country with a back cast look,
Some by the barbed arrows here do die,
That with their poisoned heads do swiftly fly.
That which they cannot take, they spoil the same,
And make their harmless Cottages to flame.
When they have peace they stand in fear of war,
So that the fields by no man ploughed are.
The grape is not hid in the leavy shade,
Not are the vessels fil'd with wine new made.
Acontius could not here an Apple finde,
To write unto his sweet-heart in the rinde:
Here the naked fields have neither leaf nor tree,
For it's a place mark'd out for misery.
And though the world hath such a large extent,
This land is found out for my punishment.

ELEGIE XI.

Sweet Ovid is enforc'd to write,
'Gainst one who raild at him in spight:
Whom mildly here he doth reprove,
And unto pitty doth him move.
THou that my sad misfortune dost contemn,
And cruelly dost alwaies me condemn,
Wert nursed on the rocks by some wild beast,
And I may say, thou hast a flinty breast.
O whither can thy wrath extended be?
Or what is wanting to my misery?
The barbarous shores of Pontus me enfold,
And here the Northen Bear I do behold.
The peoples speech I understand not here,
And every place is ful of careful fear.
For as the Hart pursu'd by Bears doth shake,
Or as a Lamb hem'd in by wolves doth quake?
So when these nations do me round inclose,
I am afraid being compass'd in with foes.
Suppose it were no punishment to me,
Of wife and children thus depriv'd to be:
Though nothing troubled me but Caesar's wrath,
Sufficient punishment his anger hath.
Yet there are some who handle my green wounds,
And to speak 'gainst me have let loose their tongues.
In easie matters every one can speak,
And little strength a bruised thing can break.
It sh [...]ws some strength to throw down walls that stand,
When falling Towers yield to the weakest hand.
Why dost thou persecute my empty shade?
Or why dost thou my grave with stones invade?
Though Hector in the wars did shew his force,
It was not Hector that behind a horse
Was drawn about? nor am I now the same,
And nothing but my shadow doth remain:
Why dost thou rail on me with words so foul?
I pray thee do not seek to vex my soul.
Suppose my faults were true, my chiefest fault,
Was not by wickedness but errour wrought?
Then glut thy anger with my punishment,
For I am sent to grievous banishment.
A murtherer would lament my unhappy fate,
Thou think'st me not enough unfortunate.
More cruel than Busiris, or that man,
Who first to make a brazen Bull began:
And on the Sicilian Tyrant it bestow'd,
While thus in words his Art to him he shew'd.
This work O King! may far more useful be,
Than the outward shape doth seem to promise thee.
For look, the Bulls side may be open'd so,
That whom thou meanst to kill, thou needs but throw
Into his belly, and being inclos'd therein,
Put fire beneath, and then he will begin
To roar, and make a groaning noise as though
The brazen Bull it self began to Lowe:
Therefore to recompence my gift again,
Let my reward be equal to my pain.
Phalaris reply'd, since that thou didst invent,
This cruel torment for a punishment:
Thou first shalt feel it, and so being thrown
Into the Bull, he there began to groan.
But from Sicilia I return again,
Of thee that rail'st on me I must complain:
If thou desirest to quench thy thirst with bloud,
And that to hear my grief would do the good:
I have suffer'd so much both by sea and land,
That thou wouldst grieve the same to understand.
Ulysses was not in so great distress,
Since Neptunes anger, is than Joves far less.
Then do not thou rip up my fau'ts again,
And from my bleeding wound thy hands refrain,
Let time my former fault in darkness cover,
That this same wound may once be skinned over.
Sith Fortune throws down whom she doth advance,
Be thon afraid of her uncertain chance.
And since thou hast a great desire to pry,
And wouldst be glad to know my misery:
My fortune is of misery most full,
For Caesars wrath all ill with it doth pull.
And if thou think'st I do the same augment,
I wish that thou might'st feel my punishment.

ELEGIE XII.

Though it be Spring-time every where,
No Spring in Tomos doth appear:
Which makes him pray here to be sent,
Unto some milder banishment.
NOw Zephyrus warms the air, the year is run,
And the long seeming winter now it done:
The Ram which bore fair Hellen once away,
Hath made the dark night equal to the day.
Now boyes and girls do the sweet Violets get,
Which in the Country often grow unset.
Fair colour'd flowers in the Meadows spring,
And now the birds their untaught notes do sing.
The Swallow now doth build her little nest,
Under some beam, wherein her eggs may rest.
The seed which long since in the ground was laid,
Is now shot forth into a tender blade.
And now young buds upon the Vine appear,
Although the Getick shore no tree doth bear;
'Tis there vacation, and the wars at Court
Do now give place to plaies and other sport:
Now they do Tilt, and feats of arms assay,
Now with the ball, and with the top they play,
Young men annointed now with oyle, begin
To bathe their limbs within the virgin spring:
The scene doth flourish, and new strains are found,
Which make the three Theaters to resound.
O four times happy sure, and more is he,
That to enjoy the City now is free.
But here I see the snow melt with the Sun,
The undigg'd waters now begin to run.
The Sea is not frozen, nor doth the swaine
Over the Isther drive his creaking wain.
Yet when that any ships doth hither sail,
And Anchor at our shore, then without sail
I run to the Master, and after salutation
I ask him whence he comes, and of what Nation.
And 'tis a wonder if he be not one
That from some neighbour country then doth come.
From Italy few ships do ever stand,
To come unto this haven-wan [...]ing land.
Whether his language Greek or Latin be,
The latter is most welcome unto me.
If any from Propontis here arrive,
While a north-wind his spreading sails doth drive:
He may enforme me of the common fame,
And orderly he may relate the same.
For of Great Caesar's Triumph I do hear,
And of those vows to Jove performed were.
And how rebelling Germany in the end,
Beneath our Captains feat her head did bend.
He that shall tell me these things here exprest,
I will invite him home to be my guest.
Alas! does Ovid's house alone now stand?
Being seated here within the Styrian land:
May Caesar make this house of mine to be,
Only an Inne of punishment to me.

ELEGIE XIII.

Against his Birth-day he doth complain,
Which was now return'd in vain.
BEhold my Birth-day, (for why was I borne?)
Doth vainly unto me again teturne,
Hard-hearted day, why dost thou still extend
My years, to which thou shouldst have put an end?
If thou hadst any care of me or shame,
Thou wouldst not thus have followed me in vain.
But in that place have given me my death,
Where in my childe-hood first I drew my breath.
And with my friends that now at Rome do dwell,
Thou mightst at once have took thy last farewel.
What's Pontus unto thee, or art thou sent,
By Caesars wrath with me to banishment?
Dost thou expect thy wonted honour here?
While I a white robe on my shoulders wear.
Or that fair Garlands should environ round,
The smoaking Altar with sweet incense crown'd?
Offering such gifts as may befit the day,
While for thy prosperous return I pray.
But now I do not live in such a time,
That when thou com'st I should to mirth incline▪
A funeral Altar doth become me now,
That may be stuck round with the Cypress bough.
Now incense to the Gods were cast away,
While in my depth of grief I cannot pray.
Yet one request upon this day I'le name
That to this place thou ne're return again.
Whilst in the farthest Pontick shore I live,
Which falsely some the name of Euxine give.

ELEGIE XIV.

Here he writes unto his Friend,
That he would his books defend.
THou chief of Learned men, what maketh thee;
A friend unto my idle vein to be?
When I was safe then thou my lines didst praise,
And being absent thou my fame dost raise.
And all my verses thou dost entertain.
Except the Art of Love which I did frame.
Since then thou lovest the new Poets strain,
Within the City still keep up my Name.
For I, and not my books, am banisht thence,
Which they could not deserve by my offence.
The Father oft is banished we see,
While as his Children in the City be:
My verses now are like to Pallas, borne
Without a Mother; and being so forlorne,
I send them unto thee, for they bereft
Of Father, now unto thy charge are left.
Three sons of mine by me destroyed were,
But of the rest see that thou have a care.
And fifteen books of changed shapes there lyes,
Being ravisht from their Masters obsequies.
That work I had unto perfection brought,
If that I had not my own mine wrought.
Which uncorrected now the people have,
If any thing of mine the people crave.
Let this among my other books now stand,
Being sent unto thee from a foraign Land.
Which whoso reads, let him but weigh again,
The time and place, wherein I did it frame:
He will pardon me, when he shall understand,
That I was banisht in a barbarous Land.
And will admire that in my adverse time,
With a sad hand I could draw forth a line:
Mis-fortunes have depriv'd me of my strain,
Although before I ne're had a rich vein.
Yet whatsoe're it was, even now it lies,
Dried up for want of any exercise.
Here are no books to feed me with delight.
But in stead of books the bows do me affright.
Here's none to whom I may my lines rehearse,
That can both hear and understand my verse.
I have no place where I may walk alone.
But with the Getes shut up in walls of stone.
Somtimes I ask for such a places name,
But there is none can answer me again.
And when I fain would speak, I must confess,
I want fit words my mind for to express.
The Seythian language doth my ear affright.
So that the Getick tongue I sure could write,
I fear lest you within this book should see,
That Pontick words with Latin mingled be.
Yet read it, and thereto a pardon give,
When thou considerest in what state I live.

LIB. 4. ELEGIE I.

To excuse his Books he doth begin,
And shews how his Muse did comfort him.
IF any faults are in these books of mine,
Have them excused Reader by their time.
I sought no fame, but only some relief,
That so my mind might not think on her grief.
Even as the ditcher bound with fetters strong,
Will lighten heavy labour with a song,
And he will sing that with a bended side,
Doth draw the slow boat up against the Tide.
And he that at the Oar doth tug with pain,
Doth sing while he puts back his Oar again.
The weary shepherd sitting on a hill,
Doth please his sheep with piping on his quill,
And every Maid within the Country bred,
Will sing while she is drawing forth her thread.
Achilles being sad for Briseis loss,
The Haemonian Harp did soften that same cross.
While Orpheus for his wife much grief did shew,
With his sweet tunes the woods and stones he drew,
So did my muse delight me as I went,
And bore me company in my banishment.
She fear'd no treachery, not the souldiers hand,
Nor yet the wind, or sea, or barbarous land.
She knew what errour first my ruin brought,
And that there was no wickedness in my thought.
And since from her my fault did first proceed,
She is made guilty with me of that deed.
Yet still the fear of harm me so affrights,
I scarce dare touch the Muses holy rites.
But now a sudden fury doth me move.
And being hurt by verse, yet verse I love.
Even as Ulisses took delight to taste,
The Lote-tree, which did hurt him at the last.
The Lover feels his loss, yet does delight
In it, and seeks to feed his appetite.
So books delight me, which did me confound,
Loving the Dart which gave me this same wound.
Perhaps this study may a fury seem,
And yet to many it hath use full been.
It makes the mind that it cannot retain,
Her grief in sight, but doth forget the same.
As she ne're selt the wound which Bacchus gave,
But wildly on the Idean hills did rave.
So when a sacred fire my breast doth warme,
My higher fancy doth all sorrow scorne,
It feels no banishment, or Pontick shore,
Nor thinks the Gods are angry any more.
And as if I should drink dull Lethes water,
I have no sense of any sorrow after.
Needs must those Goddesses then honour'd be,
Who from their Helicon did come with me.
And for to follow me, they still did please,
Either by foot, by shipping, or by seas.
And may they gracious unto me abide,
Since that the Gods are all on Craesar's side:
While those griefs which they heap on me are more,
Then fish in seas, or sands upon the shore.
The flowers in spring-time thou maiest sooner tell,
Or Autumns apples, or the snow that fell,
Then all my griefs, being tossed too and fro,
While I unto the Euxine shore do go.
Where come, I found no change of misery,
As if ill-fortune still did follow me.
My thred of life in one course here doth run,
Of black and dismal wooll this thread is spun.
Though I omit my dangers and my grief,
I've seen such miseries as are past belief.
Amongst the barbarous Getes how can he live,
To whom the people once such praise did give?
How grievous is it to be lockt within
A walled Town, and yet scarce safe therein?
For in my Youth all war I did detest,
And never handled weapons but in jest.
Now in my hands a sword and shield I bear,
And on my gray hairs I a Helmet wear.
For when the watchman standing in his place;
Doth give some sign, then all do arme apace.
The enemy with his poysoned shafts and bow,
On their proud Steeds abou the walls do go:
And as the Wolf doth bare a sheep away,
Into the woods, which from the fold did stray.
So those that once are strayed beyond the Gate,
The foe comes on them, and doth take them straight.
Then like a captive they his neck do chain,
Or else with poyson'd Arrows he is slain.
In this place I a Dweller am become,
Alass my time of life too slow doth run.
Yet to my verse I do return again,
My friendly Muse doth me in grief sustain.
Yet there is none to whom I may recite
My verse, or hear the Latin which I write.
But to my self I do both write and read,
And then to Judge my self I do proceed.
Oft I have said, why do I take this vein?
Or shall the Getes delight in Ovids name?
Oft while I write, my eyes to weeping ser,
And every letter with my tears is wet.
And then my heart renews her grief again.
While on my bosome showers of tears do rain,
When as my former state comes in my thought,
Thinking to what my fortune hath me brought.
Oft my mad hand, even angry with my veine,
Hath cast my verses into the quick flame.
Then since of many, these few do remain,
Who e [...]re thou art, with pardon read the same,
And Rome do thou take in good part each line,
Though each verse be no better than my time,

ELEGIE II.

He grieves that the could not present be,
At the triumph of conquer'd Germany.
NOw haughty Germany (as the world hath done)
May kneel to Caesar, being overcome.
Now the high palaces are with garlands dight,
And smoaking incense turns the day to night.
Now the white sacrifice by the Axe is slain,
And with his purple bloud the earth doth stain.
And both the conquering Caesars do prepare,
To give the Gods those gifts which promis'd were.
And all the young men born under his name,
Do pray that still his progeny may raign:
And Livia since the Gods her son did save,
Presents those gifts which they deserve to have.
The Matrons and those free from bad desire,
Who living Virgins, keep the vestal fire:
The people and the Senate too ate glad,
And Gentry, 'mongst whom once a name I had,
These publick joyes tome here are unknown,
And but a weak report doth hither come.
But on these triumphs may the people look,
And read what towns were by such Captains took,
While as the captive Kings to encrease the show,
Before the plumed horses chained go.
With countenances to their fortune chain'd,
Owe terrible, now from themselves estrang'd
While some desire their cause and names to know,
One knowing little thus describes the show.
He that in yonder purple robe doth shine.
Was Captain of the war, and next to him
He whose sad eyes fixt on the ground appear,
Bore not that look, when he his arms did bear.
That cruel man whose eyes still burning are,
By counsel did incite them unto war.
This fellow did false ambushments provide.
Whose shaggy hair his ugly face doth hide.
This fellow kill'd the Captives which he took,
A though the Gods such offerings did not brook.
These Mountains, Rivers, Castles, which you see,
Were fill'd with bloud of men which slaughtered be,
Here Drusus did his honour first obtain,
Being worthy of that house from whence he came.
Here Rhene with bloud of men was colour'd over,
While no green reeds his winding banks did cover.
Behold how Germany with her long hair spread,
Sits at his feet who hath her conquered:
And to the Roman axe her neck doth yield,
Her hands being chain'd which once did bear a shield.
And above these grea [...] Caesar thou art carryed,
Through all the people in thy conquering chariot.
Thy subjects by loud shouts their love do shew.
While all the way with sweetest flowers they strew.
Thy temples crowned with Phoehean Bayes,
The souldiers singeth Io to thy praise.
While thy four Chariot-horses by the way,
Heated with noise do often flop and stay.
Then to the Tower and Temples favouring thee,
Thou goest, where gifts to Jove shall offered be.
These things I can within my mind review,
For it hath power an absent place to shew.
Through spacious lands it can most freely stray,
And unto Heaven find the ready way.
By holp whereof the City I do see,
That of this Rood I may partaker be.
It shews the Ivory Chariots which do shine,
So I shall be at home even for a time:
The happy people shall behold this sight,
And for to see their Captain take delight.
But I mud see it by imagination,
My cars shall taste the fruit of the relation,
For being banisht to a Foraign Land,
To tell me of it here is none at hand.
Yet he that this late triumph tells to me,
When e're I hear him I shall joyful be.
And on that day no sorrow I will show,
For publick joy exceeds a private woe.

ELEGIE III.

Ovid seemeth to speak here,
To the constellations of the Bear.
YOu great and lesser Beasts, whereof the one,
Guides Graecian ships, the other Sydonian:
Which from your poles view all things which you please,
And never set beneath the Western Seas;
And while that you encompass in the skie,
Your circle from the earth is seen on high.
Look on these walls, o're which as they report,
Remus leapt over in his merry sport.
And look with shining beams upon my Wife,
And tell me if she lead a constant life.
Alas! why doubt I in a matter clear?
Why do I waver between hope and fear?
Believe as thou desirest, that all is well,
Perswade thy self she doth in faith excel.
And what the fixed star's cannot unfold,
Tell to thy self, and be thou thus resolv'd:
That as thou thinkest on her? so she again
Doth think on thee, and with her keeps thy name.
And in her mind thy Countenance doth review,
And while she lives that she her love will shew.
When thy griev'd mind doth on thy sorrow light,
Doth gentle sleep forsake thy bosome quite?
Doth thy cold bed renew thy cares afresh,
And make thee think on me in my distress?
Does night seem long, while sorrows inward burn?
Do thy sides ake while thou dost often turn?
Yet I believe that now thou dost no less,
And that thy sorrow doth thy love express.
Thou griev'st no less, than did that Theban Wife,
To see brave Hectors body void of life,
Drawn by Thessalian horses; yet I cannot tell,
What passion in thy mind I wish to dwell.
If thou art sad, then I am griev'd for thee,
That of thy sorrow I the cause should be.
Yet gentle wife do thou lament thy losses,
And use the time to think upon thy crosses.
Weep for my fall, to weep is some relief,
For chat doth case and carry out our grief.
And would thou couldst lament my death, not life,
That so by death I might have left my Wife.
Then in my Country I had died, and dead,
Thy tears upon my Corps had then been shed.
And thou hadst clos'd my eyes up with thy hand,
While looking unto Heaven they did stand.
In an ancient Tomb my ashes had been spread,
And had been buried where I first was bred:
Lastly, I then had died without blame,
But now my banishment is to me a shame.
Yet wretched am I if thou blushest then,
When thou art call'd wife to a banisht man.
Wretched am I if thou that name decline,
Wretched am I, if thou sham'st to be mine.
Where is that t [...]e wherein thou took'st a pride,
In Ovids Name, and to be Ovids bride?
Where is that time wherein these words you spake,
That you in being mine did pleasure take:
Like a good wife in me you did delight,
And love encreas'd my value in your sight.
And unto you so precious was I then,
That you preferred me before all men.
Then think it no disgrace that thou art nam'd
My wife, for which thou maist be griev'd, not sham'd,
When rash Capaneus the wart did fall,
Evadne blusht not at his fault at all,
Though Jupiter did fire with fire suppress,
Yet Phaeton was beloved ne're the less.
And Semele did not lose old Cadmus love,
Because she perish'd by her sure to Jove.
Then since that I am strucken with Joves flame,
Let not a crimson blush thy fair check stain.
But with fresh courage rather mc defend,
That for a good wife I may thee commend.
Shew now thy vertue in adversity,
The way to glory through hard waies doth lie.
Who would talk of Hector had Troy happy been?
For vertue in adversity is seen.
Typhis Are fails when no waves are seen,
In health Apollo's are hath no esteem.
That vertus which before time lay conceal'd,
In trouble doth appear, and is reveal'd.
My fortune gives thee scope to raise thy fame,
And by thy vertue to advance thy name.
Then use the time, for these unhappy daies.
Do open a fair way for to get praise.

ELEGIE IV.

We writes to his friend in his distress,
Whose name by signs he doth express.
O Friend, though thou a Gentleman art born,
Yet thou by vertue dost thy birth adorn.
Thy Fathers courtesie shineth in thy mind,
And yet this courtesie is with courage joyn'd.
In thee thy Fathers Eloquence doth dwell,
Whom none could in the Roman Court excel.
Then since by signes I am enforc'd to name thee,
I hope for praising you, you will hot blame me:
'Tis not my fault, your gifts do it proclaim,
Be what you seem, and I deserve no blame.
Besides, my love in verse exprest, I trust,
Shall not harme thee, since Caesar is most just:
Our Countries Father, and so mild, that he
Suffers his name within my verse to be.
Nor can he now forbid it if he would,
Caesar it publick, and a common good.
Jupiter sometimes lets the Poets praise
His acts, that so their wits his deeds may raise.
Thy case by two examples good doth seem,
The one believ'd a God, the other seen.
Or else I'le take the fault, and to it stand,
To say my Letter was not in thy hand.
Nor thus by writing have I newly err'd,
With whom by words I often have conferr'd.
Then friend, lest thou be blam'd, thou need'st not fear;
For it is I that must the envy bear.
For if you'l not dissemble a known truth,
I lov'd your Father even from my youth.
And you know how he did approve my wit,
More than in my own judgement I thought fit,
And oftentimes he would speak of my verse,
And grace them while he did the same rehearse.
Nor do I give these fair words unto thee
But to thy Father, who first loved me.
Nor do I flatter, since my lives acts past,
I can defend, except it be the last,
And yet my fault no wicked crime can be,
If that my griefs be not unknown to thee,
It was an errour brought me to this state,
Then suffer me now to forget my fare.
Break not my wounds which yet scarce dosed are,
Since rest it self can hardly help my care.
And though to suffer justly lam thought,
There was no wicked purpose in my fault:
Which Caesar knowing, suffer'd me to live,
Nor to another my goods did be give.
And this same banishment perhaps shall cease,
When length of time his anger shall appease.
And now I pray he would me hence remove,
(If this request would not immodest prove.)
To some more quiet banishment, where I
Might live far from the cruel enemy.
Ana such is Caesars clemency that he,
Would grant it, if some askt this boon for me.
The shores of th' Euxine Sea do me contain,
Which heretofore the Axine they did name.
The seas are tossed with a blustring wind.
Nor can strange ships any safe harbour find,
And round about bloud-eating men do live,
Thus sea and land do equal terrour give.
Not far off, stands that cursed Altar, where
All strangers to Diana offered were.
These bloudy kingdoms once King Thoas had,
Not envi'd nor desir'd, they were so bad.
Here the fair Epigenia did devise,
To please her Goddess with this sacrifice.
Whither as soon as mad Orestes came,
Tormented with his own distracted brain,
And Phoceus with him, his companion,
Who two in body, were in mind but one.
To this sad Altar they were bound, which stood
Before a pair of gates imbru'd with bloud.
Yet in themselves no fear of death they had,
But one friend for the others death was sad.
The Priest with Faulthion drawn stood ready there,
With a course fillet bound about his hair.
But when she knew her Brothers voice, she came
And did embrace him that should have been slain.
And being glad she left the place, and then
She chang'd the rites, which Dian did contemn.
Unto this farthest region I am come,
Which even Gods and men do likewise shun.
These barbarous rites near my country are maintain'd,
If a barbarous country may be Ovid's Land?
May those winds bear me back, which took Orestes hence,
When Caesar is appeas'd for my offence.

ELEGIE V.

His grief to his friend he doth reveal,
Whose name he on purpose doth conceal.
O Chiefest friend 'mongst those were lov'd of me,
The only sanctuary to my misery,
By whose sweet speech my soul reviv'd again.
As oyle pour'd in, revives the watching flame.
Who didst not fear a faithful port to open,
And refuge to my ship with Thunder broken.
With whose revenues I supply'd should be,
If Caesar had took my own goods from me.
While violence of the time doth carry me,
Thy name's almost slipt out of memory?
Yet thou dost know'r, and touched with the flame,
Of praise dost wish thou mightst thy self proclaim.
If thou wouldst suffer it, I thy name would give,
And make them that they should thy fame believe.
I fear my grateful verse should hurtful be,
Or unseasonable honour should but hinder thee,
Since this is safe, rejoyce within thy mind,
That I remember thee that thou wert kind.
And as thou dost, to help with Oares strive,
Till Caesar pleas'd, some gentler wind arrive.
And still bear up my head which none can save,
But he that plung'd me in the Stygian wave,
And which is rare, be constant to the end,
In every office of a steafast friend.
So may thy fortune happily proceed,
That thou no help, but others thine may need.
May so thy Wife in goodness equal thee,
And in thy bed may discord seldome be.
May thy kindreds love be unto thee no other,
Than that was shew'd to Castor by his Brother.
May so thy son be like thee, and in's prime,
By his carriage may they know him to be thine.
May thy Daughter make thee a Father-law to be,
And give the Name of Grand-father to thee.

ELEGIE VI.

Though time all things doth asswage,
Yet his sorrow more doth rage.
So that being tyr'd at length,
To bear his grief he had no strength.
IN time the Oxe endures the labouring plough,
And to the crocked yok: his neck doth bow:
In time the Horse do [...]h to the reins submit,
And gently takes into his mouth the bit.
In time the Affrick Lyons older grow,
Nor do they still their former fierceness show.
Time makes the grape to swell until the skin
Can scarce contain the wine that is within.
Time brings the seed unto an ear at last,
And maketh Apples to be sweet in taste.
Time weares the plough-share that doth cut the clay,
The Adamant and Flint it wears away.
This by degrees fierce anger doth appease,
It lessens sorrow, and sad hearts doth ease.
Thus length of time can every thing impair,
Except it be the burthen of my care.
Since I was banisht corn hath twice been thresht,
The Grapes have twice with naked feet been prest.
Yet in this time no patience can I gain,
My mind most freshly doth her grief retain.
Even as old Oxen often shun the yoak,
And the horse will not be bridled that was broke.
My present grief is worse than that before,
Which by delay encreases more and more.
Present griefs better known thin past griefs are,
And being better known they bring more care.
Besides, 'tis something, when we bring fresh strength,
And are not tyr'd before with griefs sad length,
The new wrastler on the yellow sand is stronger,
Thin he whose arms are tyr'd with striving longer:
The unwounded Fencer, better is than he,
Within whose bloud the weapons dyed be.
A new built ship resists the winds fell power,
When an old one's broken with the smallest shower.
And we more patiently before did bear,
Those sorrows which by time encreased are:
Believe it, I grow faint, and I am sure,
My body will not long these griefs endure.
My strength nor colour doth not now abide,
And my lean skin my bones can scarcely hide.
My body and my mind too is not well,
Which on the thought of grief doth alway dwell:
The City and my friends both absent are,
And Wife, than whom there's none to me so dear:
But the Scythians and a rout of Getes here be,
But absent things and present trouble me:
One hope there is which yields me some relief,
That death will give an end vnto my grief.

ELEGIE VII.

He doth here excuse his friend,
That no letters to him did send.
AFter cold winter twice the Sun hath come,
And through the Fishes twice his journey run:
Why was not thy right hand ready for to shew
Thy love by writing verses, though a few?
When open any letters seal,
Why did I hope it would thy Name reveal?
I hope many a Letter hath been writ by thee,
Though none of them were yet deliver'd me,
I sooner will believe Medusa's head,
With snaky heirs was round encompassed.
Or Scylla, or Chymera's monstrous frame,
Lyon and Serpent parted with a flame.
Or that the Minotaure hath ever been,
Or Cerberus with his tripple Dogs face seen.
Or Sphynx, or Harpies, Gyants that had feer,
Like Serpents, Gyges, or the Centaures fleer.
I will believe these things may sooner be,
Than that thou art chang'd and hast forgotten me.
For many Mountains now 'twixt thee and I,
And many Rivers, Fields, and Seas, do lye.
And many things thy Letters may prevent,
From coming to us, which from thee were sent.
Overcome these lets by writing oft to us,
That I may not alwaies excuse thee thus.

ELEGIE VIII.

Ovid grieves that he is sent,
In his old age to banishment.
MY temples like the swans soft feathers are,
And white old age doth cover my black hair.
Now idle age and weak years coming be,
And now to bear my self doth trouble me.
Now all my former labours I should end,
And without fear my life in quiet spend:
And now my mind should take her rest at leisure,
And in my study I should live at pleasure.
To my house and Gods, some honour I should grant,
And my Fathers Lands, which now their Master want.
That in my Nephews or wives bosome I,
Within my Country might grow old and die.
Thus formerly I hop'd my age should end:
And thus I had deserv'd these years to spend,
The Gods were not pleas'd, since I being tost,
By tempests, am in Sarmatia set at last.
The bruised ships are drawn into the Dock,
Least in the Middle stream they should be broke.
Least the horse should shame his gotten vict'ry past,
In the meadow he is put to graze at last:
The Souldier that's unfit his arms to bear,
Hangs up his Armour which he once did wear.
So since with age my strength is now decreased,
It is time I should from labour be released.
It is no time in forain lands to stay,
Nor at a Getick spring my thirst to allay.
But in my Garden now to take delight,
And then again to enjoy the Cities sight.
And thus my mind not knowing future ill,
I wisht I might in age live quiet still,
The fates withstood, and give me a happy time
At first, but loaded these last days of mine:
And fifty years being ended without stain,
In the worst of my life I bear the blame.
Being neare unto the marke at which I aim'd,
The remainder of my life sad ruin gain'd.
The Chariot of my life was overthrown,
When it unto the goale was almost come.
And 'gainst me have enforc'd him to be wrath,
Than whom the world not one more element hath.
Though my offence ore-came his clemency,
To grant me life he never did deny.
But near the North-pole I my life must lead,
In the land which by the Euxine Sea doth spread.
Had the Delphian Oracle told these things to me,
That place had seem'd then most vain to be.
There's nothing though the Adamant it contain,
That can be stronger than Joves sudden flame.
There's nothing is so high or plac'd above
Danger, but that it is set under Jove.
Though part of my grief did come by my own fault,
Yet Caesars wrath my utter ruin wrought.
But be you now admonish'd by my fate,
To please that man who equals gods in state.

ELEGIE IX.

Here he doth admonish one,
That he proceed not to do him Wrong.
SInce thou art content I will conceal thy name,
And drench thy deeds in Lethean waves again.
And thy late tears our mercy shall o're-come,
So thou repent of that which thou hast done.
But if hatred of us still thy bosome warmes,
My unhappy grief must take up forced arms.
Though I am banisht to the farthest lands,
My anger may from thence reach out her hands,
All right of laws great Caesar did me grant,
My punishment is, my Country for to want.
And if he live, we may hope our return,
The Oake looks green which lightning once did burn.
If I had no power to revenge, at length,
The Muses then would lend me help and strength:
Though in the Scythian coasts I here do lie,
Whereas the starry signes are ever dry:
Yet through large spacious lands my praise shall go,
And all the world my sad complaint shall know.
What we speak in the West, unto the East shall fly,
And the East shall hear my Western harmony.
Beyond both lands and Seas they shall hear me,
In a loud voice shall my lamenting be.
Nor shall the present age thee only blame,
But of posterity thou shalt be the shame.
I am now dispos'd to fight, though I have not blown
The trumpet, and I with no cause were known.
Though the Circk cease, the Bull doth cast aloof
The sand, and beats the earth with his hard hoof:
And now my Muse sound the retreat again,
While that he may dissemble his own name.

ELEGIE X.

In this sweet Elegie at last,
Ovid shews his life that's past.
Describes his birth, and doth rehearse,
How he took delight in verse.
POsterity receive me with delight,
For it is I that once of Love did write.
Sulmo my country is where cold springs rise,
And fifteen miles it from the City lies,
Here was I born, and as you know right well,
When both the Consuls by like fortune fell.
Besides, I was heir to my Grand-father by right,
Not made a gentle man by fortunes might.
After my Brother I was born at last,
When twelve months from his birth were fully past.
And both of us were born upon one day,
On which two wafer cakes we us'd to pay.
Of those five feasts to Pallas memory,
This is the first which bloudy us'd to be.
Forth-with we being young, by our Fathers care,
Did go to men in Art that famous were.
My Brother in sweet eloquence did delight,
Being born in wrangling wars of Court to fight.
But I diviner poesy did favour,
And my Muse did entice me to her labour.
My Father said, why art thou thus enclin'd?
Homer himself did leave no wealth-behind.
Mov'd with his words, I left the Muses well,
And unto writing prose I straight-way fell.
But then my lines would into numbers run,
And what I writ would straight a verse become.
In the mean time, years in silence going on,
I and my brother took the freer gown,
The purple robes our shoulders now did cloathe,
And in our first studies we delighted both.
At twenty years my brother di'd, and then
To want part of my self I first began.
The honours due to youth we both did take,
And of the three men I a part did make,
Being forc'd into the Senate at the length.
That burden it was greater than my strength,
My mind nor body could no pains abide,
And I did always shun ambitious pride.
The Aonian sisters bid me seek safe leisure,
Wherein indeed I always took great pleasure.
I lov'd and cherish'd Poets of that time,
For I did think the Poets were divine.
Old Macer read to me in verse, of Birds,
What hearbs are hurtful, and what hels affords.
Often Propertius did his love recite,
Joyn'd unto me even by acquaintance right.
Ponticus in Heroicks, Ballus in Iambicks rare,
These to my sweet companions always were.
And Horaces numbers did my ear delight,
While he smooth verse unto the Harp doth strike.
Virgil I only saw, and covetous fates
Tibullus from my friendship hence translates.
He was Gallus successour, Propertius followed him,
In course of time I was the fourth came in.
As I my elders, my youngers me renown,
And my Thalia soon abroad was known
Twice was my beard cut, when I did rehearse
Unto the people first my youthful verse.
One call'd Corinna by a feigned name,
In praising her did exercise my vein.
Much did I write, but what I faulty deem'd,
I gave them to the fire for to amend.
And when I fled, I burnt some things I lov'd,
For with my verse and study I was mov'd.
A light occasion would move my soft heart,
Which soon would be o'recome by Cupid's Dart.
Yet with loves fire being quickly set on flame,
There was no scandal went under my name.
To me a boy, an unthtifty wife they assign,
Who was married to me but a little time.
My next wife though she were without all blame,
Yet in my bed she did not long remain.
My last abides these latter years, and can
Endure to be wife to a banish'd man.
My second Daughter did two husbands take,
And twice a grand-father of me did make.
My Father now his life even finisht had,
While nine times four years he to mine did add.
I wept for him, as he would have done for me,
And then my Mother dyed presently.
Happy and timely to the grave they went,
Because they di'd before my banishment.
And I am happy, since while they did live
They had no cause at all for me to grieve.
If ought remain unto the dead but names,
And the thin Ghost do scape the Funeral flames;
If you my Parents hear some sad report,
And that my faults are in the Stygian Court,
Know then (whom to deceive is not my intent)
Errour, nor wickedness caus'd my banishment.
Thus much to the dead, to you I now return,
That the actions of my life would fain discern,
Now whiteness, when my best years spended were,
Came on and mingl'd with my ancient haire.
The ho se-man with Pisaean Olive crown'd,
Hath since my birth got ten prizes renown'd.
When as the Emperors wrath doth me command
To Tomos which by Euxine Sea doth stand.
I need not shew the cause of my sad fall,
Which is already too well known to all.
What shall I shew the treacherous intent,
Of friends and servants, bad as banishment.
Yet my mind scorn'd to yield to grief at length,
And shew'd her self invincible in strength.
And forgetting of my quiet life, I than
To take arms in my unwonted hand began.
In more perils I By sea and land have been,
Than stars between the shining Poles are seen.
At last I arrived at the Getick coast,
Joyn'd to Sarmatia, being with errors tost.
Though noise of wars do round about me rage,
Yet by my verse I did my grief asswage.
Though there be none that can my words receive,
Yet thus I do the day alone deceive,
In that I live and labour still between,
And that the time doth not to me long seem.
Thanks Muse to thee, for thou dost yield relief,
Thou art the ease and medicine of my grief.
Thou art my guide, from Ister me dost bring,
And placest me in the Heliconian spring.
And hast given me in my life time a great name,
Which after death is given still by fame.
Envie which doth at present things repine,
Hath never bitten any work of mine.
Though many Poets in this age forth came,
Yet fame was never envious to my name.
I prefer'd many who of me still sed
No less, and through the world I shall be read.
If Poets any truth do Prophesie,
I shall not all be earth when I do die.
If favour or my verse gave me this fame,
Kind Reader I do thank the for the same.

LIB. 5. ELEGIE I.

He writeth here unto his friend,
To whom he doth this book commend.
THis Book which cometh from the Getick shore,
Add thou (my friend) unto the other four.
For this is like unto the Poets times,
And thou shalt find no sweetness in my lines.
My verse and fortune full of sorrow be,
My matter with my writing doth agree:
Being happy, in a pleasant veine I writ,
But now alass I do repent of it.
But when I fell, my sad chance I proclaim.
And I my self the Argument do frame,
Even as the Swan that on the banck doth lie.
Bewails her self when she is near to dye.
So I being cast on the Sarmatick shoare,
My own sad funeral do here deplore.
If any do in wanton verse delight,
I advise him not to read what I do write,
Gallus and sweet Propertius fitter be,
Whose names do flourish still in memory.
And in their number would I might not fall,
Alas why hath my Muse even spoke at all?
But now to Scythia for a punishment,
He that did write of quivered love is sent.
Yet I have bent my friends unto my vein,
And bid them to be mindful of my Name.
If some would know why I so much do sing
Of grief, ascribe it to my suffering.
We do not now compose with will and Art,
Sorrow doth to the matter wit impart.
How small a part of grief is in my verse!
He's happy that his sufferings can rehearse.
As shrubs in wood, or sands which Tyber gild,
Or the soft blades of grass in Marses field,
So many miseries do we now endure,
Of which my Muses are the only cure.
If thou ask when Ovid ends his weeping lines?
I answer, when I find more happy times.
She this complaint from a full spring affords,
They are not mine, but my mis-fortunes words.
If to me ray Wife and Country thou restore,
I shall be merry as I was before.
If Caesar's wrath to me becomd more milde,
I'l give thee verses that with mirth are fill'd.
Yet shall my writing not so just again.
Though once it ran out in a wanton veine.
I'le sing what shall by Caesar be approv'd,
If that I might be from the Getes remov'd.
Till then sad matter in my books shall be,
This pipe doth unto funerals agree.
But thou mayst say, 'twero better for to cover
Thy griefs, and strive in silence them to smother.
Thou wouldst have torments, yet no groans resound,
Thou bidst him not to weep that bath a wound.
In that Bull which Perillus once did frame,
Phaleris suffer'd them to roar and complain.
And Priam's tears, Achilles did not blame,
But thou more cruel wouldst my tears restrain.
When Dian Niobe did childless leave,
She did not bid her that she should not grieve.
'Tis something by words to ease sorrows vein,
Which maketh Progne always to complain,
This made Paeantius in a cold Cave lye,
Wearying the Lemnian rocks even with his cry.
Sorrow conceal'd doth choak and inward swell,
Restraint to gather strength doth it compel.
Then pardon me, or leave my works even quite,
If they harm thee which do me much delight.
But yet they can be hurtful unto none,
Which only have their Author overthrown
I confess they are ill, who bids thee take them then?
Or who forbids thee lay them down again.
Yet that they may be read at last of thee,
More barbarous than the place they cannot be.
Rome with her Poets should not me compare.
Though 'mongst the Sauromates I witty were.
Lastly, I seek no glory to obtain,
Nor that which spurs up wit, aspiring fame:
I would not have my mind to wast with care,
Which still breaks in though they forbidden are.
This makes me write, but if you ask why I send
These books, it is to visit you my friend.

ELEGIE II.

He bids his wife not to fear,
To entreat Caesar that he would hear
His case, and after be content,
To grant him milder banishment.
WHen a letter comes from Pontus art thou pale?
Why does thy hand in opening it even fail?
Fear nor, I am well, my body which I long
Did ne're inure to pains, now groweth strong.
And being vext, by use doth waxe more hard,
Or that to be sick, time is now debar'd:
And yet my mind of strength doth get no more,
My affections are the same they were before.
Those wounds which I thought time would close again,
As if they were new made put me to pain:
Time hath some power to heal a little cross,
But greater sorrows do by time grow worse.
Poeantius ten whole years that wound did feed,
Which from the poysoned snake did first proceed.
Let part then of my grief his wrath appease,
And let him take some drops from the full seas.
Though he take off much, yet much remain still shall,
Part of my punishment will be like to all.
As shells on shoare, or flowers on beds of Roses,
Or as the grains which Poppy first discloses.
As beasts in woods, or fish in waters swims,
Or birds do beat the gentle air with wings:
So many are my griefs, and I as well
The drops of the Icarian Sea may tell.
Though I hide my dangers both by sea and Land,
And how my life was sought by every hand:
In the barbarous part of all the world I lie,
Which is encompass'd by the enemy.
Since my crime is not bloudy, I should be
Conveyed hence, if thou didst care for me.
That God on whom the Roman power doth lee,
Hath been most milde unto the enemy.
Why do'st thou doubt? go and intreat for me,
Than Caesar no man can more gentle be,
What shall I do if thou dost me forsake?
And from the broken yoke thy neck dost take,
And whence shall I some comfort now provide?
Since that my ship doth at no anchor ride.
He shall see, and to the Altar I will run,
The Altar, which no hands at all doth shun.
I absent to the absent powers will speak,
If that a man to Jove his mind may break.
Thou Ruler of the Empire in whose safety,
The Gods do shew their care of Italy:
The glory and example of thy land,
Great as the world which thou dost command.
So dwell on earth, that heaven may thee desire,
And slowly to the promis'd stars aspire.
Spare me, and take some thunder back again.
Enough of punishment will still remain.
Thy wrath is milde, thou grantest me to live,
And the right of a Citizen to me didst give.
Nor was my substance given away, and than,
Thy Edicts calls me not a banisht man.
All which I fear'd, cause I did thee incense,
But thy wrath was more milde than my offence.
To banish me to Pontus thou didst please,
While that my Ship did cut the Scythian Seas.
Thus sent, at the Euxine shores I landed straight,
Which under the cold Pole are scituate,
Nor with the cold aire here more vex'd am I,
Nor hoary frost which on the clods doth lie:
Or that they are ignorant of the Latin tongue,
And Graecian speech by Getick is o'rcome,
As that I am encompass'd round with war,
So that within the walls we scarce safe are:
Sometimes there's peace, but yet no trust therein,
We fear the wars until the wars begin.
So I remove, may Charibdis me devour,
And send me down unto the Stygian power.
In Aetna's scorching flame I'le burn with ease
Or be thrown into the Leucadian seas.
For to be miserable I do not refuse,
But yet a safer misery I would chuse.

ELEGIE III.

To Bacchus that he would but speak,
To Caesar and for him entreat.
BAcchus, this day the Poets keep to thee,
If in the time I not deceived be.
Tying sweet garlands round about their head,
While much in praise of wine by them is said.
Mongst whom while I was suffered by my fate,
I made up one, whom thou didst not then hate.
But now plac'd under the stars of the Bear,
Sarmatia holds me to the Getes so near.
I that did lead a life from labour free,
In my study or in the Muses company:
Now Geticks weapons lash on every hand,
Having suffered much before by sea and land.
Whether fate or angry Gods did this assign,
Or that the Parcae frown'd at my birth time?
Yet by thy power thou shouldst have helped me,
One of the adorers of thy live tree.
Or can no God ever alter that decree,
Which once the fatal Ladys Prophesie.
Thou by desert in Heaven a seat dost hold,
And mad'st thy way through labours manifold?
Nor did thy Country always thee contain,
But to the Geles and snowy Strymon came.
To Persis and to Ganges wandring stream,
And all those waters Indians drink unclean.
The Parcae that the fatal threads do spin,
To thee twice born, twice this decree did sing.
If I by the Example of the Gods may go,
A hard estate of life doth keep me low:
And in as heavy a manner as he fell,
Whom Jove for bragging did from Thebes expel.
When thou heardst thy Poet was thus thunder-struck,
For thy mothers sake some grief thou mightst have took.
And looking on thy Poets might'st say thus,
One here is wanting that much honour'd us.
Help Bacchus, and may so a double vine,
Burden the Elme, the grapes being full of wine.
So may the Bacchae with the Satyres be,
Ready to make an amazed cry to thee.
And may Lycurgus bones be hardly prest,
And Pentheus ghost from torment never rest.
So may thy wives clear crown within the sky
Shine ever, and excel those stars are nigh,
Come hither and help me in my sad estate,
Remember I was one of thine of late.
The gods have one society, strive to encline
Great Caesar's power by that same power of thine.
And you Poets that my fellow students be,
Take wine, and after pray the same for me.
And let some of you, when Ovids name he hears,
Set down the cup and mingle it with tears.
Saying when he doth all the rest espy,
Where's Ovid, once one of our company?
Do this if my candour did deserve your love,
Or if I ne're did any line reprove.
If while I reverence former men that writ,
I am held equal not beneath in wit:
If with Apollo's favour you would frame
A verse, then keep among you still my name.

ELEGIE VI.

This Letter here doth well descry,
Ovid's grief and misery,
And it praiseth much a friend,
That was constant to the end.
I Ouids Letter, from the Euxine Land
Am come, being tyred both by sea and land:
Who weeping said, go thou and visit Rome,
Thy state is better than my fatal doom.
Weeping he writ me, nor at his mouth would wet
The seal, which to his moist cheeks he did set.
If any one my cause of grief would know,
He wishes I the summ to him should show:
He sees no leaves in woods, in fields no grass,
Nor how the water in full streams doth pass.
He may ask why Priam griev'd for Hectors sake,
Why Philoctetes groan'd, stung by a Snake.
Would the Gods would put him into such a state,
That he should have no cause to wail his fate:
Yet as he ought he endures his miserys,
Nor like a wild horse from his bridle flys:
He hopes that Caesars wrath will not still last,
Knowing no wickedness in his faults that's past.
He calls to mind great Caesar's clemency,
Which by himself he doth exemplifie.
For that he keeps his wealth, and still doth live,
And is a Citizen, all this be doth give.
Yet thee (if thou believ'st me) he doth beare,
Always in mind, and above all things dear,
His Patroclus and Pylades thou shalt be,
His Theseus and Euryalus he calls thee:
Nor doth he wish his Country more to see,
And those things which with it now absent be,
Than to see thy face, than hony sweeter still:
With which the Attick Bee the Hive doth fill.
Oft being sad, the time to mind he doth call,
And grives that death did not prevent his fall:
When some my sudden misery did shun,
Nor to the threshold of my house would come:
He remembers thou most faithful didst remain,
If any two or three a few do name.
And though amazed he did then perceive,
That thou as much as he himself didst grieve.
Thy words and sighs he usually declares,
And how his bosome was wet with thy tears.
Of which he says he will be mindful ever,
Whether he see day, or the earth him cover.
He would swear ever by his head and thine,
Which as his own he esteemed ac that time.
He shall return thy love full thanks again,
Nor shall thy Oxen plough the shoare in vain.
Defend a banish'd man, I ask what he
Himself doth not ask, that hath well known thee.

ELEGIE V.

Hit Wives birth he doth celebrate,
And prays she may be fortunate.
MY Wives birth-day due honour doth expect,
My hands do not those holy rites neglect.
Thus Ulysses in the farthest part of all
The world, did keep a solemn festival.
Let now my tongue forget past griefs again,
Which I fear hath forgot good words to frame.
That garment which I once a year do take,
I'le near being white, and unlike to my fate.
And a green Altar shall of turf be made,
And a garland round about the Altar laid.
Boy give me incense making a fat flame,
And wine that in the fire may hiss again.
Birth-day, I wish that thou may still come here
Prosperous, and unlike to mine appear.
If any ill-fate hover o're my wife,
Let me endure it in my wretched life.
And let my ship bruis'd with a grievous storme,
Saile on her way through safe seas without harm.
In her house and country let her take delight,
'Tis enough that these are taken from my sight.
Though in her husband she unhappy be,
Lee her other part of life from clouds be free.
May she live and love her absent husband now.
And spend those latter years which faces allow.
And mine too, but I fear my fare would give
Some infection to those years which she doth live.
Nothing is certain, for who'd thing that I,
Should mongst the Getes keep this solemnity?
Look how the wind towards Italy now drives
The smoak, that from the incense doth arise.
There is sense in the clouds, which fire doth show,
But what it doth portend I do not not know.
When those brothers once did sacrificing stand,
Who after were slain by each others hand;
In two parts the black flame did upward go,
As if it were by them commanded so.
I remember once I said it could not be,
And Chalimachus was not believ'd of me:
Now I believe, since thou wise smoak do'st bend
For the North, and towards Italy do'st ascend.
This is the Day, which if it had not been,
No feast-day had of wretched me been seen:
This day brought vertues that most equal were,
To those same men whose fames did shine most clear.
Chastity and constancy with her were born,
But no joyes began upon that day forlorn.
But labour, cares, and sad adversity,
And like a widdow all alone to lie.
Yet goodness by adversity is try'd,
And prais'd that doth in hardest times abide.
Had Ulysses seen no troubles in his days,
Penelope had been happy without praise.
Evadne had lain in the earth unknown,
If her husband conquerour from Thebes had come.
Of Pelias Daughters one is prais'd by fame,
Because she married an unhappy man.
Had another first gone on the Trojan shore,
Of Laodamia we should hear no more:
And that affection had been still unknown,
If that a fair wind in my sails had blown
You Gods, and Caesar, which to you shall go
When he hath liv'd out Nestors years below.
Spare not me, who due punishment receive,
But her that doth unworthily now grieve.

ELEGIE VI.

Here he doth entreat his friend,
Not to leave him in the end.
THou that wert once the hope of my affairs,
A refuge and a haven to my cares.
Dost thou forget thy friend in misery?
That pious office dost thou now lay by?
My burden thou should'st not have undergone,
If in this time thou would'st have laid it down.
Palinurus thou in the sea dost leave my barke,
Fly not, but be thou faithful in thy Art.
Autamedon in the battel never fled,
Nor left Achilles horse unmanaged.
Podalius whom he took to cure, would still
Give him that help he promis'd by his skill.
Better not take, than to thrust forth a guest,
Let my hand on thy Altar firmly rest:
To maintain me at first thou did'st intend,
Me and thy judgement do thou now defend.
If that there be no new offence of mine,
To make thee change thy faith for any crime,
My breath which I in Scythia fetch so slow,
I wish may first out of my body go,
E're any fault of mine thy breast do move,
Or that I seem less worthy of thy love.
We are not so by unjust fates opprest,
That length of misery should disturb my breast.
Suppose it were, how often did Orestes,
Speak froward words against his Pylades.
Nay it is true that he did strike his friend,
Yet in friendship he continued to the end.
In this the wretched with the rich are even,
That unto both much flattery is given.
We give the way unto the blind, and those
Who are fear'd, because they wear the purple cloathes.
You should spare my fortune though you spare not me,
There is no place now angry for to be.
Chuse the least sorrow which I do sustain,
'Tis more than that whereof thou dost complain.
As ditches hidden are with many a reed,
Or as the Bees, which do on Hybla feed,
Or like those grains which by the Ants are found,
And in a small path carried under ground.
Even such a troop of sorrows compass me,
Believe me, my complaint might greater be.
He that is not content herewith, may pour
Water to the Sea, or sands unto the shore.
Therefore thy unseasonable rage appease,
Nor leave my sails in the midst of the Seas.

ELEGIE VII.

His miseries he here repeats.
With the manners and habit of the Getes.
THis letter which thou readst, from thence did come
Where Ister into the green sea doth run.
If thou enjoy'st thy life and sweetest health,
I shall be fortunate in that my self:
Doubtless dear friend thou askest how I do?
Which though I silent were, yet thou maiest know
I am wretched, this my summe of grief doth give,
Who e're offendeth Caesar so shall live.
If thou wouldst know the people of this region,
Of Tomos, and their manners and condition.
Though Getes and Graecians here do spread it o're,
This land of rugged Getes containeth more.
The Sarmatians and the Getes continually,
In troopes upon their Horses do pass by.
'Mongst which theres none but bears his bow in shew,
And Arrows which with vipers bloud look blew.
A wilde voice, fierce look, deaths truest shape they have,
And then their hair and beard they never shave.
They are ready with a knife to give a wound,
Which ever salvage by his side hath bound:
With these he lives, who of you will mindful be,
Thy Poet (Friend) doth these both hear and see.
And may he live, and in this place ne're die,
That my ghost from this hated place may fly.
Thou writ'st my verse in Theaters is sung,
And that a loud applause to them is rung.
Thou know'st I have done nothing in stage-ways,
Nor is my muse ambitious of applause.
Yet I like it that my memory they retain,
And of a banish'd man keep up the name:
Though when I think what hurt once from them came,
I curse my Muses, and my verse again.
And having curs'd, I cannot them forsake,
Those weapons bloudied m my wounds I take▪
The ship torn with Euboian waves, yet after
Dares freely sail in the Capharian water.
Yet I labour not for praise, nor take I care,
To get a name, which better unknown were.
With study I delight my mind, and try,
To delude my sorrows and my cares thereby.
What should I do on this same desart shore?
What other help for grief can I implore?
The place it self is unpleasant unto me,
And nothing in the world can sadder be.
The men are scarcely worthy of that name,
More cruelty than wolves they do retain.
They fear no laws, the right doth yield to wrong,
The Laws are by the warlike sword o're-come.
To keep off cold, they skins and mantles weare,
And their grim faces are hid with long haire.
In some of them some little Greek is sound,
Which is made barbarous by the Getick sound.
Amongst these people there is scarce one man,
That render common words in Latin can.
I a Roman Poet (pardon me I pray,
You Muse) speak in the Sarmatick way.
I am asham'd, yet through dis-use I find
That latine words come slowly to my mind.
And many barbarous words this book deface,
Which is no fault of mine, but of the place.
Yet that I may the latin tongue not lose,
And that I may still keep my voice in use,
Those un-used words unto my self I speak,
And to studious colours I retreat:
Thus I draw on the time, and my self bring,
From the contemplation of my sustering.
By verse I seek to forget my miseries,
If I get this by study, it doth suffice.

ELEGIE VIII.

To inveigh agaist one he doth begin,
Who had railed first at him.
THough I am fallen, yet I'm above thee,
Than which there's nothing can inferiour be.
What makes thee, wicked man, to stomach me?
Insulting in that which may hap to thee.
Cannot my miseries make thee soft and milde?
For which the beasts would weep though they are wilde.
Fear'st thou not fortune on a globe that stands,
Nor yet that hated Goddesses commands?
Rhamnusia will on thee revenged be,
Because thou tread'st upon my misery.
I have seen a shipwrack and men cast away,
Yet that the water was just ne're did say.
Who once deni'd the poor some broken meat,
Is glad himself of begged bread to eat.
Fortune doth rove with an unconstant pace,
And ne're remaineth certain in one place,
Now she is merry, then sullen by and by,
And constant only in inconstancy,
We flourisht once, but soon that flower did fade,
And this our sudden blaze of straw was made.
Yet lest thou cruelly rejoyce in vain,
I have some hope to please the Gods again.
My fault is not wicked, though it merit blame;
And envy is wanting to encrease my shame.
Besides, from sun-rising till he down doth go,
The world a milder man can never show.
And though he cannot be o'recome by strength,
Intreaty makes his heart grow soft at length.
And like the Gods to whom he shall go at last,
Will pardon me, and give more than I ask.
It you count the fair and soule days in a year,
You shall find the day hath oftner been clear,
Then least thou joy in my ruine any more,
Think Caesar may me once again restore.
Think that the Prince appeas'd, it may come to pass,
That in the City thou mai'st see my face.
And see thee banisht for a worse fault than this,
Which is the next unto my former wish.

ELEGIE IX.

He shews why his friend be dare not name,
Or mention him for fear of blame.
IF thou would'st let thy name be in my verse,
How often then should I thy name rehearse?
For thou the subject of my song should'st be,
And each leaf of my book should mention thee.
My love to thee through the City should be spread,
If banisht, I am in the City read.
The present age, and latter should know thee,
If that my writings tear antiquity,
And the learned Reader praise to thee should give,
And be honour'd while that I thy Poet live:
'Tis Caeser's gift that we do breathe this air:
After the Gods, thanks unto the due are.
He gave me life, and thou do'st it maintain,
That so I may enjoy that gift again.
Some were dismay'd my ruine for to see,
And some dismayed were for company.
And behold my ship-wrack from some hill on land,
And to me swimming would not reach their hand.
Thou cald'st me halfe dead from the Stygian water,
And mad'st me to remember this hereafter.
May the Gods and Caesar still be friends to thee,
My prayer cannot any larger be.
These things in my witty books I would have brought
To light, if thou the same had'st fitting thought.
Now though commanded for to hold her peace,
My Muse from naming thee can hardly cease.
As the couples cannot hold the striving hound,
When he the footing of the Dear hath found.
As the fierce horse with heels and head doth bear,
On the List-gates till they be open set.
So my Thalia shut in and enclos'd,
To name thee though forbidden is dispos'd,
Yet lest a friends love hurt thee any way,
Fear not, I will thy own commands obey.
Because thou think'st that I do think on thee,
Since thou forbid'st not, I will thankful be.
And while this life preserving light I view,
My soul shall always serve and honour you.

ELEGIE X.

He complains that he three years had spent
In Pontus in sad banishment.
SInce we came to Pontus Ister twice was froze,
And thrice the Euxine sea even hardned grows.
But yet as many years they seem to me,
As Troy was under the Greek enemy.
Time seems to stand, so slowly it goes on,
The year most slackly doth his journey run.
Nor doth the Solstice from night take away,
Nor the winter never shortneth the day.
With us the natures of things changed are,
Which lengthens all things equal to my care.
Or doth the time his wonted course go on,
And only seem long unto me alone?
While the Euxine shore so call'd by a false name,
But more truely Scythia, doth me contain.
Fierce wars the Nations round about doth threaten,
Who think their living is by stealth well gotten.
Nothing without is safe, the hill is fortifi'd
With walls, and the nature of the place beside.
The foe like a shoal of birds comes in,
And drives away the booty e're he's seen.
Sometimes their darts in the streets we gather up,
Which do fly o're the walls the gates being shut.
If any one to plough the earth is bold.
One hand the plough, the other armes doth hold.
The Shepheatd with an helmet, pipes on's read,
And stead of Wolves, the sheep the wars do dread.
The Castle scarce defends us, wherein we fear,
Cause the Salvages with the Graecians mixed are.
The Barbarian here with us doth dwell most free,
And the most houses by him possessed be.
Whom though you fear not, their looks hateful are,
Their bodys covered with skins and long hair:
Those which from Greece are thought to be deriv'd,
Their bodys with the Persian flop doth hide.
They use the commerce of a neighbour tongue,
By gesture each thing is to mo made known.
For I am understood by none of them,
And the dull Getes the Latine words contemn.
They speak ill of me while that I am present,
And do object to me my banishment.
And they do chink ill of me oftentimes,
When while they speak I answer them by signes.
And injustice is more cruel than the sword,
Some in the Court with wounds are often goar'd.
Hard Lachesis thou gav'st too long a thred
Of life to me, under an ill star bred.
Thu my Countries sight, and friends I now do want,
And thus in Scythia do make my complaint.
Both grievous are, I have deserv'd from Rome
To be banisht, not to such a place to come.
What speak I madly? I deserv'd to die,
When I offended Caesars Majesty.

ELEGIE XI.

To his wise 'cause some did her defame,
And call her wife to a banish'd man.
THy Letter which thou sendst me doth complain,
That some one call'd thee wise to a banisht man.
I griev'd not that my life is ill spoke by,
Who now have us'd to suffer valiantly:
But that I am a cause of shame to thee,
And I think thou blushest at my misery.
Endure, thou hast suffered more even for my sake,
When the Princes wrath me from thee first did take.
He's deceiv'd who calleth me a banish'd man,
My fault a gentler punishment did attain.
Our ship though broke is not o'rewhelm'd or drown'd,
It bears up still, though it no Port hath found.
My life, my wealth, my right he doth not take,
Which I deserv'd to lose for my faults sake.
To offend him was a punishment far more,
I wish my funeral hour had gone before.
But because no wickedness was in my fault,
To banish me he only fittest, thought.
As to those whose numbers cannot reckon'd be,
So Caesar's Majesty was milde to me.
Therefore my verses by right as they may,
O Caesar, do sing forth thy praise alway.
I beseech the Gods to shut up Heavens Gate,
And let thee be a God on earth in state.
But thou that call'st me thus a banisht man,
Encrease not my sorrow with a feigned name.

ELEGIE XII.

To his friend who wish'd him to delight
Himself, while he did verses write.
THou writ'st that I should pass the time away
With study, lest my mind with rust decay.
'Tis hard (my friend) verse is a merry taske,
And it a quiet mind doth always aske.
Our fate is droven by an adverse wind,
No chance more sad than mine can be assign'd.
Thou wouldst have Priam at his sons death jest,
And Niobe dance as it were at a feast.
Ought I to study or else to lament?
That alone unto the farthest Getes am sent.
Give me a breast with so much strength sustain'd,
Such as Anytus had, as it is fam'd.
So great a weight would sink his wit at length,
Joves anger is above all human strength.
That old man which Apollo wise did call,
In such a case would not have wit at all.
Though I forget my Country and my self,
And have no sense at all of my lost wealth:
To do my office fear doth me forbid,
Being compass'd in with foes on every side.
Besides, my vein grows dull being rusted o're,
And now it is far lesser than before.
The field if that it be not daily till'd,
Will nothing else but thornes, and knot-grass yield.
The Horse having long stood still will badly run,
And be last of those that from the Lists do come.
The boat that hath long out of water been,
Grows rotten, and the chinks thereof are seen.
Then hope not I that had an humble vein,
Can e're return like to my self again.
My wit by my long suffering is decay'd,
And part of my former vigour now doth fade.
Sometimes my Tables in my hand I take,
And I my words to run in feet would make.
I can write no verses but such as you see,
Fitting the place and their Authours misery.
And lastly, glory gives strength to a strain,
And love of praise, doth make a fruitful vein.
I was allur'd with hope of fame before,
While as a prosperous wind my sails out bore:
But now in glory I take not delight,
I had rather be unknown if that I might.
Because that some my verse at first did like,
Would'st thou have me therefore proceed to write?
May I speak it with your leave you sisters nine,
You chiefly caus'd this banishment of mine.
As the maker of the Bull in it did smart,
So I am also punish'd by my Art.
And now with verse I ought for to have done,
And being shipwrack'd I the sea should shun,
Suppose that study I should again assay,
This place is unfit for verses any way.
Here are no books, nor none to lend an ear,
Nor none can understand me if they hear.
All places here both rude and wilde are found,
And filled with the fearful Getick sound.
I have forgot in Latine for to speak,
And I have learnt the language of the Gete.
Yet to speak truth, I cannot so restrain,
My Muse but sometime she a verse will frame.
I write, and then I burn those books again,
And thus my study endeth in a flame.
I cannot make a verse, nor do desire,
Which makes me put my labour in the fire.
No part of my invention to you came,
But that which was stole or snatch'd from the flame.
And would that Art too had been burnt for me,
Which brought the Authour unto misery!

ELEGIE XIII.

Here he doth accuse his friend,
Because he did no letters send.
FRom the Gettick Land thy Ovid sends thee heath,
If one can send what he doth want himself.
For my mind from my body infected is,
Lest my part of me should torment miss.
A pain in my side me many days doth hold,
Which I had gotten by the winters cold.
If thou art well, then we in part are well,
For thou didst under-prop me when I fell.
Thou gav'st me many pledges of thy heart,
And did'st defend me still in every part.
'Tis thy fault that Letters thou dost seldome send,
Thou performed'st deeds, deny'st words to thy friend.
Pray mend this fault, which if you shall correct,
In thee alone there will be no defect.
I would accuse thee more, but it may be,
Thy Letter being sent came not to me.
May this complaint of mine seem rash and hot,
May I falsely think that thou hast me forgot.
Which as I pray for I am sure to find,
For I can ne're believe thou hast chang'd thy mind.
Gray worm-wood shall in the cold sea be scant,
And Sycilian Hybla, shall sweet hony want.
E're thou in remembring of thy friend grow slack,
The threds sure of my fate are not so black.
And that thou may'st avoid so foule a crime,
What thou art not, beware thou do not seem.
And as we were wont to pass the time away,
With some discourse, till we had spent the day,
Let Letters carry and fetch back our words,
While hands and paper tongues to us affords.
But lest I seem too distrustful for to be,
And that these few lines may admonish thee.
Take my Farewel, which word doth Letters end,
And may fortune better fates unto the send.

ELEGIE XIV.

Ovid shews his wife that she,
Shall by his books immortal be.
WHat a memorial my books give to thee?
Thou Wife more dearer than my self mai'st see.
Though fortune from their Authour do detract,
Yet by my wit thy fame shall be exact.
While I am read, thy fame shall too be read,
Which cannot in the funeral fire lie dead:
And though thou seem'st unhappy by my fate,
Yet some shall wish to be in thy estate:
Who 'cause thou bearst part of my misery,
May call thee happy, and may envie thee.
By giving riches thou no more hadst got,
Since the rich-mans ghost from hence doth carry nought,
But I have given thee fame that still shall last,
The greatest gift that I could give thou hast.
And 'cause thou dost defend me in my trouble,
This maketh honour come upon the double.
For that my voice doth ever mention thee,
Thy husbands love may still thy glory be.
And lest some call thee rash, abide to the end,
Both me and thy faith see that thou defend:
For while we stood, thou only didst maintain,
Thy goodness free from any fault or blame.
Which is not ruin'd by this fault of mine.
Thy vertue now may make thy works to shine.
'Tis easie to be good, when we remove
All occasions that may make wives not to love.
But in thunder if the shower she do not shun,
Such affection doth true marriage-love become,
Rare is that love which fortune doth not guide,
But when she flies away doth firm abide.
If vertue a reward to any be,
Shewing most courage in adversity,
Thy vertue in no age shall be conceal'd,
But through the world admired and reveal'd.
Thou seest Penelope doth still retain,
For constancy an unextinguish'd name.
Admetus and brave Hectors wife are sung,
And Hiphias wife that into fire did run.
The Phylacean wife by fame new life hath found,
Whose husband first set foot on Trojan ground.
I do not need thy death, shew love to me.
And thence thou shalt get fame most easily.
Nor think I exhort thee, cause that thou dost fail,
Though the ship go with oares, we put on sail.
He that exhorts, doth praise what thou dost do.
And by exhorting doth his liking show.
FINIS.

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