The three first bookes of Ouid de Tristibus translated into English

¶ T•• hys f••••end to def••nd hys Booke. ••l••gie. 14.

O Holy Poet prelate hig••, which learned men defendes, What dost thou now to wofull wit, that friendly help extendes? As thou were wont in better plight alwayes to succour mee, And now a••so least q••it I should, depart dost thou foresee? Dost thou prese••ue my verses all▪ and in thy keepinge sa••e, My wofull artes except alone, which Author hurted haue? Yea do thou so of Poets newe, that carefull will remayne, And if thou may my haplesse name in City still retayne. My selfe enforst away to flee, my bookes yet nothinge so, Nor cau•••• by them committed is, to taste of maysters wo. The exil'de father doth oft times, to furdest Nations flee, Hi•• children though in town•• to byde, as lawfull is you s••e. My verse my O••springe so I call, begot of mother none, But like as P••llas whilom was, of Ioue his br••yne alone. To thee I them commit and sy••h, their Syre is wanted sore, To thee that dost protect the Babes, the burden is the more.

And three I haue that my mishap, in case alike do proue, The rest in open sight preserue, thou neede not them remoue. And bookes thryce flu•• of shape trāsform'de, which likewise I haue left, Which at their maisters funerall, with force were all bereft. That worke might well if that in mee my life so longe had last, From heauy hand amended more with greater fame haue past. But now all vncorrupted quite in peoples mouth doth fall, If that in peoples dayly speache, my name be told at all. And to my bookes I know not how, which hap into thy hand. Adde this: although now lately sent, from vnacquainted land. That who then reads in reading them, will presuppose before, What time and restlesse place I had, appoyncted me therefore▪ To writinges mine more pardon farre, a righteous Iudge will show, If that them made in exil'de time, and barbarous land he know. In such mishaps he marueyle will, how verses I could write, Or how my carefull hand set forth, the words I did endite. My sundry woes my wits haue broke, of which longe time before, The fountayne dry and sclender vaine, appeared euermore. Yet (as it was) with want of vse, is now consum'de away, And with long thrist to drines driuen, sustered more decay. No store of bookes to feede my wit, in Scythia coast be founde, But in their place the shootinge bowes and arrowes do resounde. No learned mates for conference, do liue within this lande, That hath the skill my verse to reade, or eares to vnderstande. No space is here to roame aside, that watch on wall which goes, And gate vpshut keepers of the Getes, our deadly dreaded foes. Enquiry oft I make of wordes, of place or of some name, Nor any man is present here, by whom I certaine ame. Not seldome I enforce to speake, to shamefull to confesse, My wonted wordes will fayle me then, which I forgetting cesse. With Thracian talke and Geta rude, my eares be stopped quite, Mee seemeth now I able am, in Getian wise to wryte, Beleeue mee least with Latin they be mixed sore I dread, And least my writinge while thou vewe, the Pontus wordes do read. And to my booke such as it is, in reading pardon giue, And eke excused haue the same, by lot of ly e I liue.