Publ [sic] Ovid. De tristibus: or Mour nefull [sic] elegies in five bookes: composed in his banishment, part at sea, and part at Tomos, a city of Pontus. Translated into English verse by Zachary Catlin, Mr. of Arts. Suffolke.

ELEGIE. 8.

Our Poet here his wofull plight repeates, [Argu.] And showes the attire and manners of the Getes.

THis Letter Reader, comes from Scythian clime, Where Isters streames with th'Ocean waves cō∣bine. If thou a life of health dost now retaine, I shall an happy man in part remaine. I know my deare, thou askest how I fare, Which thou maist gather, though I silent were. I am, in briefe and summe, a wretched wight, As he must be, whom Caesar shall despight. Besides, I know thou wouldst, that I should tell, The manner of these T••mites where I dwell. The Greekes with Getes are mixed here in store,Line 10 Yet of fierce Getes, this coast containeth more. Whole troupes of Getes and rude Sarmatians goe, Tracing our rodes with horses to and fro. And theres not one but bow, and bowcase weares, And arrowes blew with gall of Vipers beares. Rough speech, and lookes that threaten death they have Their heads and beards these shack-haires never shave

Their hands are ready still to stab and wound With knives, which ever by their sides are bound.Line 20 With these he lives that wrote Loves tender glee, These, these thy Poet still doth heare and see. And yet, with these O may he never dye, But let his ghost this loathed Region flye! Whereas thou writest of applauses rung In the full Theaters, to my verses sung. Thon know'st, I never pend to stages Lawes, Not was my Muse ambitious of applause. Yet am I pleased, that I still retaineLine 30 In fresh remembrance a poore exiles name. My Muse and verses though I oft forsweare, When I consider what for them I beare; Yet having curst them, cannot give them o're, But love the weapons dyed in my gore. The Greekish ship torne ith' Euboian maine, Yet neere Caphareus 1 rocke dares saile againe. Yet wish I not for praise or late renowne: Who had beene safer, had I nere beene knowne: But with my studies doe beguile my griefe,Line 40 And yeeld my carefull minde some short reliefe. How else should I alone my time employ? Or other cure of sorrow here enjoy? For loe the place is most unpleasant ground, In all the world a vilder is not found. As for the men, they scarce deserve the name, More ferity then wolves they doe retaine. They feare no lawes, but right gives place to might, The stronger sword hath still the better right. They fence the cold with skins, and mantles wide, And with long locks their dreadful count'nance hide In some of them a smacke of Greeke is sound. Though much corrupted by the Geticke sound. Yet there's not one of all this savage throng, That can expresse a word ith' Latine tongue. Pardon ye Muses, I (even forc't erewhile) A Roman Poet speake their Geticke stile. I blush to say't, ••et through disuse doe finde.

That Latine words come 1 slowly to my minde. And doubtlesse, barbarous words these Poems shameLine 60 For which you must the place not Poet blame. Yet lest I quite should lose th' Ausonian tongue, And in my Country speech prove wholly dumbe, I with my selfe discourse in words disused. Vnder the Muses standard long refused. Thus doe I passe my houres, and so a while Of fretting thoughts my pensive minde beguile. Seeking by Poetry to forget my griefe, And well apaid, if thus I finde reliefe.

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  Hardly