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 Pontus, where he died after seven years banishment from Rome / translated into English by W.S.

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.