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 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!