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 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.