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.

To the Reader.

IT is now grown a common custome to seek thy good will by an Epistle, and therein to move thy affection to be fa∣vourable to the present work, wherein I need not bestow any great pains, for this is a translation of Ovids last book which he writ in banishment, and therefore if you would set before your eyes the present estate wherein he then lived, it would exceedingly move your pitty towards him. Ima∣gine that you saw Ovid in the Land of Pontus, where he whose company was so much desired, was now banish'd from all company; he that was once the Darling of the Muses, now made the subject of misery; he that drank choise wines, now drinks spring water; he that wore a wreath of Bayes, now wears a wreath of Cypress: and to conclude, he that was once so famous, was now as much un∣fortunate, and all this was most unworthily in∣flicted on him for some offence committed against Caesar, and also for writing that unhappy Book which he called the Art of Love; for these two he accuses as the causers of his banishment; du∣ring which time he writ this last Book, entituling it his Tristium, because it contained his sorrow:

And lastly consider, that after he had written this book, having divers times sought to be re∣pealed from banishment; and despairing of any mercy from Caesar, he at last dyed, in the seventh year of his Banishment, from Rome: the Muses, together with Venus and a hundred little Cupids being mourners at his Funeral, If therefore you ever loved the sweetness of Ovids veine, or if the consideration of his sufferance in banishment, his want, his griefs, his afflictions, and lasty his death in a barbarous Land, can move your pitty and compassion, I doubt not but you will shew much love and affection to these Elegies, even for Ovids sake, whose compositions were so sweet and fluent, that his verses did run like a smooth stream fed by the spring of the Muses, so that he could hardly speak but in the manner of a verse, for so he testifies of himself: Quicquid conabor dicere versus erit. Now for my self, I have put these Elegies of Ovids into an English mourning habit, with a frontispiece to give thee a clear view of Ovids misery, and to make thy heart more apt to receive a deeper impression of his sorrow, that seeing how unworthily he was dealt withal, thou mayest both pitty Ovid, and love this work of his, which is all I desire.

Thine W. S.