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 VII.

To his unconstant friend, whose love He findes doth now unconstant prove, And like a Glow-worm seems to shine, But yields no heat in hardest time.

LEt Rivers now flow back unto their Spring, And let the Sun from West his course begin: The earth shall now with shining stars be fill'd, The skies unto the furrowing plough shall yield. The water shall send forth a smoaking flame, The fire shall yield forth water back again. All things shall go against old natures force, And no part of the world shall keep his course. This I presage because I am deceiv'd Of him, whose love most faithful I believ'd. What made thy hollow thoughts so soon reject me, What did'st thou fear when fortune did afflict me. That thou would'st never comfort me at all, Or mourn at my living Funeral. That name of friendship which should holy be, Is not esteem'd or reckon'd of by thee. What had it been to have seen a maim'd friend, And with the rest some words of comfort lend? And if no tears for me thou couldst have shed, With fained pitty might'st have something sed. Thou might'st have done as some who I ne're knew, And in the common voice have bid adiew:

And lastly, while thou mightest take the pain To see my face ne're to be seen again, And might'st have then (which ne're shall more befall) Give and receive a farewel last of all. Which others did, whom no strict league did binde, And made their tears the witness of their minde. For were not we in love joyn'd each to other, By length of time and living both together? My business and my sports were known to thee, And so were thy affairs well known to me. Did not I know thee well at Rome of late, Whom I for mirth-sake did associate? Are these things vanisht into empty wind, Drown'd in the Lethe of a faithless mind; I do not think that thou wert born at Rome, (Whither alas I never more shall come) But on some Rock here in the Pontick land, Or Scythian Mountains that so wildly stand. And veins of flint are every where disperst, In slender branches through thy Iron brest. And sure thy Nurse some cruel Tiger was, Who gave thee suck as she along did pass: Else thou hadst made my grief by application Thy own, nor wouldst thou need this accusation. But since to encrease the burthen of my grief, My first of miseries found such poor relief, Repair this breach of love, that in the end Thy now complain'd of love I may commend.