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.

LIB. 2. (Book 2)

Unto Caesar he excuses Himself, and condemns his Muses. And many Poets doth recite, Who in their times did loosely write; Yet in that age were never sent, Though like in fault, to banishment.

WHat have I to do with you my unhappy book? On whom as on my ruine I must look. Why do I returne unto my Muse again, Is't not enough one punishment to obtain. It was my verse that first did overthrow me, And made both men, and women wish to know me. It was my verse did make great Caesar deem, My life to be such, as my verse did seem. Amongst my chiefest faults I must rehearse, My love of study, and my looser verse. In which while I my fruitless labour spent, I gained nothing but sad banishment. Those learned Sisters I should therefore hate, Who their adorers still do ruinate. Yet such my madnesse is, that folly armes me, To strike my foot against that stone that harmes me; Even as some beaten Fencer after tries To re••gain honour, by a second Prize. Or as some torne ship that newly came To shore, yet after stands to sea again. Perhaps as Telephus was healed by a sword, So that which hurt me shall like help afford. And that my verse his mov'd wrath may appease, Since verses have great power the Gods to please. Caesar hath bidden each Italian Dame. To sing some verses to great Opis name:

And unto Phoebus when he set forth plaies, To him once seen within an age of daies. So may my verse great Caesars now obtain, By examples to appease thy wrath again. Just is thy wrath, which I will ne're deny, Such shameful words, from my mouth do not flie: And this offence makes me for pardon crie, Since faults are objects of thy clemencie. Jove would be soon disarm'd, if he should send, His thunder-bolts as oft as men offend. Now though his thunders make the world to fear, It breaks the clouds, and makes the aire more clear: Whom therefore father of the Gods we name, Than Jove none greater doth the world contain. Thou Pater Patriae too art call'd, then be, Like to those Gods in name and clemencie. And so thou art, for no more moderate hand, Could hold the reines of Empire and command, Thy enemie once overcome in field Thou pardon'st, which he victor would not yield. And some thou did'st with honours dignifie, That have attempted 'gainst thy majestie. Thy warres on one day did begin and cease, While both sides brought their offerings unto peace: That as the Victor in the vanquisht Foe, The vanquisht in the victor gloried so. My case is better since I ne're did joyne, With those who did in arms 'gainst thee combine. By Sea, by Earth, and Stygian Gods I swear, And by thy self whose God-like power I fear. My thoughts, though wanting means to be exprest, As faithful were, as those who most profest. For I did joyne my frequent prayers with them, That thou might'st here long wear thy Diadem. And for thy safety made a poor expence, To please the Gods with offered Frankincense,

Besides, those faulty books of mine contain, In many places, thy most sacred name. And if thou would'st that worke of mine peruse. Of changed shapes, snatcht from my banisht Muse; In it thy name still mention'd thou shalt finde, And many things which shew my humble minde. For though my hapless Muse cannot aspire, To raise thy fame and glory any higher; Jove's pleas'd when we his glorious acts rehearse, And make him be the subject of our verse. And when we do the Giants warres recite, In his own praises be doth sure delight. Others may celebrate thy sacred name, And sing thy praises in a fluent veine. Though we an hundred Bulls do sacrifice, The Gods the smallest gifts do not despise. But oh! more cruel then a foe was he, Who first did shew my wanton lines to thee. Lest that my verses which thy fame do spread, Might so with equal favour now be read. Y t thou being angry, who durst love profess? For I did hate my self in my distress, As in some falling house the heavy weight, The first declining posts oppresses streight. So when that fortune an estate doth rend, All things by their own weight to ruine tend. The people likewise hate me for my books, And so compose themselves unto thy looks. Yet I remember in my younger daies, My life and manners thou didst often praise. For though unthriving honesty obtain No honour, yet no crime did soile my fame. The Defendants cause sometimes in hand I took, On which the hundred Senators should look. And when I private matters did compound, Each side the justice of my sentence found.

And if at last I had not thus offended, I know thou hast me formerly commended. This last destroyes me, sinks my ship below The waves, which often did in safety go. Nor did some small and little wave distress me, But a whole Ocean did at once oppresse me. Alas, why have my eyes thus hapless been, To give me knowledge of a private sin. Acteon did Diana naked spie, And yet for this he by his hounds did die. Though fortune did offend in this, nor he, Yet errours 'gainst the Gods must punisht be. Even so that day that errour me betray'd, A small, but not ignoble house decay'd. Yet such as from antiquity hath shown, Armes that have been inferiour unto none. Not Wealthy, nor yet e're with want disgrac'd, But with the houses of the Gentry plac'd. And if my house had borne an humble name, It had been famous by my fluent veine. Which though I us'd more lightly then became, Yet all the world beareth up my name. The learned too have Naso known, nor fear To place him with those that renowned were. Yet now this house which by my Muse was rais'd Is by one fault of mine again disgrac'd. Yet fallen so as it it self may rear, If Casar's wrath would once more milde appear. Whose mercie in my sentence was exprest, Farre short of that my fear did first suggest, Whose anger reacht not to this life of ours, But with great mildness us'd thy Princely powers, And thou my forfeit goods to me did'st give, And with my life did'st grant me means to live. Nor by the Senates sentence was I sent, Or private judgement into banishment,

But didst thy self pronounce those heavie words, Whose execution full revenge affords. Besides, thy Edict forcing my exile, Did with great favour my late fault enstile. Whereby I am not banisht but Confin'd, And misery is in gentle words assign'd. For there's no punishment though ne're so strict, Can more then thy displeasure me afflict. Yet sometimes angry Gods appeased are, And when the Clouds are gone, the day is fair. I have seen the Elm loaden with Vines again, That had before been strucken by Joves flame: Therefore Ile hope, since thou canst not deny To grant me this even in my misery. Thy mercy makes me hope, till I reflect Upon my fault, which doth all hope reject: And as the rage of Seas by winds incens'd, Is not with equal fury still commenc'd: But that sometimes a quiet calm it hath, And seems to have laid by his former wrath: Even so my various thoughts do make me fare, Now calm'd by hope, then troubled with despair, By those same Gods that grant thee long to reign, That thou maist still maintain the Roman name. And by thy Countrie happie in thy fate, Where I a subject were of thine of late. May so the City render thee due love, For thy great acts which do thy mind approve. So may thy Livia live here many years, Who only worthie of thy love appears. Whom nature kept for thee, else there had been, None worthie to have been thy Royal Queen. So may thy Son grow up, and with his father, Rule this same Empire happily together. And by his acts and thine, which time can't bide, May both your off-springs so be stellifi'd.

May victory so accustom'd to thy Tent, Come to his coulours, and her self present; And fly about him with displayed wings, While she a Laurel wreath to crown him brings. To whom thou dost thy wars command resign, And givest him that fortune that was thine. While thou thy self at home in peace dost reign, Thy other self doth foraign Wars maintain. May he return a victor o're his soe, And on his plumed horse in triumph go. Oh spare me therfore! and do now lay by Thy Thunder, which hath bred my misery. Spare me thou Pater Patriae, let that name, Give me some hope, to please thee once again. I sue not to repeal my banishment, Though unto greater sutes the Gods assent. For if thou wouldst some milder place asign Of exile, it would ease this grief of mine. For here I suffer even the worst of woes, While I do live amongst the barbarous foes▪ Being sent unto Danubius seven-fold stream, Whereas Calistho drives her frozen Team. And while the silver waves do gently slide, The Colchians from the Getes can scarce divide: And though for greater faults some are profcrib'd, Yet none in farther banishment abide. Beyond this, nought but cold and foes remain, And seas that are bound with an Icye Chain. Part of the Euxine sea which Rome commands Runs here, and then below Sarmatia stands. Here doth the spreading Roman Empire end, Whose utmost bounds do hither scarce extend, This makes me pray to be removed hence, A peaceful exile granting my offence. Nor with those people may a captive bide, Who once enrag'd the Ister can't divide.

Besides, a free-born Roman cannot be, By foreign hands held in captivity. Though two faults, verse, and errour me opprest, The latter shall in, silence be supprest. I am unworthy to renew the wound, O Caesar, by which I the smart have found. But of my fault they urge a second part, In that I taught Loves wanton idle Art. I see that human acts the Gods deceive, My fault is not such as thou dost believe. For as great Jove that heaven beholding sits, No leisure unto small affairs admits: So when this under Orbe thou dost o're-look , Thy royal thoughts no meaner cares do brook. As that thou shouldst (my Leige) have so mush leisure, To read my verse, fram'd with unequal measure. It seems the weight of the Roman name does lye, Not on thy shoulders very heavily. That thou wouldst deign to mark those idle lines; And view what I had writ at idle times. Now thou rebelling Hungary dost tame, While as the Thracians menace arms again. The Armenians seeking peace, the Parthian shows His spreading colours, and do bend their bows. Germany feels thy valour in thy Son, While Caesars foes, young Caesar doth o're-come. And lastly through thy Empires large extention. No part doth fall away through thy prevention. The City and the Laws thou dost defend, And by example dost thy subjects mend. Nor with thy people dost thou live at ease, When by thy wars thou settest them in peace. 'Mongst such affairs I wounder thou hadst time For to peruse those Idle jests of mine. Or if thou readst them with a quiet thought, I wish that in my art thou hadst read no fault.

It was not for severer judgements writ, And for thy princely view it was unfit. Yet such as doth not 'gainst thy laws offend, Or wanton rules to marryed Wives commend. And least thou doubt to whom they written were, In one book of the three, these verses are. Away all you whose fillets bind your hair: And you that ankle-touching garments wear: The lawfull scapes of love we here rehearse, That so their may be no fault in my verse. What though we banish from this Art all such As the robe and fillet bids us not to touch. Yet may the Matron use another art, And draw from thence what I did ne'r impart. Let the Matron then not read, for she may find, Matter in all verse to corrupt her mind. What e're she touches, she that delights in ill, Of vices knowledge she may learn the skill. Let her the Annales take (though most severe) The fault of Ilia will thereby appear. And in the Aeneads read as in the other, How wanton Venus was Aeneas mother. And I will shew beneath in every kind, That there's no verse but may corrupt the mind, Yet every book is not for this to blame, Since nothing profits but may hurt again. Than sire what better, yet he that doth desire To burne a house, doth arm himself with sire. Health-giving physick, health doth oft empair, Some hearbs are wholesome and some poyson are. The chief and traveller swords wear, to th' end, Th' one may assault, the other may defend. Though eloquence should plead the honest cause, It may defend the guilty by the laws. So if my verse be read with a good mind, Thou shalt be sure in it no hurt to find.

He therefore erres who led by self-conceit, Doth mis-interpret whatsoe're I write. Why are there Cloisters, wherein Maids do walk, That with their Lovers they may meet and talk? The Temple though most sacred let her shun, That with an evil mind doth thither come, For in Joves temple her thoughts will suggest, How many Maids by Jove, have been opprest: And think in Junoe's temples when shes praying, How Juno injur'd was by Joves oft straying; And Pallas seen, she thinks some faulty birth, Made her to hide Ericthon born of earth: If she come to Mars's temple, o're the gate, There standeth Venus with her cuning mate. In Isis temple, she revolveth how, Poor Io was transform'd into a Cow. And something then her wandring fancy moves, To think of Venus and Anchises loves. Jasus and Ceres next her thoughts encite, And pale Endimion the Moons favourite, For though those statues were for prayer assign'd, Yet every thing corrupts an evil mind, And my first leaf bids them not read that Art, Which I to Harlots only did impart. And since in maidens it is thought a crime, For to press farther than the Priests assign: Is she not faulty then, who not forbears To read my verses, prohibited chaste cares? Matrons to view those pictures are content, Which various shapes of venery present? And Vestal Virgins do peruse the same, For which the Author doth receive no blame. Yet why did I that wanton vein approve? Why doth my Book perswade them unto love? It was my fault which I do hear confess, My wit and judgement did therein transgress.

Why did not I of Troy's sad ruin tell, (That vexed theme) which by the Graecians fell. Or Thebes seven gates which severally kept, Where by mutual wounds those brothers dy'd and slept. An ample subject warlike Rome afforded, Whose acts I might have piously recorded. And though great Caesars deeds abroad are known, Yet by my verse some part I might have shown: For as the Suns bright rayes do draw the sight, So might thy acts my willing Muse incite. Yet 'twas no fault to plough a little field, Knowing that theme doth fertile matter yield. For though the Cock-boat through the Lake do row, She dare not venture unto sea to go. This I did fear, for though my lighter vein, To frame some slender measures can attain; Yet had I took to write the Gyants war, That work for me had been to heavy far. That happy wits of Caesars acts may tell, Whose high strain'd lines his acts can parallel. And though I once attempted such an act, Me thought my verse did from thy worth detract. Then to my Youthful Layes I went again, And writ of love, under a fained name. The fates did draw me 'gainst my own intent, By writing to obtain a banishment. Why learnt I by my parents care, or why Did tempting books detain my busie eye? For this thou hat'st me, since thou dost distrust, I taught by art how to solicite lust. When I to wives no theft of love did show, How could I teach what I did never know? For though some smooth soft verses I did frame, No ill report could ever wound my fame. Nor can some husband of the vulgar rank, For being made a doubtful father, thank

My verse, by which my thoughts are not exprest, My life is modest, though my muse love jest. Besides, my works are Fictions, and do crave Some liberty, which their Authour may not have. Nor do books shew the mind, whose chief intention, Is to delight the ear with new invention. Should Accius cruel be, Terence delight In bankets, and all warriours who do write Of wars, and lastly some have love-layes fram'd, Who though like faulty, yet are not like blam'd. What did the harping old man teach in rhyme, But to steep Venus in the heat of Wine? And Sappho doth instruct maids how to love, Yet he nor Sappho no man doth reprove. Who blames Battiades that abus'd his leasure, In wanton verse to set forth his own pleasure? Menanders pleasant merry tales of love, The harmless thoughts of virgins do approve. What do the Iliads shew, but wars sad shape, In the regaining an adulterous rape. And how Achilles Chryses love enflam'd, And how the Grecians Helen back regain'd. The Odysses shew how in a wooing strife, Those sutors vainly sought Ulysses wife. And Homer tells how Mars and Venus ty'd▪ In close embraces, by the Gods were spy'd. Whom but from Homer could we ever know, How two fair Ladies lov'd a stranger so? The tragedies in stateliness excel, Yet those of loves affairs do often tell. Hyppolitus was loved of his mother, And fait Canace did affect her brother. When Menelaus Helen bore away, Cupid did drive the chariot on that day. When in the Childrens bloud the mother dyes The sword, this act from frantick love did rise,

Love to a Lapwing chang'd the Thracian King, And fitted Progne with a Swallows wing. And 'twas a brothers love that did affright, The Sun, and made him for to hide his light. Never should Scylla on the stage appear. But that love made her clip her fathers hair. And whoso reads Orestes frantick fears, Of murthered Pyrrhas and Aegisthus heares. What name I him did the Chimaera tame? Whose treacheous hostess sought his life in vain. What of Hermione or the Arcadian Maid? Phoebe whose course the Latmian lover staid. Or what of Danae, by Jove a mother grown, And Hercules got, in two nights joyn'd in one. To these adde Yole, Pyrrhus and that Boy, Sweet Hylas, with Paris, fire-brand unto Troy. And should I here recite loves tragick flames, My book would scarce contain their very names. Thus tragedies to wanton laughter bend, And many shameful words in them they blend. Some blameless have Achilles acts defac'd, And by soft measures have his deeds disgrac'd. Though Aristides his own faults compil'd, Yet Aristides was not straight exil'd. Eubius did write an impure history, And does describe unwholsom venery. Nor he that Sybarin luxuries composed, Nor he that his own sinful acts disclosed▪ These in the libraries by some bounteous hand, To publick use do there devoted stand. By strangers pens I need not seek defence, Our own books with such liberty dispence. For though grave Ennius of wars tumults writ, Whose artless works do shew an able wit. The cause of fire Lucretius doth explain, And shews how three causes did this world frame.

Wanton Catullus yet his Muse did task, To praise his Mistress, whom he then did mask Under the name of Lesbia, and so strove; In verse to publish his own wanton love. And with like licence Calvus too assaies, For to set forth his pleasure divers waies. Why should I mention Memnons wanton vein? Who to each filthy act doth give a name. And Cinna striving by his verse to please Cornificus, may well be rank'd with these: And he that did commend to after fame, His love disguised by Metellus name. And he that sailed for the fleece of gold, His secret thefts of love doth oft unfold. Hortensius too, and Servius writ as bad, Who'd think my fault so great examples had? Sisenna Aristides works translates, And oft in wanton jests expatiates. For praising Lycoris, none doth Gallus blame, If that his tounge in wine he could contain. Tibullus writes that womens oathes are wind, Who can with outward shews their husbands blind, Teaching them how their keepers to beguile, While he himself is consen'd by that wise, That he would take occasion for to try Her ring, that he might touch her hand thereby. By private tokens he would talk sometime, And on the table draw a wanton sign: Teaching what oyles that blewness shall expel, Which by much kissing on their lips doth dwell. And unto husbands do strict rules commend, If they be honest, wives will not offend. And when the dog doth barke, to know before, That 'tis their Lover that stands at the door. And many notes of Love-thefts he doth leave. And teacheth wives their husbands to deceive.

Yet is Tibullus read and famous grown, And unto thee great Caesar he was known. And though Propertiue did like precepts give, Yet his clear fame doth still unstained live. To these did I succeed, for I'le suppress Their names who live, and faulty are no less. I fear'd not where so many ships had past, That my poor bark should shipwrackt be at last. For some do shew the Art to play at dice, Which was in former times esteem'd a vice. And how to make the dice still higher run, And so the little loosing Ace to shun. Or how to cast and strike a Dye again. To run that chance which any one shall name. And how at Drafts a crowned King to make, And play your man where none the same can take. To know to chase, and to retire, and then In flying how to back your man again. And some the game of three-stones likewise show, Where he does win that brings them on a row. Others in sundry games like pains do take, Wherein we lose our time to win a stake. And some of Tennis-play do also sing, And do instruct us how by art to swim. Here one the secrets of face-drugs discloses, Another laws of crowned feasts composes. And the best day he likewise doth assign. And what Cups do become the sparkling wine. And in December merry ryhmes ate sung, By which the Winter doth sustain no wrong. So I to write some merry verses meant, Which straight were punisht with sad banishment. Of all these former writers there was none, Whose Muse did ruine him, but I alone. If I had jested in some Mimick vein, Which wanton Sceanes of love doth still contain.

In which the Lover does come forth to wooe, And wanton wives do cheat their husbands too: Yet these, Maids, Matrons, and old men delight, And 'fore the Senate acted are by night. Whose wanton language doth the ear prophane. Making loose offers at those acts of shame. When husbands are beguil'd by pretty waies, They applaud the Poet, and do give him bayes. He gains by being punish'd for his crimes, And makes the Praetor pay more for his lines. And when (great Caesar) thou dost set forth playes, The Poet's pay'd, that did the plot first raise. Which thou beholdest, and hast set out to view, Whereby thou dost thy gracious mildness shew. And with those eyes which make the world to fear, Thou saw'st the Scenes of love that acted were. If Mimicks may write in a wanton strain, Why should my verse such punishment obtain? Are they by licence of the stage protected? Which makes the Mimicks bawdy jests affected. My poems too have made the people rise, To help attention with their greedy eyes. Though in your house the lively pictures stand, Of Noblemen drawn by the painters hand: Yet have you wanton tables hanging by, Which shew the divers shapes of venery. Though you have Ajax picture full of ire, And fierce Medea with her eyes like fire. Yet Venus seems to dry her moystned hairs As if from sea she newly did repair. Let others of wars bloudy tumults write, And of thy acts which learned pens invite. Nature hath scanted me and doth restrain, To meaner subjects this my humble vein. Yet Virgil who is read with much delight, Doth of the acts of brave Aeneas write.

And no part is with greater favour read, Then where he brings him to Queen Dido's bed. Yet in his youth he did commend fair Phillis, And sports himself in praising Amarillis. And though I formerly in that same vein Offended, yet I now do bear the blame. I had writ verses, when before thee I, Amongst the other horse-men passed by. And now my age doth even bear the blame Of those things which my younger years did frame, My faulty books are now reveng'd at last, And I am punish'd for a fault that's past. Yet all my works are not so light and vain, Sometimes I lanch'd into the deeper main. And in six books Romes holidaies have shew'd, Where with the Month each Volume doth conclude. And to thy sacred name did dedicate That work, though left unperfect by my fate. Besides, I stately Tragedies have writ, And with high words the Tragick stile did fit: Besides, of changed shapes my muse did chant, Though they my last life-giving hand did want. And would thy anger were but so appeas'd, As that to read my verse thou wouldst be pleas'd. My verse, where from the infant birth of things, My Muse her work unto thy own time brings. Thou shouldst behold the strength of every line, Wherein I strive to praise both thee and thine. Nor are my verses mingled so with gall, As that my lines should be Satyrical. Amongst the vulger people none yet found, Themselves once touch'd, my Muse my self doth wound. Therefore each generous mind I do believe. Will not rejoyce, but at my ill fare grieve. Nor yet will triumph o're my wretched state. Who ne're was proud even in my better fate.

O therefore let these reasons change thy mind That in distress I may thy favour find, Not to return, though that perhaps may be, When thou in time at last maist pardon me. But I intreat thee to remove me hence, To safer exile fitting my offence.