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.

The Book doth to the Reader shew, That he it loath to come to view; And tels how he was entertain'd By some, while others him disdain'd.

I Am that Book who fearfully do come, Even from a banisht man to visit Rome: And coming weary from a foraign land, Good Reader let me rest within thy hand. Do not thou fear or be asham'd of me, Since no love verses in this paper be. My Master now by fortune is opprest, It is no time for him to write in jest; Though in his youth he had a wanton vein, Yet now he doth condemn that work again▪ Behold! here's nothing but sad mourning lines, So that my verse agreeth with his times. And that my second verse is lame in strength, Short feet do cause it, or the journies length. Nor are my rough leaves cover'd o're with yellow, For I my authors fortune mean to follow. And though some blots my clearer letters stain, Know that my authors toars did make the same. If thou my language scarcely understand, Know that he writ me in a barbarous land.

Therefore good Reader teach me where to go, Some place of rest unto a strange book show. This having said, with words which grief made slow, One ready was the way to me to show. I thankt him, and did pray the Gods that he, Might like my Master never banisht be. Lead on, and I will follow by thy hand, Though I am tir'd with passing sea and land. He did consent, and as we went, quoth he, This is the holy street which thou dost see. Here's Vestaes Temple that keeps holy fire, Here Numa's lofty pallace doth aspire, Here is Evanders gate, and now you come, Unto that place where they first builded Rome. And then quoth I, this is the house of Jove, This oaken crown doth my conjecture prove. He told me it was Caesars, nay then, quoth I, I see great Jove dwels here in Majesty. Yet why doth Bayes upon the gates appear? And thus incircle Caesars statue here? In it because his house doth merit praise? And is beloved of the God of Bayes. Or doth it now denote a Festival? In token of that peace he gives to all. Or as the Lawrel evermore is green, So still his house most flourishing hath been. Or do those letters on the wreath engrav'd, Shew that that City by his power was sav'd. Oh Caesar! save one Citizen at last, Who now into the utmost world is cast. Where he sad punishment doth still sustain, Which he by errour only did obtain. Alass while I view Caesars pallace here, My letters seem to quake with trembling fear. Dost thou not see my paper does look pale, And how my trembling feet begin to fail?

I pray that this same house which now I see, May to my master reconciled be. From thence we to Apollo's Temple went, To which by steps there is a fair ascent. Where stand the signes in fair outlandish stone, Of Belus and of Palamed the sonne. There ancient books, and those that are more new, Do all lye open to the readers view. I sought my brethren there, excepting them, Whose hapless birth my father doth condemn. And as I sought, the chief man of that place, Bid me be gone out of that holy space. I went to Temples to the Theater-joyn'd, But here no entertainment could I finde, Nor could I come unto the outward yard, Which unto learned books is not debar'd, We are heirs unto mis-fortune by descent, And we his children suffer banishment. Perhaps when time doth Caesar's wrath subdue, He will to him and us some favour shew. Since for the peoples help I do not care, O Caesar hearken to my earnest prayer. Since publick stalls are unto me deny'd, In private corners I my self may hide: And you Plebeians take in hand again, My verses which you once repuls'd with shame.