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. 3. (Book 3)

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.

ELEGIE II.

In Swan-like tunes he doth deplore His exile, and knocks at the door Of death, desiring hasty fare, His wretched life would terminate.

WAs it my fate that I should Scythia see, And the land whose Zenith is the Axle-tree? And would not you sweet Muses nor Apollo, Help me, who did your holy rites still follow?

Could not my hamless verses me excuse, And life more serious then jesting Muse? But that I must when I the seas had past, Unto the Pontick land be brought at last. And I that still my self from care with-drew, Loving soft ease, and no rough labour knew. Having past great dangers both by sea and land, Here worst of miseries is by me sustain'd. Yet I endure these evils, for I find, My body doth receive strength from my mind. And in my passage to my sad exile, I with my studie did my cares beguile. But when I did my journies end attain, And that unto the hated shore I came: Then from mine eyes a shower of tears did flow, Like water runing from the melted snow. And then my house and Rome comes in my mind, And every thing that I had left behind. Alass that I should knock still at the grave, To be let in, yet can no entrance have. Why have I still escaped from the sword? Could not the sea to me a death afford? You Gods who constant are in your just ire, And do with Caesar in revenge conspire. I do beseech you hasten on my fate, And bid death open unto me the gate.

ELEGIE. III.

He lets his wise here understand. Of his sickness in a forraign land. Then writes his Epitaph, with intent To make his Books his monument.

THat this my Letter by a strangers hand Is writ, the cause, my sickness understand. For in the worlds remotest part I lye Sick, and uncertain of recovery.

What comfort can within that climate shine. On which the Getes and Sauramates confine? My nature does not with the soile agree, The air and water does seem strange to me. My shelter poor, my diet here is bad, No health-estoring physick can be had. No friend to comfort me, who will assay, With some discourse to pass the time away. But here upon my bed of sickness cast, I think of many things which now are past. And thou my dearest wife above the rest, Dost hold the chiefest place within my breast. Thy absent name is mentiond still by me, And every day and night I think on thee. Sometimes I speak things without sense or wit, That I may name thee in my frantick fit. If I should swound, and that no heating wine, Could give life to this faultring tongue of mine, To hear of thy approach would make me live, Thy very presence would new vigor give. Thus I most doubtful of life an grown, But thou perhaps liv'st merrily at home. No, I dare say, that thou my dearest wife. Dost in my absence lead a mourning life. Yet if the number of my years de done, And that my hasty thread of life is spun. You Gods you might with ease have let me have, Within my native land a happy grave. If that you would have let my death prevent, My fatal journey unto banishment; Then had I dy'd in my integrity, But now I here a banish'd man must dye. And shall I here resigne my weary breath, The place makes me unhappy in my death. Upon my bed I shall not fall asleep, And none upon my Coffin here shall weep.

Nor shall my wives tears, while that they do fall Upon my face, me unto life recal. I shall not make my will, nor with sad cries No friendly hand shall close my dying eies▪ Without a Tomb or Funeral I shall be, While as the barbarous earth doth cover me. Which when thou hearest, be not with grief opprest, Nor do not thou for sorrow beat thy breast. Why shoudst thou wring thy tender hands in vain? Or call upon thy wretched husbands name? Tear not thy cheeks, nor cut thy hair for me, For I am not (good wife) now took from thee. When I was banisht then I dy'd, alass! For banishment then death more heavy was. Now I would have thee to rejoyce (good wife) Since all my grief is ended with my life. And bear thy sorrows with a valiant heart: Mis-haps have taught thee how to play thy part. And with my body may my soul expire, That so no part may scape the greedy fire. For if to Pythagoras we may credit give, Who saith the soul eternally doth live: My soul 'mongst the Sarmatick shades shall stray, And to the cruel ghosts ne'r find the way. Yet let my ashes be put in an Urn, So being dead I shall again return. This lawful is, the Theban being dead, His loving sister saw him buried. And let sweet powders round my bones be laid, And so into some secret place convey'd; Graving these Verses on a Marble stone, In Letters to be read by every one. I Ovid, that did write of wanton Love, Lye here, my Verse my 'overthrow did prove. Thou that hast been in Love, and passest by, Pray still that Ovids bones may softly lye.

This Epitaph shall suffice, since my books be A far more lasting Monument to me. Which though they hurt me, yet shall raise my name, And give their Authour everlasting fame. Yet let thy love in Funoral gifts be shew'd, And bring sweet Garland with thy tears be-dew'd. Those ashes which the funeral fire shall leave, Will in their Urn thy pious love perceive. More would I write, but that my voyce is spent, Nor can my dry tongue speak what I invent. Then take my last words to thee; live in health, Which though I send to thee, I want my self.

ELEGIE IV.

Ovid doth his friend advise, A life of greatness to despise. Since Thunder doth the hill assail. While quiet peace lives in the vale.

MY always dearest friend, but then most known, When I by adverse Fortune was o're-thrown. If thou wilt take the Counsel of a friend, Live to thy self, do not too high ascend. Since Thunder from the highest Tower doth come, Live to thy self, and glittering titles shun. For though the beams of greatness may us warm, Yet greatest men have greatest power to harm. The naked sail-yard sears no storms at all, And greater sails more dangerous are then small. The floating Cork upon the waves doth swim, While heavy Lead doth sink the Net therein. Of these things had some friend admonisht me, Perhaps I had been still at Rome with thee. While as a gentle wind did drive me on, My boat through quiet streams did run along.

He that by chance doth fall upon the plain, He falleth so that he may rise again. But when Elpenor fron a high house fell, His ghost went down to Pluto King of Hell. Though Daedalus his wings did him sustain, Yet falling Icarus gave the Sea his name. Because that he flew high, the other low, While both of them their wings abroad did throw. The man that unto solitude is bent, Doth live most happy if he be content. Eumenes of his Son was not deprived, Until that he Achilles Horses guided. And Phaethon had not dyed in the flame, If that his Father could his will restrain. Then fear thou still to take the higher way, And in thy course draw in thy sails I pray. Thou worthy art to live most fortunate, And to enjoy a candid happy fate. Thy gentle love deserves this praise of mine, Since thou didst cleave to me in every time. I saw how that thy grief for me was shown, Even in thy looks most like unto my own. I saw thy tears which on my face did fall, And with my tears I drunk thy words withal. Now to thy absent friend thou yield'st relief, Thereby to lighten this my heavy grief. Live thou unenvy'd, honour crown thy end, For thou art worthy of a noble friend. And love thy Ovid's name, which cannot be, Banisht, though Scythia now containeth me. For me a land near to the Bear doth hold, Whereas the earth is frozen up with cold. Here Bosphorus and Tanais do remain, And places which have scarcely any name. Unhabitable cold doth dwell beyond, For I am near unto the farthest land.

My Country and my wife are absent far, And with them two, all things that dearest are. Yet though with them I cannot present be, Within my fancy I their shape do see. My house, the City stand before my eies, And all my actions in their place do rise. My wif es dear Image doth it self present Which doth increase and lighten discontent. Her absence grieveth me, but then again, My comfort is she constant doth remain. And you my friends do cleave unto my breast, Whose names I wish by me might be exprest. But wary fear doth my desire restrain, And you I think do even wish the same, For though that heretofore you pleased were, When as your names did in my Verse appear: Yet now Ile talk with you within my brest, Nor shall your fears by my Verse be increast. Nor shall my Verse disclose a secret friend, Love secretly, and love me to the end: And know though we by absence are dis joyn'd, Yet you are alwaies present in my mind. Then strive to case those griefs which I sustain, And lend your hand to help me up again. So may your fortune prosperous remain, And never have just cause to ask the same.

ELEGIE V.

By a feigned name he doth commend One Carus that had been his Friend: And then doth mitigate his fault, Since error him to ruine brought.

MYuse of friendship with thee was but small. And if thou wilt thou may'st say none at all:

But that thy love most faithful I did find, When as my ship sail'd with a gentle wind, When once I fell, then all did shun my wrack, And all my friends on me did turn their back. Yet thou, when I was strucken with Joves flame, Didst visit me, and to my house then came: And in thy fresh acquaintance thou didst show More love, than all my ancient friends would do, I saw thy amazed count'nance at that time, Thy face bedew'd with tears, more pale than mine. And seeing tears fall at each word, my ears Did drink thy words, my mouth did drink thy tears: Thou didst imbrace my neck, and then betwixt Some loving kisses with thy sighs were mixt. Now absent thou defendest me again, Thou know'st that Carus is a feigned name: And many tokens of thy love appear, Which I in memory will ever bare. The gods still make thee able to defend Thy friends unto a far more happy end. To know how I do live if thou require, As it is likely that thou dost desire: I have some hope, which do not take from me, That those offended powers will pleased be. Which being vain or if it may befal, Do thou allow my hope though it be small. Bestow thy eloquence upon that theam, To shew it may fall out as I do mean. The greatest men are placable in wrath, A generous mind a gentle anger hath. When Beasts unto a Lion prostrate lye, He ends the combate with his enemy. But Wolves and Bears their yielding foes do kill, And the inferiour beasts are cruel still. Who like Achilles? yet even he appears, To be much mov'd with Dardanus sad tears.

Emathion's clemency is best declar'd, Even by those funeral rites which he prepar'd. And that I may not mans calm'd anger show, Even Juno's Son in law was once her foe. Lastly, I needs must hope, since at this time, I am not punisht for a hainous crime. I did not plot against great Caesar's life, To ruine him by sowing civil strife. I never yet did rail against the time, Or spake against him in my cups of wine. But am punisht for beholding of a fault, Which I through ignorance beheld, unsought. Yet all my fault, I cannot well defend, Though in part thereof I did not ill intend. So that I hope that he will pleased be, To grant in easier banishment to me. I wish the morning star that brings the day, Would bring this news and quickly post away.

ELEGIE VI.

His friends fidelity he doth praise, And to excuse himself assaies. Desiring if he have any grace At Rome, to use it in his case.

OUr league of friendship thou wilt not conceal: Or if thou wouldst, it would it self reveal. For while we might, none was more dear to me, And I do know I was belov'd of thee. And this our love was to the people known, So that our Love more than our selves was known. The candor of thy mind is easily seen, Of him who for thy friend thou dost esteem. Thou nothing from my knowledge didst conceal, And I my secrets did to thee reveal.

For all my heart and secrets thou didst know, Excepting that which wrought my overthrow. Which hadst thou known, thou wouldst have councell'd me So well, that I should never banisht be. But 'twas my fate drew on my punishment, And crossed me in any good intent. Yet whether that I might this evil shun, Our reason cannot fortune overcome: Yet thou to me my old acquaintance art, And of my love thou holdst the greatest part. Be mindful then, and if thou gracious be At Court, then try what thou canst do for me. That Caesar being unto mildness bent, May change the place of my sad banishment. Even as I did no wickedness devise, Since that my fault from errour did arise. It would be tedious not safe to unfold, By what chance these eyes did that act behold. Such shameful deeds as do the ear affright, Should be concealed in eternal night. I must confess therefore my former fault, Yet no reward by my offence I sought. And for my fault I may my folly blame, If to my fault thou wilt give a true name. If this be false then further banish me. These places like unto Romes Suburbs be.

ELEGIE VII.

The Letter here he doth command, To flye unto Perhilla's hand And sheweth that the Muses give, Immortal same which still shall live.

GO thou my Letter being writ so fast, And to salute Perhilla make thou haste.

To sit hard by her mother she still uses, Or else to be amongst her Books and Muses: What ere she does, when she knows thou art come, She'l ask thee how I do that am undone; Tell her I live, but wish I did not so, Since length of time can never case my woe. Yet to my Muse I now returned am, Making my words to Verse to flow again: And ask her why she doth her wind apply To common studies, not sweet Poesy? Since Nature first did make thee chaste and fair, Giving thee wit, with other things most rare. I first to thee the Muses spring did show, Lest that sweet water should at waste still flow. For in thy Virgin years thy wit I spy'd, And was as 'twere thy father and thy guide. Then if those fires still in thy breast do dwell, There's none but Lesbia that can thee excell: But I do fear that since I am orethrown, That now thy breast is dull and heavy grown: For while we might we both did read our lines, I was thy Judge and Master oftentimes. And to thy Verses I an car would lend, And make thee blush, when thou didst make an end. Yet now perhaps it may be thou dost shun All books, because my ruine thence did come: Fear not Perhilla, but all fear remove, So that thy writings do not teach to love: Then, learned Maid, no cause of sloath still frame, But to thy sacred art return again. That comely face will soon be spoild with years, While aged wrinekles in thy brow appears. Old age will lay hold on thy outward grace, Which cometh on still with a silent pace. To have been fair it will a grief then be, And thou wilt think thy glass doth flatter thee.

Thy wealth is smal, though thou deservest more, But yet suppose thou hadst of wealth great score: Yet fortune when she lists doth give and take, And of rich Croesus she can Irus make. All things are subject to mortality, Except the mind and ingenuity. For though I want my Country, Friends, and home, And all things took from me that could be gone. Yet still my Muses do with me remain, And Caesar cannot take away my vein. Who though he should me of my life deprive, Yet shall my Fame when I am dead survive. While Rome on seven hills doth stand in sight, My works shall still be read with much delight. Then of thy study make this happy use, To shun the power of death even by thy Muse.

ELEGIE VIII.

His Country he desires to see, If Caesar would so pleased be. Then mournfully he doth complain, And shews what grief he doth sustain.

I Wish I could Triptolemus Wain ascend, Who first did seed unto the earth commend: Or guide Medea's Dragons through the aire, With which she once from Gorinth did repair: I wish that I had Perseus wings to fly Or Daedalus his wings to cut the Sky., That while the aire did yield unto my flight, I might in joy again my Countries sight, And see my poor forsaken house again, My wife, and those few friends that do remain. But why dost thou so foolishly require, When thou can'st ne'r attain to thy desire?

In stead of wishes unto Casar send, And strive to please him whom thou didst offend. If he repeal thy banishment, his word, Can give thee wings to flye like to a bird. Perhaps when once his wrath doth milder grow, He to my sure will then some favour shew: And I beseech him now in the mean time, Some easier place of exile to assign. This air and climate both contrary be, Continual sickness seizeth here on me. Either my sick mind makes my body ill, Or else the air doth some disease instill. Since I to Pontus came, each night I dream, I do distaste my meat, my limbs grow lean, Like that pale colour which in leaves is seen, When they by Autumns frost have nipped been. So do I look being pin'd away with grief, Having no friend to yeild me some relief. For I am sick in body and In mind, In both of which I equal pain do find. Methinks my fortune stands before my eyes, In a sad shape repleat with miseries. When I behold the people and the place, Comparing past time with my present case, Then I am willing to resign my breath, Wishing I had been punished with death: But yet since that he was more milder bent; Let him now grant me milder banishment.

ELEGIE IX.

Ovid briefly doth explain, How Tomos first did get that name.

ARe here some Cities (who can it believe) That from the Grecks did first their name receive?

While husbandmen even from Miletus came, And 'mongst the Getes did Graecian houses frame. Yet this same place doth anciently retain, Still from Absyrtus murder, this same name: For in that ship which Pallas name did bear, And in those unknown Seas her course did stear. While fierce Medea from her father fled, Unto these shores her fatal sails she spread: Which from a hill one veiwing on the land, Cries out, Medea's sails do hither stand. The Myniae trembled, and without delay, Unty their ropes, and all their anchors weigh: While that Medea struck her guilty breast, With that same hand which had in bloud been drest. And though her former courage did remain, Yet still her bloud in paleness went and came, But when she saw the sails, we are betray'd Quoth she, my fathers course must be delay'd, By some new Art: while thus she doth devise, By fatal chance, her brother she espies. And having spide him, now quoth she 'tis done, For from his death my safety now shall come. And with a sword she ran him through the side, Who little thought by her hand to have dy'd. Then tear's his Limbs in peeces, and on the ground, She scatters them that so they may be found In many places: and that her father may Not pass by it, she places in the way His bleeding Head, and both his pale cold hands, Which set upon a rock before him stands. And while that horrid sight did stop her father▪ He stay'd his course those scattered limbs to gather, Whence Tomos got that name, because that here, Medea first her brothers limbs did tear.

ELEGIE X.

Ovid lively doth describe The Country where he doth abide: Which in this short map you may view, Which he in banishment then drew.

IF any yet do think of Naso's name, Which yet within the City doth remain: Know that I live within a barbarous Land, Which neer unto the Northern pole doth stand. The Sauromates and Getes do hemm me in, Whose ruder names my Verse do not beseem. While the aire is warm, we then defended are, By Isther, whose fair stream keeps back the war. But when that Boreas once doth fly abroad, Those Countries he with heavy snow doth load. Nor doth the snow dissolve by Sun or Rain, But the North-wind doth make it still remain: New snow doth fall on that which fell before, While that the earth is doubly covered o're. Such is the North winds force when it doth blow, That Towers and Houses it doth overthrow. The people wear short mantles 'gainst the cold, So that their faces you can scarce behold; From their Icy hair a ruffling sound is heard, A hoary frost doth shine upon their beard. The frozen wine doth keep the Vessels shape, And in stead of draughts, they peeces of it take. Of Rivers frozen, what should I here tell? Or yet of water digged from the Well: For Isther, which with Nile may equall be, Whose many mouth do fall into the Sea, His blue waves hidden o're with ice doth keep, And so unseen into the Sea doth creep.

Where ships did sail, their feet they now do set, And on the ice the Horses hoof doth beat. The Sarmatian Oxen draw their waggons over New Bridges, which the running waters cover. 'Tis strange, yet lying brings me no reward, And therefore my report you may regard. We have seen when as the ice the Sea did cover, While that a shell of ice a did glaze it over: And on the frozen sea have often gone, While with a dry foot we could walk thereon. And had Leander such a shore descri'd, Then in that narrow sea he had not dy'd. The crooked Dolphins, cannot then repair Unto the upper waves to take the air, And though that Boreas blustering wings were heard, Yet no waves in the frozen sea appear'd. The ships were frozen up that there did ride, Nor could the Oars the stifned waves divide. We have seen the fish within the ice lie bound, While that in some of them some life was found. If Boreas therefore with too powerful force, Do freez the sea or stop the rivers ••ourse: When Isther by dry winds is once congeal'd, The barbarous foe no longer is conceal'd. Who skilful in their horseman-ship and bow, Do waste the Country wheresoere they go. While some do fly, and none defend the fields Their unkept wealth some little pillage yields. Their riches is their cattle and their wains, And that which their poor Cottages contains: And some that by the foe are captive took, Do leave their Country with a back cast look, Some by the barbed arrows here do die, That with their poisoned heads do swiftly fly. That which they cannot take, they spoil the same, And make their harmless Cottages to flame.

When they have peace they stand in fear of war, So that the fields by no man ploughed are. The grape is not hid in the leavy shade, Not are the vessels fil'd with wine new made. Acontius could not here an Apple finde, To write unto his sweet-heart in the rinde: Here the naked fields have neither leaf nor tree, For it's a place mark'd out for misery. And though the world hath such a large extent, This land is found out for my punishment.

ELEGIE XI.

Sweet Ovid is enforc'd to write, 'Gainst one who raild at him in spight: Whom mildly here he doth reprove, And unto pitty doth him move.

THou that my sad misfortune dost contemn, And cruelly dost alwaies me condemn, Wert nursed on the rocks by some wild beast, And I may say, thou hast a flinty breast. O whither can thy wrath extended be? Or what is wanting to my misery? The barbarous shores of Pontus me enfold, And here the Northen Bear I do behold. The peoples speech I understand not here, And every place is ful of careful fear. For as the Hart pursu'd by Bears doth shake, Or as a Lamb hem'd in by wolves doth quake? So when these nations do me round inclose, I am afraid being compass'd in with foes. Suppose it were no punishment to me, Of wife and children thus depriv'd to be: Though nothing troubled me but Caesar's wrath, Sufficient punishment his anger hath.

Yet there are some who handle my green wounds, And to speak 'gainst me have let loose their tongues. In easie matters every one can speak, And little strength a bruised thing can break. It sh••ws some strength to throw down walls that stand, When falling Towers yield to the weakest hand. Why dost thou persecute my empty shade? Or why dost thou my grave with stones invade? Though Hector in the wars did shew his force, It was not Hector that behind a horse Was drawn about? nor am I now the same, And nothing but my shadow doth remain: Why dost thou rail on me with words so foul? I pray thee do not seek to vex my soul. Suppose my faults were true, my chiefest fault, Was not by wickedness but errour wrought? Then glut thy anger with my punishment, For I am sent to grievous banishment. A murtherer would lament my unhappy fate, Thou think'st me not enough unfortunate. More cruel than Busiris, or that man, Who first to make a brazen Bull began: And on the Sicilian Tyrant it bestow'd, While thus in words his Art to him he shew'd. This work O King! may far more useful be, Than the outward shape doth seem to promise thee. For look, the Bulls side may be open'd so, That whom thou meanst to kill, thou needs but throw Into his belly, and being inclos'd therein, Put fire beneath, and then he will begin To roar, and make a groaning noise as though The brazen Bull it self began to Lowe: Therefore to recompence my gift again, Let my reward be equal to my pain. Phalaris reply'd, since that thou didst invent, This cruel torment for a punishment:

Thou first shalt feel it, and so being thrown Into the Bull, he there began to groan. But from Sicilia I return again, Of thee that rail'st on me I must complain: If thou desirest to quench thy thirst with bloud, And that to hear my grief would do the good: I have suffer'd so much both by sea and land, That thou wouldst grieve the same to understand. Ulysses was not in so great distress, Since Neptunes anger, is than Joves far less. Then do not thou rip up my fau'ts again, And from my bleeding wound thy hands refrain, Let time my former fault in darkness cover, That this same wound may once be skinned over. Sith Fortune throws down whom she doth advance, Be thon afraid of her uncertain chance. And since thou hast a great desire to pry, And wouldst be glad to know my misery: My fortune is of misery most full, For Caesars wrath all ill with it doth pull. And if thou think'st I do the same augment, I wish that thou might'st feel my punishment.

ELEGIE XII.

Though it be Spring-time every where, No Spring in Tomos doth appear: Which makes him pray here to be sent, Unto some milder banishment.

NOw Zephyrus warms the air, the year is run, And the long seeming winter now it done: The Ram which bore fair Hellen once away, Hath made the dark night equal to the day. Now boyes and girls do the sweet Violets get, Which in the Country often grow unset.

Fair colour'd flowers in the Meadows spring, And now the birds their untaught notes do sing. The Swallow now doth build her little nest, Under some beam, wherein her eggs may rest. The seed which long since in the ground was laid, Is now shot forth into a tender blade. And now young buds upon the Vine appear, Although the Getick shore no tree doth bear; 'Tis there vacation, and the wars at Court Do now give place to plaies and other sport: Now they do Tilt, and feats of arms assay, Now with the ball, and with the top they play, Young men annointed now with oyle, begin To bathe their limbs within the virgin spring: The scene doth flourish, and new strains are found, Which make the three Theaters to resound. O four times happy sure, and more is he, That to enjoy the City now is free. But here I see the snow melt with the Sun, The undigg'd waters now begin to run. The Sea is not frozen, nor doth the swaine Over the Isther drive his creaking wain. Yet when that any ships doth hither sail, And Anchor at our shore, then without sail I run to the Master, and after salutation I ask him whence he comes, and of what Nation. And 'tis a wonder if he be not one That from some neighbour country then doth come. From Italy few ships do ever stand, To come unto this haven-wan••ing land. Whether his language Greek or Latin be, The latter is most welcome unto me. If any from Propontis here arrive, While a north-wind his spreading sails doth drive: He may enforme me of the common fame, And orderly he may relate the same.

For of Great Caesar's Triumph I do hear, And of those vows to Jove performed were. And how rebelling Germany in the end, Beneath our Captains feat her head did bend. He that shall tell me these things here exprest, I will invite him home to be my guest. Alas! does Ovid's house alone now stand? Being seated here within the Styrian land: May Caesar make this house of mine to be, Only an Inne of punishment to me.

ELEGIE XIII.

Against his Birth-day he doth complain, Which was now return'd in vain.

BEhold my Birth-day, (for why was I borne?) Doth vainly unto me again teturne, Hard-hearted day, why dost thou still extend My years, to which thou shouldst have put an end? If thou hadst any care of me or shame, Thou wouldst not thus have followed me in vain. But in that place have given me my death, Where in my childe-hood first I drew my breath. And with my friends that now at Rome do dwell, Thou mightst at once have took thy last farewel. What's Pontus unto thee, or art thou sent, By Caesars wrath with me to banishment? Dost thou expect thy wonted honour here? While I a white robe on my shoulders wear. Or that fair Garlands should environ round, The smoaking Altar with sweet incense crown'd? Offering such gifts as may befit the day, While for thy prosperous return I pray. But now I do not live in such a time, That when thou com'st I should to mirth incline▪

A funeral Altar doth become me now, That may be stuck round with the Cypress bough. Now incense to the Gods were cast away, While in my depth of grief I cannot pray. Yet one request upon this day I'le name That to this place thou ne're return again. Whilst in the farthest Pontick shore I live, Which falsely some the name of Euxine give.

ELEGIE XIV.

Here he writes unto his Friend, That he would his books defend.

THou chief of Learned men, what maketh thee; A friend unto my idle vein to be? When I was safe then thou my lines didst praise, And being absent thou my fame dost raise. And all my verses thou dost entertain. Except the Art of Love which I did frame. Since then thou lovest the new Poets strain, Within the City still keep up my Name. For I, and not my books, am banisht thence, Which they could not deserve by my offence. The Father oft is banished we see, While as his Children in the City be: My verses now are like to Pallas, borne Without a Mother; and being so forlorne, I send them unto thee, for they bereft Of Father, now unto thy charge are left. Three sons of mine by me destroyed were, But of the rest see that thou have a care. And fifteen books of changed shapes there lyes, Being ravisht from their Masters obsequies. That work I had unto perfection brought, If that I had not my own mine wrought.

Which uncorrected now the people have, If any thing of mine the people crave. Let this among my other books now stand, Being sent unto thee from a foraign Land. Which whoso reads, let him but weigh again, The time and place, wherein I did it frame: He will pardon me, when he shall understand, That I was banisht in a barbarous Land. And will admire that in my adverse time, With a sad hand I could draw forth a line: Mis-fortunes have depriv'd me of my strain, Although before I ne're had a rich vein. Yet whatsoe're it was, even now it lies, Dried up for want of any exercise. Here are no books to feed me with delight. But in stead of books the bows do me affright. Here's none to whom I may my lines rehearse, That can both hear and understand my verse. I have no place where I may walk alone. But with the Getes shut up in walls of stone. Somtimes I ask for such a places name, But there is none can answer me again. And when I fain would speak, I must confess, I want fit words my mind for to express. The Seythian language doth my ear affright. So that the Getick tongue I sure could write, I fear lest you within this book should see, That Pontick words with Latin mingled be. Yet read it, and thereto a pardon give, When thou considerest in what state I live.