The Explanation of the Frontispiece.  

AVgustus Caesar in the front doth stand,  
Who banished Ovid to the Pontic land.  
One side shows Rome, the other doth present,  
The Ship which carried him to Banishment.  
A happy Pyramid itself doth raise,  
Built on those Books from whence he got his praise.  
The sable Pyramid doth likewise show,  
That his ruin from the Art of Love did grow.  
Beneath poor Ovid rests his weary head  
Upon his Coffin, when all hope was fled.  
And thereupon his wreath of Bayes doth lie,  
To show he did in Pontus banished die.  
But yet his Muse new life to him doth give,  
And by his lines sweet Ovid still doth live.   

Vade Liber mundo, Dominus fuit exul, & inde  
Disce pati a Domino, far mala, vade Liber.    


Augustus Caesar  
Hence grew my fame  
Hence my ruin came  
In Pontus I Did banished die  
OVID'S TRISTIA  
Containinge five Books of mournful Elegies which he sweetly composed in the midst of his adversity, while he lived in Tomos a City of Pontus where he died after seven years' Banishment from Rome.  
Translated into English by W. S. Ve●iam pr● laude pet●  
London Printed for Fra: Grove and are to be sold at his shop on snow hill near the Saracens head. 1633.    

to your protection this translation of Ovid's Elegies, who I think was even rocked in his cradle by the Muses, and fed with Sugar and heliconian water, which made him have so sweet a vein of Poetry. So that the name of Ovid is a sufficient commendation for any work of his, if my English can but like the Echo, send back the soft Music of his lines. And indeed if he write best of love that hath been in love; and that there is a certain 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 or efficacy in his words that feels the affection; I doubt not but my own sorrow hath learned me how to translate Ovid's sorrow. For I confess I was never in Fortune's Books, and therefore am not much indebted to her, neither do I care for her frowns; but I am greeved for one who is my brother in misfortune, who is exul in patria, being enforced to let that skill and experience which he hath gotten abroad in marine affairs, and which hath been approved of both by the English and Dutch nations in several long voyages, lie dead in him for want of employment which is the life of practical knowledge: and though he must be compelled by his present fates to accept of the employment of foreign nations, yet if a way might be opened unto him he is more willing (as he is bound by duty) to serve his native King and Country, which desire of his I know your generous disposition cannot but cherish, and approve of my love towards him. This Book Ovid sent to the City of Rome as appears by the first verse, Parve nec invideo, etc. and I am now to send it forth into a City abounding with Critics, and therefore it desires your worthy patronage and defence; for which (if Ovid lived) he would make his fluent Muse express his thankfulness: But I for any favour which you shall show unto this translation, must acknowledge myself bound unto your virtue, which I wish may shine forth in prosperous actions, until your fame be equal to Caesars who banished Ovid.  
The Servant of your Virtues, W. SALTONSTALL.   

To the Reader.  
IT is now grown a common custom to seek thy good will by an Epistle, and therein to move thy affection to be favourable to the present work, wherein I need not bestow any great pains, for this is a translation of Ovid's 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 pity towards him. Imagine that you saw Ovid in the Land of Pontus, where he whose company was so much desired, was now banished from all company; he that was once the Darling of the Muses, now made the subject of misery; he that drank choice wines, now drinks spring water; he that wore a wreath of Bays, now wears a wreath of Cypress: and to conclude, he that was once so famous, was now   

Angelus Politianus his Epigram on the banishment and death of Ovid.  
THe Roman Poet lies in the Euxine shore,  
And barbarous earth the Poet covers o'er:  
Him that did write of love that land doth hide,  
Through which the Ister's colder stream doth glide.  
And wert not ashamed to be (O Rome)  
More cruel than the Geteses to such a son?  
Oh Muses, while he sick in Scythia lay,  
Who was there that his sickness could allay?  
Or keep his cold limbs in the bed by force,  
Or pass away the day with some discourse?  
Or that could feel his pulse when it did beat,  
Or apply to him warm things to cherish heat?  
Or close his eyes even swimming round with death,  
And in his mouth receive his latest breath?  
There were none, for his ancient friends than were  
In thee O Rome, from Pontus' distant far.  
His Wife and Nephews were far off, together  
His daughter went not with her banished father.  
The B●ssi and Coralli were in these parts,  
And the skin-wearing Geteses wirh stony hearts.  
The Sarmatian riding on his horse was there,  
To comfort him with looks that dreadful were.  
Yet when he was dead, the Bessi wept, the Get,  
And stout Sarmatians did their faces beat.  
Woods, mountains, beasts, a mourning day did keep,  
And Ister's pearly stream they say did weep.  
Some say that frozen Pontus did begin  
To melt, with tears of Sea-nymphs shed for him.  
Light Cupids with their mother Venus ran,  
And with torches set the funeral pile on flame:  
And while his body did consume and burn,  
They put his ashes in a closed Urn:  
And on his Tombstone these words graven were,  
He that did teach the Art of love lies here.  
Then Venus with her white hand did bedew  
His grave, while she sweet Nectar on him threw.  
The Muses brought their Poet many a verse,  
Which I am far unworthy to rehearse.   

julius' Scaligers Verses on Ovid, wherein he maketh Ovid speak to Augustus.  
I Would thy cruelty had in me begun,  
Nor by murders steps to ruin me hadst come.  
If my wanton youth did move thy discontent,  
Thou mayst condemn thyself to banishment.  
For such foul deeds thy private rooms do stain,  
That men condemned ne'er did act the same.  
Could not my wit, nor gentleness thee restrain▪  
Nor sweet tongue second to Apollo's vain?  
My strain hath made the ancient Poets soft,  
And to the new the weight of things hath taught.  
I than did lie when as I praised thee,  
For this my banishment was deserved by me.   



Nor shame those blots which on thy face appears;  
For some may think they were made with my tears,  
Go book, salute the City in my name,  
For on thy feet I will go back again;  
And if by chance among the common crew,  
Some mindful of me ask thee, how I do?  
Return this answer, tell them that I live,  
And that my god this life doth freely give.  
But if they more do seek, then silent be,  
And speak not that should not be read in thee.  
Then the angry reader will repeat my fault,  
While by the people I am guilty thought.  
Defend me not though they my fault repeat,  
An ill cause by defence is made more great.  
Some thou shalt find will sigh, 'cause I am gone,  
And read these verses with wet cheeks alone.  
Who often wishes, Caesar would but please,  
Some lighter punishment might his wrath appease.  
And I do pray he may ne'er wretched be,  
That wishes Caesar thus should pity me.  
But may his wishes come to pass, that I  
At last may in my native country dye.  
But book, I know, thou shalt receive much blame,  
And be thought inferior unto Ovid's vain:  
Yet every judge the time and matter weighs;  
The time considered, thou deservest praise.  
Smooth verses from a quiet mind do flow:  
My times are overcast with sudden woe.  
Verses require much leisure and sweet ease:  
But I am tossed by winds, and angry Seas.  
Verses were never made in fear, while I  
Do look each minute by the sword to dye.  
So that an equal judge may well approve  
These lines of mine, and read them with much love.  
Had Homer been distressed so many ways,  
It would his sharp discerning wit amaze▪  
Then book be careless of all idle fame;  
For to displease thy Reader, is no shame,  
Since fortune hath not so kind to me been,  
That thou their idle praise shouldst so esteem:  
When I was happy, I did covet fame,  
And had a great desire to get a name.  
But now both verse and study I do hate,  
Since they have brought me to this banished state.  
Yet go my book, thee in my place I assign,  
And would to God I could not call thee mine.  
Though as a stranger thou dost come to Rome,  
Thou canst not to the people come unknown:  
Hadst thou no title, yet thy sable hue,  
If thou deny me, will thy author show.  
Yet enter secretly, lest some do disdain  
My verse, which is not now esteemed by fame.  
And if by chance some when they hear me named▪  
Do cast thee by out of their scornful hand,  
Tell them that I do teach no rules of love,  
That work was long since punished from above.  
Perhaps thou dost imagine thou art sent,  
To Caesar's Court, which is not my intent:  
Aspire not thou unto those seats divine,  
From whence the Thunder did on me decline.  
Though once the Gods more favourable were,  
Yet now their just deserved wrath I fear.  
The fearful Dove once struck, still after springs,  
When she doth hear the Hawks large spreading wings▪  
And from the fold the Lamb dare never stray●●▪  
That from the Wolf hath gotten once away.  
Nor would young Phaethon desire 〈◊〉  
His father's steeds, if he were now 〈◊〉  
Since on my face the angry waves do break.  
And now the southern winds so cruel are,  
They will not let the Gods even hear my prayer,  
But coupling mischiefs, with their ruffling gales,  
They take away my prayers, and drive our sails;  
The waves like mountains now are rolled on,  
Which even seem to touch the starry throne.  
And by and by deep valleys do appear,  
As if that hell itself dissolved were.  
Nothing but air and water can I see,  
And both of them do seem to threaten me;  
Whiles diverse winds their forces do display,  
The sea is doubtful which he should obey.  
For now the wind comes from the purple East,  
And so again it bloweth from the West.  
Then Boreas flies out from the Northern Wain,  
While Southern winds do beat him back again.  
Our Pilate knew not whether he should steer,  
Art fails him, lost in his amazed fear.  
Perish we must, all hope of life is past,  
And while I speak the angry billows slashed  
Into my face, and with their waves did fill  
My mouth while I continued praying still.  
I know my wife at home doth now lament,  
And grieve to think upon my banishment:  
Yet knows she not how I am tossed here,  
And little thinks the that I am so near  
Unto my death, and were she here with me,  
My grief for her a second death would be.  
Now though I dye, yet while that she is safe,  
I shall survive in her my other half:  
But now quick lightning breaketh through the Cloud,  
And following Thunder roareth out aloud.  
And now the waves upon the ship do boat,  
Like bullets, and as one wave doth retreat,  
Another comes that doth exceed the rest,  
And thus their fury is by turns expressed.  
I fear not death, yet I do grieve that I  
Should here by shipwreck in this manner dye.  
Happy is he whom sickness doth invade,  
Whose body in the solid earth is laid:  
And having made his will, in his grave may rest,  
Nor shall the fishes on his body feast.  
And yet suppose my death deserved be,  
Shall all the rest be punished here for me?  
O ye green gods who do the sea command,  
Take off from us your heavy threatening hand.  
And let me bear this wretched life of mine,  
Unto that place which Caesar did assign.  
If you desire with death to punish me,  
My fault was juged not worthy death to be:  
Had Caesar meant to take my life away,  
He need not use your help who all doth sway.  
For if that he do please my blood to spill,  
My life is but a tenure at his will.  
But you whom I did never yet offend,  
Have pity on me, and to mercy bend:  
For though you save me in this great distress,  
Yet you shall see my ruin ne'er the less.  
And if the winds and seas did favour me,  
I should no less a banished man still be.  
I am not greedy, riches to obtain,  
Nor do I plough the sea in hope of gain.  
I go not to Athens, where I once have been  
Or Asian towns which I have never seen,  
Nor unto Alexandria do I go,  
To see how Nilus seven streams do flow:  
I wish a gentle wind, which may so stand,  
It was the deepest silence of the night,  
And Luna in her chariot shined bright:  
When looking on the Cappitols high frame,  
Which joined was unto our house in vain:  
You gods (quoth I) whom these fair seats enfold,  
And temples which I ne'er shall more behold:  
And all ye gods of Rome whom I must leave,  
These my last tendered prayers to you receive;  
Though wounded I the buckler use too late,  
Le● exile ease me of the people's hate.  
Tell Caesar though I sinned by ignorance,  
There was no wickedness in my offence.  
And as you know so let him know the same,  
That so his wrath may be appeased again.  
With larger prayers my wife did then beseech  
The gods, until that sobs cut off her speech.  
Then falling down with flowing hair long spread,  
She kissed the hearth whereon the fire lay dead;  
And to our Penates poured forth many a word,  
Which for her husband now no help afford,  
Now growing night did haste delay again,  
And Arctos now had turned about her Wain,  
And loath was I to leave my country sight,  
Yet this for exile was my sentenced night.  
If any urged my haste I would reply,  
Alas consider whither, whence I fly.  
And then myself with flattory would beguile:  
And think no hour did limit my exile.  
Thrice went I forth, and thrice returning find,  
Slow paces were indulgent to my mind;  
Oft having bid farewell, I spoke again,  
And many parting kisses gave in vain.  
Then looking back upon my children dear,  
The 〈◊〉 repeated charge I gave them there.  
Why make we hast? 'tis just to seek delay,  
Since I am sent from Rome to Scythia.  
For I must leave my children, house and wife,  
Who while I live must lead a widow's life.  
And you my loving friends that present be,  
And were like Theseus faithful unto me:  
Let us embrace, and use times little store,  
Perhaps I never shall embrace you more.  
And then my words to action did give place,  
While I each friend did lovingly embrace.  
But while I speak and tears bedewed my eyes,  
The fatal morning star began to rise.  
My heart was so divided therewithal,  
As if my limbs would from my body fall.  
So Priam grieved when he too late did find,  
The Grecian horse with armed men was lined.  
Then sorrow was in one loud cry expressed:  
And every one began to knock his breast;  
And now my wife her arms about me cast,  
And while I wept she spoke these words at last.  
Thou shalt not go alone, for I will be  
Thy wife in banishment and follow thee:  
In the same ship with thee I'll go aboard,  
And one land shall to us one life afford.  
Thee unto exile Caesar's wrath commands,  
Me love, which love to me for Caesar's stands.  
This she repeats which she had spoke before,  
And could not be persuaded to give over.  
Till at the last when I my hair had rend,  
Forth like some living funeral I went:  
And after (as I heard) when night grew on,  
Being mad with grief, she threw herself along  
Upon the ground, while as her hair now lies,  
Soiled in the dust: and when that she did rise,  
Of Nisus love who should the story know?  
For as the fire the yellow gold doth try,  
So love is proved by adversity.  
While Fortune helps us, and on us doth smile,  
They will attend upon our wealth that while:  
But if she frown, they fly, and scarce of any,  
Shall he be known that had of friends so many:  
This which before I from examples drew,  
In my own fortune now is proved true.  
Since of my friends so few remaining be,  
The rest did love my fortune and not me.  
Then let those few aid me distressed the more,  
And bring my ship with safety to the shore:  
And let not any fear to be my friend,  
Lest that his love great Caesar's might offend.  
For faithfulness in friendship he doth love:  
And in his enemies he doth it approve.  
My case is better, since that no attempt  
Against him, but folly wrought my banishment.  
Be watchful then in my behalf, and see,  
If that his anger may appeased be.  
If any wish I should my griefs rehearse,  
They are to many too be showed in verse.  
My griefs are more than stars within the skies,  
Or little mo●es which in the dust arise.  
For to my sorrows none can credit give,  
Posterity will scarce the same believe.  
Besides those other griefs which ought to have,  
Within my secret thoughts a silent grave.  
Had I voice and breast could ne'er be tired,  
More mouths and tongues than ever grief desired:  
Yet could not I express the same in words,  
My grief so large a theme to me affords.  
You learned Poets leave off now to write,  
Ulysses troubles, and my woes recite.  
I suffered more, he wandered many years,  
In coming home from Troy as it appears.  
We sailed so far to the Sarmatian shore,  
Till we discovered stars unknown before.  
With him a faithful troop of Grecians went,  
My friends forsook me in my banishment.  
To bring him home his happy sails were spread,  
While I even from my native country fled.  
Nor do I sail frrm Ithaca, from whence,  
It would not grieve me to be banished thence:  
But even from Rome which doth the gods enfold,  
And from seven hills doth all the world behold.  
He had a body hardened to endure,  
To labour I myself did ne'er enure,  
In the stern wars great pains he daily took,  
But I was still devoted to my book.  
One god opposing me, no god brought aid,  
But him Bellona helped the warlike Maid.  
And since that Neptune is than jove far less,  
Him Neptune, but great jove doth me oppress.  
Besides, some fictions do his labours grace,  
Which in our griefs sad story have no place.  
And lastly though at last, his home he found,  
And landed on the welcome long sought ground.  
But ne'er shall I my native country see,  
Until the angry gods appeased be.    


Unto his wife whose faithful love,  
And constancy he doth approve.   
ELEGY V.  

APollo Lyde never loved so well,  
Nor did Philetas love so much excel  
Unto the Reader put in mind of me.  
Yet they with patience can be read of none,  
That to the world are uncorrected shown,  
Snatched from the forge before they could be framed,  
Deprived of my last life-giving hand.  
For praise I pardon crave, it shall suffice,  
If Reader thou do not my Verse despise.  
Yet in the front these verses placed be,  
If with thy liking it at least agree:  
Who meets this Orphan Volume poor in worth,  
Within your City harbourage afford  
To win more favour, not by him set forth,  
But ravished from the funeral of his Lord:  
This therefore which presents its own defect,  
At pleasure with a friendly hand correct.    


To his unconstant friend, whose love  
He finds doth now unconstant prove,  
And like a Glow-worm seems to shine,  
But yields no bea●e in hardest time.   
ELEGY VII.  

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 filled,  
The skies unto the furrowing plough shall yield.  
The water shall send forth a smoking flame,  
The fire shall yield forth water back again.  
All things shall go against old nature's force,  
And no part of the world shall keep his course.  
This I presage because I am deceived  
Of him whose love most faithful I believed.  
What made thy hollow thoughts so soon reject me,  
What didst thou fear when fortune did afflict me,  
That thou wouldst never comfort me at all,  
Or mourn at my living funeral?  
That name of friendship which should holy be,  
Is not esteemed or reckoned of by thee.  
What had it been to have seen a maimed friend,  
And with the rest some words of comfort lend?  
And if no tears for me thou couldst have shed,  
With feigned pity mightst have something said.  
Thou mightst have done as some who I ne'er knew,  
And in the common voice have bid adieu:  
And lastly, while thou mightest, take the pain  
To see my face ne'er to be seen again.  
And mightst have then (which ne'er shall more befall)  
Give and receive a farewell last of all.  
Which others did whom no strick● league did bind,  
And made their tears the witness of their mind.  
For were not we in love joined 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 vanished into empty wind,  
Drowned in the Lethe of a faithless mind?  
I do not think that thou wert borne at Rome▪  
(Whither alas I never more shall come.)  
But on some Rock here in the Pontic land,  
Or Scythian Mountains that so wildly stand:  
And veins of flint are every where dispersed  
In slender branches through thy Iron breast.  
And su●e thy Nurse some cruel Tiger was  
Who gave thee suck as she along did pass:  
In that thy virtues have such publication.  
Would I had kept in darkness out of sight,  
My studies, which I wish had ne'er known light:  
For as thy fame from eloquence doth grow,  
So from my Verse, my ruin first did flow.  
Thou know'st my life, and how I did abstain  
From those same Arts of love which I did frame:  
Thou know'st I writ it in my younger days,  
In jesting manner, not to merit praise.  
Though I dare nothing urge in my defence,  
I think I may excuse my late offence.  
Excuse me then, nor 'ere forsake thy friend,  
But as thou hast begun so also end.    


Ovid here his ship doth praise,  
That carried him through many Seas.   
ELEGY IX.  
YEllow Minerva doth my ship maintain,  
Which of her painted Helmet bears the name,  
For with the least wind she will nimbly sail,  
And go with Oars when as the wind doth fail.  
She will outsail her company outright,  
And fetch up any ship that is in sight.  
She can endure the waves which on her beat,  
Yet will she never open any leak.  
I boarded her in the Corinthian bay,  
From whence she stoutly brought me on my way,  
By Pallas help, by whom she was protected,  
Through many dangerous seas she was directed:  
And may she now cut through the Pontic strand,  
And bring me safely to the Getick Land.  
Who when that she had carried me at last,  
Through the Ionian seas, when we had passed  
Along those coasts, we stood to the left hand,  
And so we came unto the Imbrian land,  
Then, with a gentle wind she sailed on,  
And touched at Samos as she went along.  
Upon the other side there stands a wood,  
Thus far my ship did bring me through the flood,  
Through the Bistonians fields on foot I went,  
And then from Hellespont her course she bent:  
For to Dardania she her course intended,  
And Lampsace which Priapus defended.  
So to the walls of Cyricon she came,  
Which the Maeonian people first did frame.  
Thence to Constantinople was her way,  
Where as two seas do meet within one bay.  
Now may my other ship with a strong gale,  
Pass by the moving Isles, while she doth sail  
By the Thymian bay, while her course doth fall,  
To come hard by Anchiolus high wall.  
Then to Messembria, Odesson, and the Tower,  
Which is defended by god Bacchus' power:  
And to Megara which did first receive.  
Alcathous, who did his Country leave.  
So to Miletus which is the place assigned,  
To which by Caesar's wrath I am confined.  
Where for an offering of a greater price,  
A Lamb to Pallas I will sacrifice.  
And you two brothers that are stellified,  
I pray that you my ship may gently guide:  
One ship to Cyanean Isles is bound,  
The other goes to the Bistovian ground:  
And therefore grant the wind may fitly stand,  
To bring them safely to a divers land.    

LIB. II.  
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 ruin I must look.  
Why do I return unto my Muse again,  
〈◊〉 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 that made 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 loser 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 madness is, that folly arms me  
To strike my foore against that store that harms me;  
Even as some beaten fencer after tries  
To regain honour by a second prize.  
Or as some torn 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 moved 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 plays  
To him, once seen within an age of days;  
So may my verse, great Caesar's now obtain,  
By examples to appease thy wrath again.  
Just is thy wrath, which I will ne'er deny,  
Such shameful words, from my mouth do not fly:  
And this offence makes me for pardon cry,  
Since faults are objects of thy clemency.  
jove would be soon disarmed, if he should send  
His thunderbolts as oft as men offend.  
Now though his thunders make the world to fear,  
It breaks the Clouds, and makes the air more clear:  
Whom therefore father of the gods we name,  
Than jove none greater doth the world contain.  
Thou Pater patriae too art called, then be  
Like to those gods in name and clemency:  
And so thou art, for no more moderate hand,  
Could hold the reins of Empire and command.  
Thy enemy once overcome in field  
Thou pardonst, which he victor would not yield.  
And some thou didst with honours dignify,  
That have attempted 'gainst thy Majesty.  
Thy wars on one day did begin and cease,  
While both sides brought their offerings unto peace:  
That as the Victor in the vanquished Foe,  
The vanquished in the Victor gloried so.  
My case is better, since I ne'er did join  
With those who did in arms 'gainst thee combine:  
Yet now this house which by my Muse was raised,  
Is by one fault of mine again disgraced:  
Yet fallen so as it itself may rear,  
If Caesar's wrath would once more mild appear:  
Whose mercy in my sentence was expressed,  
●a●●e short of that my fear did first suggest.  
Whose anger reached not to this life of ours,  
But with great mildness used thy Princely powers:  
And thou my forfeit goods to me didst give,  
And with my life didst grant me means to live.  
Nor by the Senate's sentence was I sent,  
Or private judgement into banishment:  
But didst thyself pronounce those heavy words,  
Whose execution full revenge affords.  
Besides, thy edict forcing my exile,  
●id with great favour my late fault enstile:  
Whereby I am not banished, but confined,  
And misery is in gentle words assigned.  
For there's no punishment though ne'er so strict,  
Can more than thy displeasure me afflict.  
Yet sometimes angry gods appeased are,  
And when the clouds are gone, the day is fair.  
I have seen the Ealme loaden with Vines again,  
That had before been strooken by joves' flame.  
Therefore I'll 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 incensed,  
Is not with equal fury still commenced:  
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 far,  
Now calmed by hope, then troubled with despair.  
By those same gods that grant thee long to reign,  
That thou mayst still maintain the Roman● name:  
And by thy Country happy 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 worthy of thy love appears:  
Whom nature kept for thee, else there had been,  
None worthy 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 hide,  
May both your offsprings so be stellified.  
May victory so accustomed to thy Tent,  
Come to his colours, and herself 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 thyself at home in peace dost reign,  
Thy other self doth foreign wars maintain.  
May he return a victor o'er his foe,  
And on his plumed horse in triumph go.  
Oh spare me therefore, 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 suits the gods assent.  
For if thou wouldst some milder place assign  
Of exile, it would ease this grief of mind.  
For here I suffer even the worst of woes,  
While I do live amongst the barbarous foes:  
Being sent unto Danubius' sevenfold stream,  
Of vices knowledge she may learn the skill.  
Let her the Annals 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 show 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 fire what better? yet he that doth desire,  
To burn a house, doth arm himself with fire.  
Health giving physic, health doth oft impair,  
Some herbs are wholesome, and some poison are.  
The thief and traveller swords wear, to the 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 errs who led by self conceit,  
Doth misinterpret what so e'er 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 oppressed:  
And think in Juno's temples when she's praying,  
How juno injured was by joves' oft straying,  
And Pallas seen, she thinks some faulty birth,  
Made her to hide Ericthon borne of earth:  
If she come to Mars' temple, o'er the gate,  
There standeth Venus with her cunning Mate.  
In Isis' temple she revolveth how,  
Poor Io was transformed into a Cow.  
And something than her wand'ring fancy moves,  
To think of Venus and Anchises loves.  
jasus and Ceres next her thoughts incite,  
And pale Endymion the Moon's favourite:  
For though these statues were for prayer assigned,  
Yet every thing corrupts an evil mind:  
And my first leaf bids them not to 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 ears?  
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 persuade them unto love?  
It was my fault which I do here confess,  
My wit and judgement did therein transgress.  
Why did not I of Troy's sad ruin tell,  
(That vexed theme) which by the Grecians fell.  
Or Thebes seven Gates which severally kept,  
Where by mutual wounds those brother's die and slept.  
An ample subject warlike Rome afforded,  
Whose acts I might have piously recorded.  
And though great Caesar's deeds abroad are known,  
Yet by my verse some part I might have shown:  
For as the Sun's bright rays 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 Cockboat through the Lake do row.  
Whose treacherous Hostess sought his life in vain.  
What of Hermione or the Arcadian maid,  
Phoebe whose course the Latmian Lover stayed.  
Or what of Danae, by jove a mother grown,  
And Hercules got in two nights joined in one.  
To these add jole, Pyrrhus, and that boy,  
Sweet Hylas, with Paris, firebrand unto Troy.  
And should I here recite loves tragic 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 defaced,  
And by soft measures have his deeds disgraced.  
Though Aristides his own faults compiled,  
Yet Aristides was not strait exiled.  
Eubius did write an impure history,  
And does describe unwholesome venery:  
Nor he that Sybarin luxuries composed,  
Nor he that his own sinful acts disclosed.  
These in the libraries by some bounteous hand,  
To public use do there devoted stand.  
By stranger's pens I need not seek defence,  
Our own books with such liberty dispense:  
For though grave Ennius of wars tumults writ,  
Whose artless works do show an able wit:  
The cause of fire Lucretius doth explain,  
And 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 Lesbian, and so strove,  
In verse to publish his own wanton love.  
And with like licence Calvus too assays,  
For to set forth his pleasure diverse ways,  
Why should I mention Memn●as wanton vain?  
Who to each filthy act doth give a name;  
And Cinna striving by his verse to please:  
Cornificus may be well ranked 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 hls' tongue in wine he could contain.  
Tibullus writes that women's oaths are wind,  
Who can with outward shows their husband's blind.  
Teaching them how their keepers to beguile,  
While he himself is cozened by that wile.  
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 oils that blueness shall expel,  
Which by much kissing on their lips doth dwell.  
And unto husbands does strict rules commend,  
If they be honest, wives will not offend.  
And when the dog doth bark, 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 Propertius did like precepts give,  
Yet his clear fame doth still unstained live.  
To these did I succeed, for I'll suppress,  
Than 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 vain  
Offended, yet I now do bear the blame.  
I had writ verses, when before thee I,  
Amongst the other horsemen 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 revenged at last,  
And I am punished for a fault that's past.  
Yet all my works are not so light and vain,  
Sometimes I launched into the deeper maine.  
And in six books Rome's Holidays have showed,  
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 Tragic style 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 appeased,  
As that to read my verse thou wouldst be pleased:  
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 Satirical.  
Amongst the vulgar people none yet found,  
Themselves once touched; my Muse myself doth wound,  
Therefore each generous mind I do believe,  
Will not rejoice, but at my ill fate grieve:  
No● yet will triumph o'er my wretched state,  
Who ne'er 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 mayst pardon me.  
But I entreat thee to remove me hence,  
To safer exile fitting my offence.   

LIB. III.  
The Book doth to the Reader show,  
That he is loath to come to view:  
And tells how he was entertained  
By some, while others him disdained.  

I Am that Book who fearfully do come,  
Even from a banished man to visit Rome:  
And coming weary from a foreign land,  
Good Reader let me rest within thy hand.  
Do not thou fear or be ashamed of me,  
Since no love verses in this paper be.  
My master now by fortune is oppressed,  
It is no time for him to write in jest.  
Though in his youth he had a wanton vain,  
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 journey's length.  
Nor are my rough leaves covered o'er with yellow,  
For I my Author's fortune mean to follow.   


In Swanlike Tunes he doth deplore  
His exile, and knocks at the door  
Of Death, desiring hasty fate,  
His wretched life would terminate.   
ELEGY II.  

WAs it my fate that I should Scythia see,  
And the land whose Zenith is the Axletree?  
And would not you sweet Muses nor Apollo,  
Help me, who did your holy rites still follow?  
Could not my harmless verses me excuse,  
And life more serious than my jesting Muse?  
But that I must when I the seas had passed,  
Unto the Pontic land be brought at last.  
And I that still myself from care withdrew,  
Loving soft ease, and no rough labour knew:  
Having past great dangers both by sea and land,  
Here worst of miseries is by me sustained.  
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 study did my cares beguise.  
But when I did my journey's end attain,  
And that unto the hated shore I came.  
Then from mine eyes a shower of tears did flow,  
Like water running from the melted snow.  
And then my house and Rome comes in my mind,  
And every thing that I had left behind.  
A ●●tle 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.    


He lets his wife here understand,  
Of his sickness in a foreign land:  
Then writes his Epitaph, with intent,  
To make his books his monument.   
ELEGY III.  

THat this my Letter by a stranger's hand  
Is writ, the cause my sickness understand.  
For in the world's farthest part I lie,  
Sick and uncertain of recovery.  
What comfort can within that climate shine,  
On which the Geteses and Sauramats confine?  
My nature does not with the soil agree,  
The air and water do seem strange to me.  
My shelter poor, my diet here is bad,  
No health-restoring Physic 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 mentioned 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 frantic fit.  
If I should swoon, and that no heating wine,  
Could give life to this faltering tongue of mine:  
To hear of thy approach would make me live,  
Thy very presence would new vigour give.  
Thus I most doubtful of my life am grown,  
But thou perhaps liust 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 be 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 died in my integrity,  
But now I here a banished man must dye.  
And shall I here resign 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 recall.  
I shall not make my will, nor with sad cries,  
No friendly hand shall close my dying eyes.  
Without a Tomb or Funeral I shall be,  
While as the barbarous earth doth cover me.  
Which when thou hearst, be not with grief oppressed,  
Nor do not thou for sorrow beat thy breast.  
Why shouldst thou wring thy tender hands in vain,  
Or call upon thy wretched husband's name?  
Te●● not thy cheeks, nor cut thy hair for me,  
For I am not (good wife) now took from thee.  
When I was banished than I died, alas,  
For banishment than death more heavy was.  
Now I would have thee to rejoice (good wife)  
Since all my grief is ended with my life.  
And bear thy sorrows with a valiant heart:  
Mishaps 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'er 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 unto some secret place conveyed:  
Graving these verses on a Marble stone,  
In letters to be read by every one.  
" ay Ovid that did write of wanton love,  
" Lie here, my verse my overthrow did prove.  
" Thou that hast been in love and passest by▪  
" Pray still that Ovid's bones may softly lie.  
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 Author everlasting fame.  
Yet let thy love in funeral gifts be showed,  
And bring sweet Garlands with thy tears be dewed.  
Those ashes which the funeral fire shall leave,  
Will in their Urn thy pious love perceive.  
More would I write, but that my voice 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 myself.    


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

MY always dearest friend, but then most known,  
When I by adverse fortune was o'erthrown:  
If thou wilt take the counsel of a friend,  
Live to thyself, do not too high ascend.  
Since thunder from the highest tower doth come;  
Live to thyself and glittering titles shun.  
For though the beams of greatness may us warm,  
Yet greatest men have greatest power to harm.  
The naked sayle-yard fears no storms at all,  
And greatest Sails more dangerous are than small:  
The floating cork upon the waves doth swim,  
While heavy Lead doth sink the Net therein.  
Of these things had some friend admonished 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 from a high house fell,  
His ghost went down to Pluto king of hell.  
Though Dedalus his wings did him sustain,  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 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 bend,  
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 died 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 these prayers 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 unenvied, honour crown thy end,  
For thou art worthy of a noble friend.  
And love thy Ovid's name which cannot be,  
Banished though Scythis 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 eyes,  
And all my actions in their place do rise.  
My wives dear Image doth itself 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 expressed.  
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 I'll talk with you within my breast,  
Nor shall your fears by my verse be increased.  
Nor shall my verse disclose a secret friend,  
Love secretly, and love me to the end:  
And know though we by absence be disjoynd,  
Yet you are always present in my mind.  
Then strive to ease 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.    


By a feigned name he doth commend.  
One C●rus that had been his friend:  
And then doth mitigate his fault,  
〈◊〉 error him to ruin brought.   
ELEGY V.  

MY use of friendship with thee was but small,  
And if thou wilt, thou mayst say none at all:  
But that thy love most faithful I did find,  
When as my ship sailed with a prosperous wind.  
When once I fell, than all did shun my wrack,  
And all my friends on me did turn their back.  
Yet thou when I was strooken 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 countenance at that time,  
Thy face be dewed with tears more pale than mine.  
And seeing tears to fall at each word, my ears  
Did drink thy words, my mouth did drink thy tears:  
Thou didst embrace my neck, and then betwixt  
Some loving kisses with thy sighs were mixed.  
Now absent thou defendest more again,  
Thou knowest that Carus is a feigned name:  
And many tokens of thy love appear,  
Which I in memory will ever bear.  
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 befall,  
Do thou allow my hope though it be small.  
Bestow thy eloquence upon that theme,  
To show it may fall out as I do mean.  
The greatest men are placeable in wrath,  
A generous mind a gentle anger hath.  
When Beasts unto the Lion prostrate lie,  
He ends the combat with his enemy.  
But Wolves and Bears their yielding foes do kill,  
And the inferior beasts are cruel still.  
Who like Achilles? yet even he appears,  
To be much moved with Dardanus sad tears.  
Emathions' clemency is best declared,  
Even by those funeral rites which he prepared.  
And that I may not man's calmed anger show,  
Even Juno's son in law was once her foe.  
Lastly, I needs must hope, since at this time,  
I am not punished for a heinous crime.  
I did not plot against great Caesar's life,  
To ruin him by sowing civil strife:  
I never yet did rail against the time,  
Or spoke against him in my cups of wine:  
But am punished 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 no ill intend.  
So that I hope that he will pleased be,  
To grant an easier banishment to me.  
I wish the morning star that brings the day,  
Would bring this news and quickly post away.    


His friend's fidelity he doth praise,  
And to excuse himself assays:  
Desiring if he have any grace  
At Rome, to use it in his case.   
ELEGY VI.  

O 〈…〉 of friendship thou wilt not conceal,  
Or if thou wouldst, it would itself reveal.  
For while we might, none was more dear to me,  
And I do know I was beloved of thee.  
And this our love was to the people known,  
So that our love more than ourselves was known:  
The candour 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,  
Except that which wrought my overthrow.  
Which hadst thou known, thou wouldst have counselled me  
So well that I should never banished be.  
But 'twas my fate drew on my punishment,  
And crossed me in any good intent.  
Yet whether that I might this evil shun,  
And reason cannot fortune overcome:  
Yet thou to me my old acquaintance art,  
And of my love thou hold'st 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 bend,  
May change the place of my sad punishment:  
Even as I did no wickedness devise,  
Since that my fault from error did arise.  
It would be tedious, nor 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 Rome's Suburbs be.    


The Letter here he doth command,  
To fly unto Perhillas hand:  
And showeth that the Muses give  
Immortal fame which still shall live.   
ELEGY VIII.  

Go thou my letter being writ so fast,  
And to salute Perhilla make thou hast:  
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'll ask thee how I do that am undone?  
Tell her I live, but wish I did not so,  
Since length of time can never ease my woe.  
Yet to my Muse I now returned am,  
Making my words in verse to flow again:  
And ask her why she doth her mind 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 Muse's spring did show,  
Lest that sweet water should at waste still flow.  
For in thy virgin years thy wit I spied,  
And was as 'twere thy father and thy guide.  
Then if those fires still in thy breast do dwell,  
There's none but Lesbian that can thee excel:  
But I do fear that since I am o'erthrown,  
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 verse I an ear would lend,  
And make thee blush, when thou didst make an end.  
And yet perhaps it may be thou dost shun,  
All books because my ruin 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 sloth still frame,  
But to thy sacred art return again.  
That comely face will soon be spoilt with years,  
While aged wrinkles 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 small, though thou deservest more,  
But yet suppose thou hadst of wealth great store:  
Yet fortune when she lists doth give and take,  
And of rich Croesus she can I●us 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 vain:  
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.    


His country he desires to see,  
If Caesar would so pleased be.  
Then mournfully be doth complain,  
And shows what grief he doth sustain.   
ELEGY. VIII.  

I Wish I could Triptoleusus wain ascend,  
Who first did seed unto the earth commend:  
Or guide Medea's Dragons through the air,  
With which the once from Corinth did repair:  
I wish that I had Perseus' wings to fly,  
Or Dedalus his wings to cut the sky:  
That while the air did yield unto my flight,  
I might enjoy again my Country's 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 canst ne'er attain to thy desire?  
In stead of wishes, unto Caesar send,  
And strive to please him whom thou didst offend.  
I● he repeal thy banishment, his word,  
Can give thee wings to fly like to a bird.  
Perhaps when once his wrath doth milder grow,  
He to my suit will then some favour show:  
And I beseech him now in the mean time,  
Some easier place of exile to assign.  
This air and climate both contrary be,  
〈◊〉 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 Autumn's frost have nipped been:  
So do I look being pined away with grief,  
Having no ●●iend to yield me some relief.  
For I am sick in body and in mind,  
In both of which I equal pain do find.  
Me thinks my fortune stands before my eyes,  
In a sad shape replete with miseries.  
When I behold the people and the place,  
Comparing pastime 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.    


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

ARe here some Cities (who can it believe)  
That from the greeks did first their names receive?  
While husbandmen even from Miletus came,  
And 'mongst the Geteses did grecian 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 steer.  
While fierce Medea from her father fled,  
Unto these shores her fatal sails she spread:  
Which from a hill one viewing on the land,  
Cries out, Medea's sails do hither stand.  
The Myniae trembled, and without delay,  
Untie their ropes and all their anchors weigh:  
While that Medea struck her guilty breast,  
With that same hand which had in blood been dressed.  
And though her former courage did remain,  
Yet still her blood in paleness went and came▪  
But when she saw the sails, we are betrayed  
Quoth she, my father's course must be delayed  
By some new Art: while thus she doth devise,  
By fatal chance her brother she espies.  
And having spied 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 died.  
Then tears his Limbs in pieces, 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 stayed his course those scattered limbs to gather,  
Whence Tomos got that name, because that here,  
Medea first her brother's limbs did tear.    


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

IF any yet do think of Nasoes name,  
Which yet within the City doth remain:  
Know that I live within a barbarous land,  
Which near unto the Northern pole doth stand.  
The Sauromates and Geteses do hem me in,  
Whose ruder names my verse do not beseem.  
While the air is warm, we then defended are,  
By Ister 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 Northwind doth make it still remain:  
New snow doth fall on that which fell before,  
While that the earth is doubly covered o'er.  
Such is the Northw●nds force when it doth blow,  
That Towers and houses it doth overthrow.  
The people we are short mantles against 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 pieces of it take.  
Of Rivers frozen, what should I here tell?  
Or yet of water digged from the well:  
For Ister which with Nile may equal be,  
Whose many mouths do fall into the Sea,  
His blue waves hidden o'er 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 horse's hoof doth beat.  
The Sarmatian Oxen draw their wagons over,  
New bridges which the running water 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 did glaze it over:  
And on the frozen sea have often g●●…,  
While with a dry foot we could walk thereon.  
And had Leander such a shore descried,  
Then in that narrow Sea he had not died.  
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 appeared.  
The ships were frozen up that there did ride,  
Nor could the Oars the stiffened 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 freeze the Sea or stop the River's course:  
When Ister by dry winds is once congealed,  
The barbarous foe no longer is concealed.  
Who skilful in their horsemanship and Bow,  
Do waste the country wheresoever 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 wanes,  
And that which their poor Cottages contains:  
And some that by the foe are captive took,  
D●e leave their country with a back-cast look.  
Some by the barbed arrows here do dye,  
Who with their poisoned heads do swiftly fly.  
〈◊〉 which they cannot take they spoil the same,  
And make their harmless Cottages to ●●ame:  
When they have peace they stand in fear of war,  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 the fields by no man ploughed are.  
〈…〉 is not hid in the levy shade,  
〈…〉 vessels 〈◊〉 with wine new made.  
〈…〉 ●ould not here an Apple find,  
〈…〉 his sweetheart in the rind:  
Here the n●ked fields have neither leaf nor tree,  
〈…〉 marked 〈◊〉 for misery.  
And though the world hath such a large extent,  
This land is found out for my punishment.    


Sweet Ovid is enforced to write,  
'Gainst one who railed at him in spite:  
Whom mildly here he doth reprove,  
And unto pity doth him move.   
ELEGY XI.  

THou that my sad misfortune dost contemn,  
And cruelly dost always 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 Northern Bear I do behold.  
The people's speech I understand not here,  
And every place is full of careful fear.  
For as the Hart pursued by Bears doth shake,  
Or as a Lamb hemmed in by wolves doth quake:  
So when these nations do me round enclose,  
I am afraid, being compassed in with foes.  
Suppose it were no punishment to me,  
Of wife and children thus deprived to be:  
Though nothing troubled me but Caesar's wrath,  
Sufficient punishment his anger hath.  
Yet there are some who handles my green wounds,  
And to speak against me have let lose their tongues.  
In an easy matter every one can speak,  
And little strength a bruised thing can break,  
It shows some strength to throw down walls which 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 show 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 error wrought:  
Then glut thy anger with my punishment,  
For we are sent to grievous banishment.  
A murderer would lament my unhappy fate,  
Thou thinkst 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 bestowed,  
While thus in words his Art to him he showed  
This work O King may far more useful be  
Than the outward shape doth seem to promise thee  
For look, the Bull's side may be opened so,  
That whom thou meanest to kill, thou needs but throw  
Into his belly, and being closed therein,  
Put fire beneath, and then he will begin  
To 〈◊〉 and make a groaning noise as though  
The br●sen Bull itself began to Lowe:  
Therefore to recompense my gift again,  
Let my reward be equal to my pain.  
Phalaris replied, 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 railest on me I must complain:  
If thou desirest to quench thy thirst with blood,  
And that to hear my grief would do thee good:  
I have suffered so much both by sea and land,  
That thou wouldst grieve the same to understand.  
Ulysses was not in so great distress,  
Since Neptune's anger is than joves' far less.  
Then do not thou rip up my faults 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 thou 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 Caesar's wrath all ill with it doth pull.  
And if thou thinkst I do the same augment,  
I wish that thou mightst feel my punishment.    


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

NOw Zephyrus warms the air, the year is run,  
And the long seeming winter now is done:  
The Ram which bore fair Helen once away,  
Hath made the dark night equal to the day.  
Now boys and girls do sweet Violets get,  
Which in the Country often grow unset:  
Fair coloured 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 of Court  
Do now give place to Plays and other sport:  
Now they do tilt, and feats of arms assay,  
Now with the ball and with the top they play.  
Young men anointed now with oil begin,  
To bathe their limbs within the virgin spring:  
The scene doth flourish, and new strains are found,  
Which make the three theatres 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 undigged waters now begin to run:  
The sea is not frozen, not doth the swain,  
Over the Ister drive his creaking wain.  
Yet when that any ships do hither sail,  
And Anchor at our shore, then without fail,  
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 than doth come:  
From Italy few ships do ever stand,  
To come unto this haven-wanting land.  
Whether his language Greek or Latin be,  
The latter is most welcome unto me:  
If any from Propontis here arrive,  
While a northwind his spreading sails doth drive:  
He may inform me of the common fame▪  
And orderly he may relate the same:  
For of Great Caesar's triumphs I do hear,  
And of those vows to jove performed were.  
And how rebelling Germany in the end,  
Beneath our Captain's feet her head did bend:  
He that shall tell me these things here expressed,  
I will invite him home to be my guest:  
Alas, does Ovid's house alone now stand?  
Being seated here within the Stirian land:  
May Caesar make this house of mine to be,  
Only an Inn of punishment to me.    


Against his birthday he doth complain,  
Which was now returned in vain.   
ELEGY XIII.  

BEhold my birthday (for why was I borne?)  
Doth vainly unto me again return,  
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,  
Wherein my childhood first I drew my breath.  
And with my friends that now at Rome do dwell,  
Thou mightst at once have taken thy last farewell.  
What's Pontus unto thee? or art thou sent,  
By Caesar's wrath with me to banishment?  
Dost thou expect thy wont honour here?  
While I a white robe on my shoulders wear:  
Or that fair garlands should environed round,  
The smoking Altar with sweet incense crowned?  
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 comest 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'll name,  
That to this place thou ne'er return again,  
Whilst in the farthest Pontic shore I live,  
Which falsely some the name of Euxine give.    


Here he writes unto his friend,  
That he would his books defend.   
ELEGY XIIII.  
THou chief of learned men, what maketh thee,  
A friend unto my idle vein to be?  
When I was safe than 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 than thou lovest the new Poet's strain,  
Within the City still keep up my name.  
For I and not my books am banished thence,  
Which they could not deserve by my offence.  
The father of't 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 forlorn,  
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 lies,  
Being ravished from their master's obsequies.  
That work I had unto perfection brought,  
If that I had not my own ruin 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 foreign land.  
Which who so 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 banished in a barbarous land.  
And will admire that in my adverse time,  
With a sad hand I could draw forth a line.  
Misfortunes have deprived me of my strain,  
Although before I ne'er had a rich vain.  
Yet whatsoe'er 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 Geteses shut up in walls of stone:  
Sometimes 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 Scythian language doth my ear affright,  
So that the Geticke tongue I sure could write:  
I fear lest you within this book should see,  
That Pontic words with Latin mingled be.  
Yet read it, and thereto a pardon give,  
When thou considerst in what state I live.    

LIB. FOUR  


To excuse his books he doth begin,  
And shows how his Muse did comfort him.   
ELEGY. I.  

IF any faults are in these books of mine,  
Have them excused Reader by their time.  
I sought no fame, but only some relief,  
That so my mind might not think on her grief.  
Even as the Ditcher bound with fetters strong,  
Will lighten heavy labour with a song:  
And he will sing that with a bended side,  
Doth draw the slow boat up against the tide:  
And he that at the Oar doth tug with pain,  
Doth sing while he puts back his oar again.  
The weary Shepherd sitting on a hill,  
Doth please his sheep with piping on his quill:  
And every maid within the Country bred,  
Will sing while she is drawing forth her thread.  
Achilles' being sad for Brisis' loss,  
The Haemonian harp did soften that same cross.  
While Orpheus for his wife much grief did show,  
With his sweet tunes the woods and stones he drew.  
So did my Muse delight me as I went,  
And bore me company in my banishment.  
She feared no treachery, nor the Soldier's hand,  
Nor yet the wind, or sea, or barbarous land.  
She knew what error first my ruin brought,  
And that there was no wickedness in my fault:  
And since from her my fault did first proceed,  
She is made guilty with me of that deed.  
Yet still the fear of harm me so affrights,  
I scarce dare touch the Muse's holy rites.  
But now a sudden fury doth me move,  
And being hurt by verse, yet verse I love.  
Even as Ulysses took delight to taste,  
The Lote tree which did hurt him at the last.  
The Lover feels his loss, yet does delight  
In it, and seeks to feed his appetite.  
So Books delight me which did me confound,  
Loving the Dart which gave me this same wound.  
Perhaps this study may a fury seem,  
And yet to many it hath useful been.  
It makes the mind that it cannot retain,  
Her grief in sight, but doth forget the same.  
As she ne'er felt the wound which Bacchus gave,  
But wildly on the Idean hills did rave:  
So when a sacred fire my breast doth warm,  
My higher fancy doth all sorrow scorn.  
It feels no banishment, or Pontic shore,  
Nor thinks the gods are angry any more:  
And as if I should drink dull Lethe's water,  
I have no sense of any sorrow after.  
Needs must those goddesses than honoured be,  
Who from their Helicon did come with me.  
And for to follow me they still did please,  
Either by foot, by shipping, or by seas.  
And may they gracious unto me abide,  
Since that the gods are all on Caesar's side:  
While those griefs which they heap on me are more,  
Than fish in seas, or sands upon the shore.  
The flowers in spring-time thou mayst sooner tell,  
Or Autumn's apples, or the snow that fell,  
Than all my griefs being tossed too and fro,  
While I unto the Euxine shore do go:  
Where come, I found no change of misery,  
As if ill fortune still did follow me.  
My thread of life in one course here doth run,  
Of black and dismal wool this thread is spun.  
Though I omit my dangers and my grief,  
I have seen such miseries as are past belief.  
Amongst the barbarous geats how can he live?  
To whom the people once such praise did give.  
How grievous is it to be locked within,  
A walled Town, and yet scarce safe therein?  
For in my youth all war I did detest,  
And never handled weapons but in jest.  
Now in my hands a sword and shield I bear,  
And on my grey hairs I a helmet wear.  
For when the watchman standing in his place,  
Doth give some sign, than all do arm apace.  
The enemy with his poisoned shafts and bow,  
On their proud Steeds about the walls do go:  
And as the Wolf doth bear a sheep away,  
Into the woods, which from the fold did stray:  
So those that once are strayed beyond the gate,  
The f●e comes on them, and doth take them strait.  
Then like a captive they his neck do chain,  
Or else with poisoned arrows he is slain.  
In this place I a dweller am become,  
A lass my time of life too slow doth run.  
Yet to my verse I do return again,  
My friendly Muse doth me in grief sustain:  
Yet there is none to whom I may recite  
My verse, or hear the Latin which I write,  
But to myself I do both write and read,  
And then to judge myself I do proceed.  
Oft I have said, why do I take this vain?  
Or shall the Geteses delight in Ovid's name?  
Oft while I write my eyes to weeping set,  
And every letter with my tears is wet:  
And then my heart renews her grief again,  
While on my bosom, showers of tears do rain.  
When as my former state comes in my thought,  
Thinking to what my fortune hath me brought:  
Oft my mad hand, even angry with my vain,  
Hath cast my verses into the quick flame.  
Then since of many, these few do remain,  
Who e'er thou art, with pardon read the same.  
And Rome do thou take in good part each line,  
Though each verse be no better than my time.    


He grieves that he could not present be,  
At the triumph of conquered Germany.   
ELEGY. II.  

NOw haughty Germany (as the world hath done)  
May kneel to Caesar, being overcome.  
Now the high palaces are with garlands dight,  
And smoking incense turns the day to night.  
Now the white sacrifice by the axe is slain,  
And with his purple blood the earth doth stain.  
And both the conquering Caesars do prepare,  
To give the gods those gifts which promised were.  
And all the young men borne under his name,  
Do pray that still his progeny may reign.  
And Livia, since the gods her son did save,  
Presents those gifts which they deserve to have.  
The Matrons, and those free from bad desire,  
Who living Virgins, keep the vestal fire:  
The people, and the Senate too are glad,  
And Gentry, 'mongst whom once a name I had.  
These public joys to me here are unknown,  
And but a weak report doth hither come.  
But on these triumphs may the people look,  
And read what towns were by such captains took:  
While as the captive kings to increase the show,  
Before the plumed horses chained go.  
With countenances to their fortune changed,  
Once terrible, now from themselves estranged.  
While some desire their cause and names to know,  
One knowing little thus describes the show.  
He that in yonder purple robe doth shine,  
Was captain of the war, and next to him,  
He whose sad eyes fixed on the ground appear,  
Bore not that look when he his arms did bear▪  
That cruel man whose eyes still burning are,  
By counsel did incite them unto war.  
This fellow did false ambushments provide,  
Whose shaggy hair his ugly face doth hide.  
This fellow killed the captives which he took,  
Although the gods such offerings did not brook.  
These Mountains, Rivers, Castles, which you see,  
Where filled with blood of men which slaughtered be:  
Here Drus●s did his honour first obtain,  
Being worthy of that house from whence he came.  
Here R●●●e with blood of men was coloured over,  
While no green reeds his winding banks did cover.  
Behold how Germany with her long hair spread,  
S●ts at his feet who hath her conquered:  
And to the Roman axe her neck doth yield,  
Her hands being chained which once did bear a shield.  
 
And above these Great Caesar thou art carried,  
Through all the people in thy conquering Chariot:  
Thy subjects by loud shoots their love do show,  
While all the way with sweetest flowers they strew  
Thy temples crowned with Phoebean bays,  
The soldier singeth Io to thy praise.  
While thy four Chariot horses by the way,  
Heated with noise do often stop and stay.  
Then to the Tower and Temples favouring thee,  
Thou goest, where gifts to jove shall offered be.  
These things I can within my mind review,  
For it hath power, an absent place to show.  
Through spacious lands it can most freely stray,  
And unto heaven find the ready way.  
By help whereof the City I do see,  
That of this good I may partaker be.  
It shows the Ivory Chariots which do shine,  
So I shall be at home even for a time:  
The happy people shall be hold this sight,  
And for to see their captain take delight.  
But I must see it by imagination,  
My ears shall taste the fruit of the relation:  
For being banished to a forraingne land,  
To tell me of it here is none at hand.  
Yet he that this late triumph tells to me,  
When ere I hear him I shall joyful be:  
And on that day no sorrow I will show,  
For public joy exceeds a private woe.    


Ovid seemeth to speak here,  
To the constellations of the Bear.   
ELEGY III.  

YOu great and lesser beasts, whereof the one  
Guides Grecian ships, the other Sydonian:  
Which from your Poles view all things which you please,  
And never set beneath the western Seas:  
And while that you encompass in the sky,  
Your circle from the earth is seen on high.  
Look on these walls, o'er which as they report,  
Remus leapt over in his merry sport.  
And look with shining beams upon my wife,  
And tell me if she lead a constant life.  
Alas, why doubt I in a matter clear?  
Why do I waver between hope and fear?  
Believe as thou desirest, that all is well,  
Persuade thyself she doth in faith excel.  
And what the fixed stars cannot unfold,  
Tell to thyself and be thou thus resolved:  
That as thou thinkst on her, so she again  
Doth think on thee, and with her keeps thy name:  
And in her mind thy countenance doth review,  
And while she lives that she her love will show.  
When thy grieved mind doth on thy sorrow light,  
Doth gentle sleep forsake thy bosom quite?  
Doth thy cold bed renew thy cares afresh,  
And make thee think on me in my distress?  
Do nights seem long while sorrows inward burn,  
Do thy sides ache while thou dost often turn?  
Yet I believe that now thou dost no less,  
And that thy sorrow doth thy love express.  
Thou greev'st no less than did that Theban wife,  
To see brave Hector's body void of life,  
Drawn by Thessalian horses; yet I cannot tell,  
What passion in thy mind I wish to dwell.  
If thou art sad, than I am grieved for thee,  
That of thy sorrow I the cause should be:  
〈◊〉 gentle wife do thou lament thy losses,  
〈…〉 the time to think upon my crosses.  
Weep for my fall, to weep is some relief,  
For that doth ease and carry out our grief.  
And would thou couldst lament my death, not life,  
That so by death I might have left my wife.  
Then in my country I had died, and dead,  
Thy tears upon my corpses had then been shed.  
And thou hadst closed my eyes up with thy hand,  
While looking unto heaven they did stand:  
In an ancient Tomb my ashes had been spread,  
And had been buried where I first was bred.  
Lastly, I then had died without blame,  
But now my banishment is to me a shame.  
Yet wretched am I if thou blushest then,  
When thou art called wife to a banished man.  
Wretched am I if thou that name decline,  
Wretched am I if thou sham'st to be mine:  
Where is that time wherein thou took'st a pride,  
In Ovid's name, and to be Ovid's bride?  
Where is that time wherein these words you spoke,  
That you in being mine did pleasure take:  
Like a good wife in me you did delight,  
And love increased my value in your sight.  
And unto you so precious was I then,  
That you preferred me before all men:  
Then think it no disgrace that thou art named  
My wife, for which thou mayst be grieved, not shamed.  
When rash Capaneus in the wars did fall,  
Evadne blushed not at his fault at all.  
Though jupiter did fire with fire suppress,  
Yet Phaethon was beloved ne'er the less:  
And Semele did not lose old Cadmus' love,  
Because she perished by her suit to jove.  
Then since that I am strucken with joves' flame,  
Let not a crimson blush thy fair cheek stain.  
But with fresh courage rather me defend,  
That for a good wife I may thee commend:  
Show now thy virtue in adversity,  
The way to glory through hard ways doth lie.  
Who would talk of Hector, had Troy happy been,  
For virtue in adversity is seen.  
Typhis Art fails when no waves are seen,  
In health Apollo's Art hath no esteem.  
That virtue which before time lay concealed,  
In trouble doth appear, and is revealed.  
My fortune gives thee scope to raise thy fame,  
And by thy virtue to advance the name.  
Then use the time, for these unhappy days,  
Do open a fair way for to get praise.    


He writes to his friend in his distress,  
Whose name by signs he doth express.   
ELEGY FOUR  

O Friend, though thou a Gentleman art borne,  
Yet thou by virtue dost thy birth adorn.  
Thy father's courtesy shineth in thy mind,  
And yet this courtesy is with courage joined.  
In thee thy father's eloquence doth dwell,  
Whom none could in the Roman Court excel.  
Then since by signs I am enforced to name thee,  
I hope for praising you, you will not blame me:  
'Tis not my fault, your gifts do it proclaim,  
Be what you seem, and I deserve no blame.  
Besides, my love in verse expressed, I trust,  
Shall not harm thee since Caesar is most just:  
Our Country's father, and so mild that he,  
Suffers his name within my verse to be.  
Nor can he now forbid it if he would,  
Caesar is public, and a common good.  
jupiter sometimes lets the Poets praise  
His acts, that so their wit his deeds may raise.  
Thy case by two examples good doth seem,  
The one believed a god, the other seen:  
Or else I'll take the fault, and to it stand,  
To stay my Letter was not in thy hand.  
Nor thus by writing have I newly erred,  
With whom by words I often have conferred.  
Then friend lest thou be blamed, thou needst not fear,  
For it is I that must the envy bear.  
For if you'll not dissemble a known truth,  
I loved your father even from my youth.  
And you know how he did approve my wit,  
More than in my own judgement I thought fit.  
And oftentimes he would speak of my verse,  
And grace them while he did the same rehearse.  
Nor do I give these fair words unto thee,  
But to thy father who first loved me.  
Nor do I flatter, since my lives acts past  
I can defend, except it be the last.  
And yet my fault no wicked crime can be,  
If that my griefs be not unknown to thee.  
It was an error brought me to this state,  
Then suffer me now to forget my fate.  
Break not my wounds which yet scarce closed are,  
Since rest itself can hardly help my care.  
And though to suffer justly I am thought,  
There was no wicked purpose in my fault.  
Which Caesar knowing, suffered me to live,  
Nor to another my goods did he give.  
And this same banishment perhaps shall cease,  
When length of time his anger shall appease,  
And now I pray he would me hence remove,  
(If this request would not immodest prove:)  
To some more quiet banishment, where I  
Might live far from the cruel enemy.  
And such is Caesar's clemency that he  
Would grant it, if some asked this boon for me.  
The shores of the Euxine sea do me contain,  
Which heretofore the Axine they did name.  
The seas are tossed with a blustering wind,  
Nor can strange ships any safe harbour find.  
And round about blood eating men do live,  
Thus sea and land do equal terror give.  
Not far off stands that cursed altar where,  
All strangers to Diana offered were.  
These bloody kingdoms once King Thoas had,  
Not envied nor desired, they were so bad.  
Here the fair Ipigenia did devise,  
To please her goddess with this sacrifice:  
Whither as soon as mad Orestes came,  
Tormented with his own distracted brain;  
And Phoceus with him his companion,  
Who two in body, were in mind but one:  
To this sad altar they were bound, which stood  
Before a pair of gates embrued with blood:  
Yet in themselves no fear of death they had,  
But one friend for the others death was sad.  
The Priest with falchion drawn stood ready there,  
With a course fillet bound about his hair.  
But when she knew her brother's voice, she came,  
And did embrace him that should have been slain:  
And being glad, she left the place, and then  
She changed the rites, which Diana did contemn.  
Unto this farthest region I am come,  
Which even gods and men do likewise shun.  
These barbarous rites near my country are maintained,  
If a barbarous country may be Ovid's land:  
May those winds bear me back, which took Orestes hence,  
When Caesar is appeased for my offence.    


His grief to his friend he doth reveal,  
Whose name he on purpose doth conceal.   
ELEGY V.  

O Chiefest friend 'mongst those were loved of me,  
The only sanctuary to my misery:  
By whose sweet speech my soul revived again,  
As oil poured in, revives the watching flame.  
Who didst not fear a faithful port to open,  
And refuge to my ship with thunder broken:  
With whose revenues I supplied should be,  
If Caesar had taken my own goods from me.  
While violence of the time doth carry me,  
Thy name's almost slipped out of memory:  
Yet thou dost know't, and touched with the flame  
Of praise, dost wish thou mightst thyself proclaim:  
If thou wouldst suffer it, I thy name would give,  
And make them that they should thy fame believe.  
I fear my grateful verse should hurtful be,  
Or unseasonable honour should but hinder thee.  
Since this is safe, rejoice within thy mind,  
That I remember thee that thou wert kind:  
And as thou dost, to help with Oars strive,  
Till Caesar pleased, some gentler wind arrive.  
And still bear up my head which none can save,  
But he that plunged me in the stygian wave:  
And which is rare, be constant to the end,  
In every office of a steadfast friend.  
So may thy fortune happily proceed,  
That thou no help, but others thine may need:  
May so thy wife in goodness equal thee,  
And in thy bed may discord seldom be:  
May thy kindred's love be unto thee no other,  
Than that was showed to Castor by his brother.  
May so thy son be like thee, and in's prime,  
By his carriage may they know him to be thine:  
May thy daughter make thee a fatherlaw to be,  
And give the name of grandfather to thee.    


Though time all things doth assuage,  
Yet his sorrow more doth rage:  
So that being tired, at length,  
To bear his grief he had no strength.   
ELEGY VI.  

IN time the Ox endures the labouring plough,  
And to the crooked yoke his neck doth bow:  
In time the horse doth to the rain submit,  
And gently takes into his mouth the bit.  
In time the Africa Lions older grow,  
Nor do they still their former fierceness show.  
Time makes the grape to swell until the skin  
Can scarce contain the wine that is within.  
Time brings the seed unto an ear at last,  
And maketh apples to be sweet in taste.  
Time wears the ploughthare that doth cut the clay,  
The Adamant and Flint it wears away.  
This by degrees fierce anger doth appease,  
It lessens sorrow, and sad hearts doth ease.  
Thus length of time can every thing impair,  
Except it be the burden of my care.  
Since I was banished corn hath twice been thresht,  
The grapes have twice with naked feet been pressed:  
Yet in this time no patience can I gain,  
My mind most freshly doth her grief retain.  
Even as old Oxen often shun the yoke,  
And the horse will not be bridled that was broke:  
My present grief is worse than that before,  
Which by delay increases more and more.  
Present griefs better known than past griefs are,  
And being better known they bring more care.  
Besides 'tis something when we bring fresh strength,  
And are not tired before with griefs sad length:  
The new wrestler on the yellow sand is stronger,  
Than he whose arms are tired with striving longer:  
The unwounded Fencer better is than he,  
Within whose blood the weapons died be.  
A new built ship resists the winds fell power,  
When an old ones broken with the smallest shower.  
And we more patiently before did bear,  
Those sorrows which by time increased are:  
Believe it, I grow faint, and I am sure,  
My body will not long these griefs endure:  
My strength nor colour doth not now abide,  
And my lean skin my bones can scarcely hide.  
My body and my mind too is not well,  
Which on the thought of grief doth always dwell:  
The City and my friends both absent are,  
And wife, than whom there's none to me so dear.  
But the Scythians and a rout of Geteses here be,  
Both absent things and present trouble me:  
One hope there is which yields me some relief,  
That death will give an end unto my grief.  
The Chariot of my life was overthrown,  
When it unto the goal was almost come.  
And 'gainst me have enforced him to be wrath,  
Than whom the world none more milder hath:  
Though my offence o'ercame his clemency,  
To grant me life he never did deny.  
But near the north Pole I my life must lead,  
In the land which by the Euxine Sea doth spread.  
Had the Delphian Oracle told these things to me,  
That place had seemed then most vain to be.  
there's nothing though the Adamant it contain,  
That can be stronger than joves' sudden flame.  
there's nothing is so high or placed above  
Danger, but that it is set under jove.  
Though part of my grief did come by my one fault,  
Yet Caesar's wrath my utter ruin wrought:  
But be you now admonished by my fate,  
To please that man who equals gods in state.    


Here he doth admonish one,  
That he proceed not to do him wrong.   
ELEGY IX.  

SInce thou art content I will conceal thy name,  
And drench thy deeds in Lethaean waves again:  
And thy late tears our mercy shall o'ercome,  
So thou repent of that which thou hast done.  
But if hatred of us still thy bosom warms,  
My unhappy grief must take up forced arms:  
Though I am banished to the farthest lands,  
My anger may from thence reach out her hands.  
All right of laws great Caesar did me grant,  
My punishment is my country for to want.  
And if he live, we may hope our return,  
The Oak looks green which lightning once did burn  
If I had no power to revenge, at length  
The Muses than would lend me help and strength.  
Though in the Scythian coasts I here do lie,  
Whereas the starry signs are ever dry:  
Yet through large spacious lands my praise shall go,  
And all the world my sad complaint shall know.  
What we speak in the west, unto the East shall fly,  
And the East shall hear my Western harmony.  
Beyond both lands and seas they shall hear me,  
In a loud voice shall my lamenting be.  
Nor shall the present age thee only blame,  
But of posterity thou shalt be the shame:  
I am now disposed to fight, though I have not blown  
The trumpet, and I wish no cause were known.  
Though the Circk cease, the Bull doth cast aloof  
The sand, and beats the earth with his hard hoof,  
And now my Muse sound the retreat again,  
While that he may dissemble his own name.    


In this sweet Elegy at last,  
Ovid shows his life that's past:  
Describes his birth, and does rehearse,  
How he took delight in verse.   
ELEGY X.  
POsterity receive me with delight,  
For it is I that once of love did write:  
Sulmo my country is, where cold springs rise,  
And fifteen miles it from the City lies.  
here was I borne, and as you know right well,  
When both the Consuls by like fortune fell.  
My second daughter did two husbands take,  
And twice a grandfather of me did make.  
My father now his life even finished had,  
While nine times four years he to mine did add.  
I wept for him, as he would have done for me,  
And then my mother died presently.  
Happy and timely to the grave they went,  
Because they died before my banishment:  
And I am happy, since while they did live,  
They had no cause at all for me to grieve.  
If ought remain unto the dead but names,  
And the thin Ghost do scape the funeral flames;  
If you my parents hear some sad report,  
And that my faults are in the stygian court:  
Know then (whom to deceive is not my intent)  
Error, not wickedness caused my banishment.  
Thus much to the dead, to you I now return,  
That the actions of my life would fain discern:  
Now whiteness, when my best years spended were,  
Came on and mingled with my ancient hair.  
The horseman with Pisae in Olive crowned,  
Hath since my birth gotten prizes renowned.  
When as the Emperor's wrath doth me command,  
To To●os which by Euxine Sea doth stand.  
I need not show the cause of my sad fall,  
Which is already too well known to all.  
What should I show the treacherous intent,  
Of friends and servants, bad as banishment:  
Yet my mind scorned to yield to grief at length,  
And showed herself invincible in strength.  
And forgetting of my quiet life, I than  
To take arms in my unwonted hand began:  
In more perils I by sea and land have been,  
Than stars between the shining Poles are seen.  
At last I arrived at the Gettick coast,  
joined to Sarmatia, being with errors tossed.  
Though noise of wars do round about me rage,  
Yet by my verse I did my grief assuage.  
Though there be none that can my words receive,  
Yet thus I do the day alone deceive.  
In that I live and labour still between,  
And that the time doth not to me long seem:  
Thanks Muse to thee, for thou dost yield relief,  
Thou art the ease, and medicine of my grief.  
Thou art my guide, from Isther me dost bring,  
And placest me in the Heliconian spring.  
And hast given me in my life time a great name,  
Which after death is given still by fame.  
Envy which doth at present things repine,  
Hath never bitten any work of mine.  
Though many Poets in this age forth came,  
Yet fame was never envious to my name.  
I preferred many who of me still said  
No less, and through the world I am red:  
If Poets any truth do prophesy,  
I shall not all be earth when I do dye,  
If favour or my verse gave me this fame,  
Kind Reader I do thank the for the same.    

LIB. V.  


He writeth here unto his friend,  
To whom he doth this book commend.   
ELEGY I.  

THis book which cometh from the Gettick shoate,  
Add thou (my friend) unto the other four,  
For this is like unto the Poet's times,  
And thou shalt find no sweetness in my lines.  
My verse and fortune full of sorrow be,  
My matter with my writing doth agree:  
Being happy, in a pleasant vein I writ,  
But now alas I do repent of it.  
But when I fell, my sad chance I proclaim,  
And I myself the argument do frame:  
Even as the Swan that on the bank doth lie,  
Bewails herself when she is near to dye:  
So I being cast on the Sarmattick shore,  
My own sad funeral do her● deplore.  
If any do in wanton verse delight,  
I advise him not to read what I do write:  
Gallus and sweet Propertius fitter be,  
Whose names do flourish still in memory.  
And in their number would I might not fall,  
Alas why hath my Muse even spoke at all?  
But now to Scythia for a punishment,  
He that did write of quivered love is sent:  
Yet I have bend my friends unto my vain,  
And bid them to be mindful of my name.  
If some would know why I so much do sing  
Of grief, ascribe it to my suffering:  
We do not now compose with will and Art,  
Sorrow doth to the matter wit impart.  
How small a part of grief is in my verse,  
he's happy that his sufferings can rehearse:  
As shrubs in wood, or sands which Tiber gild,  
Or the soft blades of grass in Marsses' field  
So many miseries do we now endure,  
Of which my Muses are the only cure:  
If thou ask when Ovid ends his weeping lines,  
I answer, when I do find better times.  
She this complaint from a full spring affords,  
They are not mine but my misfortunes words:  
If to me my wife and country thou restore,  
I shall be merry as I was before.  
If Caesar's wrath to me become more mild,  
I'll give thee verses that with mirth are filled  
Yet shall my writing not jest so again,  
Though once it ran out in a wanton vain.  
I'll sing what shall by Caesar be approved,  
If that I might be from the Geteses removed:  
Till then sad matter in my books shall be,  
This pipe doth unto funerals agree.  
But thou mayst say, 'twere better for to cover  
Thy griefs, and strive in silence them to smother.  
Thou wouldst have torments, yet no groans resound,  
Thou bidst him not to weep that hath a wound.  
In that Bull which Perillus once did frame,  
Phalleris suffered them to roar and complain.  
And Priam's tears Achilles did not blame,  
But thou more cruel wouldst my tears restrain.  
When Diana Niobe did childless leave,  
She did not bid her that she should not grieve:  
'tis something by words to ease sorrows vain,  
Which maketh Progne always to complain.  
This made Paeantius in a cold cave lie,  
Wearying the Lemnian rocks even with his cry.  
Sorrow concealed doth choke and inward swell,  
Restraint to gather strength doth it compel.  
Then pardon me, or leave my works even quite,  
If they harm thee which do me much delight:  
But yet they can be hurtful unto none,  
Which only have their Author overthrown.  
I confess they are ill, who bids thee take them then?  
Or who forbids thee lay them down again:  
Yet that they may be read at last of thee,  
More barbarous than the place they cannot be.  
Rome with her Poets should not me compare,  
Though 'mongst the Sauroumates I witty were:  
Lastly I seek no glory to obtain,  
Nor that which spurs up wit, aspiring fame.  
I would not have my mind to waste with care,  
Which still break in though they forbidden are:  
This makes me write, but if you ask why I send  
These books, it is to visit you my friend.    


He bids his wife not to fear,  
To entreat Caesar that he would hear  
His case, and after be content,  
To grant him milder banishment:   
ELEGY II.  

WHen a letter comes from Pontus art thou pale?  
Why does thy hand in opening it even fail?  
Fear not, I am well, my body which I long  
Did ne'er enure to pains, now groweth strong:  
And being vexed, by use doth wax more hard,  
Or that to be sick, time is now debarred:  
And yet my mind of strength doth get no more,  
My affections are the same they were before.  
Those wounds which I thought time would close again,  
As if they were new made put me to pain:  
Time hath some power to heal a little cross,  
But greater sorrows do by time grow worse.  
Plaintiff's ten whole years that wound did feed,  
Which from the poisoned Snake did first proceed:  
Let part then of my grief his wrath appease,  
And let him ●●ke some drops from the full Seas.  
Though he take off much, yet much remain still shall,  
Part of my punishment will be like to all.  
As shells on shore, or flowers on beds of Roses,  
Or as the grains which Poppy first discloses:  
As beasts in woods, or fish in waters swims,  
Or birds do beat the gentle air with wings:  
So many are my griefs, and I as well  
The drops of the Icarian Sea may tell.  
Though I hide my dangers both by Sea and land,  
And how my life was sought by every hand:  
In the barbarous part of all the world I lie,  
Which is encompassed by the enemy.  
Since my crime is not bloody, I should be  
Conveyed hence, if thou didst care for me.  
That god on whom the Roman power doth lie,  
Hath been most mild unto his enemy.  
Why dost thou doubt? go and entreat for me:  
Than Caesar no man can more gentle be.  
What shall I do if thou dost me forsake?  
And from the broken yoke thy neck dost take,  
And whence shall I some comfort now provide?  
Since that my ship doth at no anchor ride.  
He shall see, and to the Altar I will run,  
The Altar which no hands at all doth shun.  
I absent to the absent powers will speak,  
If that a man to jove his mind may break:  
Thou Ruler of the Empire in whose safety,  
The gods do show their care of Italy:  
The glory and example of thy land,  
Great as the world which thou dost command:  
So dwell on earth, that heaven may thee desire,  
And slowly to the promised stars aspire.  
Spare me, and take some thunder back again,  
Enough of punishment will still remain.  
Thy wrath is mild, thou gantedst me to live.  
And the right of a Citizen to me didst give.  
Nor was my substance given away, and than,  
Thy edicts calls me not a banished man.  
All which I feared, cause I did thee incense,  
But thy wrath was more mild than my offence.  
To banish me to Pontus thou didst please,  
While that my ship did cut the Scythian seas.  
Thus sent, at the Euxine shores I landed strait,  
Which under the cold Pole are situate.  
Nor with the cold air here more vexed am I,  
Nor hoary frost which on the clods doth lie:  
Or that they are ignorant of the Latin tongue,  
And Grecian speech by Getick is o'ercome:  
As that I am encompassed round with war,  
So that within the walls we scarce safe are:  
Sometimes there's peace, but yet no trust therein,  
We fear the wars until the wars begin.  
So ● remove, may Charybdis me devour,  
And send me down unto the Stygian power.  
In Aetna's scorching flame i'll burn with ease,  
Or be thrown into the Leucadian Seas:  
For to be miserable I do not refuse,  
But yet a safer misery I would choose.    


To Bacchus that he would but speak  
To Caesar, and for him entreat.   
ELEGY III.  

Bacchus', this day the Poets keep to thee,  
If in the time ● not deceived be:  
Tying sweet garlands round about their head,  
〈◊〉 much in praise of wine by them is said.  
Mongst whom while I was suffered by my fate,  
I made up one, whom thou didst 〈◊〉 than hate:  
But now placed under the stars of the B●●●●  
Sarmatia holds me to the Geteses so near.  
I that did lead a life from labour free,  
In my study, or in the Muse's company:  
Now Gettick weapons l●sh on every hand,  
Having suffered much before by Sea and Land▪  
Whether fate or angry gods did this assign,  
Or that the Parcaes frowned at my birth time?  
Yet by thy power thou shouldst have helped me,  
One of the adorers of thy Ivy tree.  
Or can no god ever alter that decree,  
Which once the fatal Lady's prophecy?  
Thou by desert in heaven a seat dost hold,  
And mad'st thy way through labours manifold.  
Nor did thy country always thee contain,  
But to the Geteses and snowy Strymo● came:  
To Persis and to Ganges wand'ring stream.  
And all those waters Indians drink unclean.  
The Parcaes that the fatal threads do spin,  
To the twice borne, twice this decree did sing:  
If I by the example of the gods may go,  
A hard estate of life doth keep me low.  
And in as heavy a manner as he I fell,  
Whom jove for bragging did from Thebes expel.  
When thou heardst thy Poet was thus thunderstruck,  
For thy mother's sake some grief thou mightst have taken.  
And looking on thy Poets, mightst say thus,  
One here is wanting that much honoured us:  
Help Bacchus, and may so a double vine,  
Burden the Elm, the grapes being full of wine.  
So may the Bacchaes with the Satyrs be,  
Ready to make an amazed cry to thee.  
And may Lycurgus bones be hardly pressed,  
And Pentheus' ghost from torment never rest.  
So may thy wives clear crown within the sky  
Shine ever, and excel those stars are nigh.  
Come hither and help me in my sad estate,  
Remember I was one of thine of late.  
The gods have one society, strive to incline  
Great Caesar's power by that same power of thine.  
And you Poets that my fellow students be,  
Take wine, and after pray the same for me.  
And let some of you when Ovid's name he hears,  
Set down the cup and mingle it with tears:  
Saying when he doth all the rest espy,  
Where's Ovid once one of our company?  
Do this if my candour did deserve your love,  
Or if I ne'er did any line reprove.  
If while I reverence former men that writ,  
I am held equal not beneath in wit:  
If with Apollo's favour you would frame  
A verse, then keep among you still my name.    


This letter here doth descry,  
Ovid's grief and misery:  
And it praiseth much a friend,  
That was constant to the end.   
ELEGY FOUR  

I Ovid's letter from Euxine land  
Am come, being tired both by Sea and land:  
Who weeping said, go thou and visit Rome,  
Thy state is better than my fatal doom.  
Weeping he writ me, nor at his mouth would wet  
〈◊〉 seal which to his moist cheeks he did set.  
If any one my cause of grief would know,  
He wishes I the sum to him should show:  
He sees no leaves in woods, in fields no grass,  
Nor how the water in full streams doth pass.  
He may ask why Priam grieved for Hector's sake,  
Why Philoctetes groaned stung by a Snake:  
Would the gods would put him into such a state,  
That he should have no cause to wail his fate.  
Yet as he ought he endures his miseries,  
Nor like a wild horse from his bridle flies.  
He hopes that Caesar's wrath will not still last,  
Knowing no wickedness in his faults that's past:  
He calls to mind great Caesar's clemency,  
Which by himself he doth exemplify.  
For that he keeps his wealth, and still doth live,  
And is a Citizen; all this he doth give:  
Yet thee (if thou believest me) he doth bear,  
Always in mind and above all things dear.  
His Patroclus and Pylades thou shalt be,  
His Theseus' and Euryalus he calls thee:  
Nor doth he wish his country more to see,  
And those things which with it now absent be,  
Than to see thy face, than honey sweeter still,  
With which the Attic Bee the hive doth fill.  
Oft being sad, the time to mind he doth call,  
And grieves that death did not prevent his fall.  
When some my sudden misery did shun,  
Nor to the threshold of my house would come.  
He remembers thou most faithful didst remain,  
If any two or three a few do name.  
And though amazed he did then perceive,  
That thou as much as he himself didst grieve.  
Thy words and sighs he usually declares,  
And how his bosom was wet with thy tears.  
Of which he says he will be mindful ever,  
Whether he see day, or the earth him cover:  
He would swear even by his head and thine,  
Which as his own he esteemed at that time:  
He shall return thy love full thanks again,  
Nor shall thy Oxen plough the shore in vain:  
Defend a banished man; I ask what he  
Himself doth not ask, that hath well known thee.    


His wife's birth he doth celebrate,  
And prays she may be fortunate.   
ELEGY V.  

MY wife's birth day due honour doth expect,  
My hands do not those holy rites neglect:  
Thus Ulysses in the farthest part of all  
The world, did keep a solemn festival▪  
Let now my tongue forget past griefs again,  
Which I fear hath forgot good words to frame.  
That garment which I once a year do take,  
He wear being white and unlike to my fate.  
And a green Altar shall of turf be made,  
And a Garland round about the Altar laid:  
Boy give me incense making a fat flame,  
And wine that in the fire may hiss again.  
Birthday I wish that thou mayst still come here  
Prosperous, and unlike to mine appear:  
If any ill fate hover o'er my wife,  
Let me endure it in my wretched life:  
And let my ship bruised with a grievous storm,  
Sail on her way through safe Seas without harm.  
In her house and country let her take delight,  
'tis enough that these are taken from my sight.  
Though in her husband she unhappy be,  
Let her other part of life from clouds be free:  
May she live and love her absent husband now,  
And spend those latter years which fates allow,  
And mine too, but I fear my fate would give,  
Some infection to those years which she doth live:  
Nothing is certain, for who'd think that I,  
Should 'mongst the Geres keep this solemnity?  
Look how the wind towards Italy now drives,  
The smoke that from the Incense dotha rise:  
There is sense in the clouds, which fire doth show,  
But what it doth portend I do not know.  
When those brothers once did sacrificing stand,  
Who after were slain by each others hand:  
In two parts the black flame did upward go,  
As if it were by them commanded so.  
I remember once I said it could not be,  
And Calimachus was not believed of me;  
Now I believe, since thou wise smoke dost bend,  
For the North, and towards Italy dost ascend.  
This is the day, which if it had not been,  
No feastday had of wretched me been seen.  
This day brought virtues that most equal were,  
To those same men whose fames did shine most clear:  
Chastity and constancy with her were borne,  
But no joys began upon that day forlorn.  
But labour, cares, and sad adversity,  
And like a widow all alone to lie:  
Yet goodness by adversity is tried,  
And praised that doth in hardest times abide.  
Had Ulysses seen no troubles in his days,  
Penelope had been happy without praise:  
Evadne had laid in the earth unknown,  
If her husband conqueror from Thebes had come.  
Of Pelias daughters one is praised by fame,  
Because she married an unhappy man.  
Had another first gone on the Trojan shore,  
Of Laodameia we should hear no more:  
And that affection had been still unknown,  
If that a fair wind in my sails had blown.  
You gods and Caesar, which to you shall go,  
When he hath lived out Nestor's years below:  
Spare not me who due punishment receive,  
But her that doth unworthily now grieve.    


here he doth entreat his friend,  
Not to leave him in the end.   
ELEGY VI.  

THou that wert once the hope of my affairs,  
A refuge and a haven to my cares,  
Dost thou forget thy friend in misery?  
That pious office dost thou now lay by?  
My burden thou shouldst not have undergone,  
If in this time thou wouldst have laid it down:  
Palinurus thou in the Sea dost leave my bark,  
Fly not, but be thou faithful in thy Art,  
Autom●don in the battle never fled,  
Nor left Achilles' horse unmaniged.  
Podali●… whom he took to cure, would still,  
Give him that help he promised by his skill.  
Better not take than to thrust forth a guest,  
Let my hand on thy Altar firmly rest:  
To maintain me at first thou didst intend,  
Me and thy judgement do thou now defend.  
If that there be no new offence of mine,  
To make thee change thy faith for any crime:  
My breath which I in Scythia fetch so slow,  
I wish may first out of my body go:  
Ere any fault of mine thy breast do move,  
Or that I seem less worthy of thy love.  
We are not so by unjust fates oppressed,  
That length of misery should disturb my breast:  
Suppose it were, how often did Orestes.  
Speak froward words against his Pylades.  
Nay it is true that he did strike his friend,  
Yet in friendship he continued to the end.  
In this the wretched with the rich are even,  
That unto both much flattery is given.  
We give the way unto the blind, and those  
Who are feared because they wear the purple clothes.  
You should spare my fortune though you spare not me,  
There is no place now angry for to be:  
Choose the least sorrow which I do sustain,  
'tis more than that whereof thou dost complain.  
As Ditches hidden are with many a reed,  
Or as the Bees which do on Hybla feed:  
Or like those grains which by the Ants are found,  
And in a small path carried under ground.  
Even such a troop of sorrows compass me,  
Believe me, my complaint might greater be:  
He that is not content herewith, may pour  
Water to the Sea, or sands unto the shore.  
There fore thy unseasonable rage appease▪  
Nor leave my sails in the midst of the seas.    


His miseries he here repeats,  
With the manners and habit of the Geteses.   
ELEGY VII.  

THis letter which thou readst, from thence did come,  
Where Ister into the green sea doth run.    


To inveigh against one he doth begin,  
Who had railed first at him.   
ELEGY. VIII.  

THough I am fallen, yet I am not beneath thee,  
Than which there's nothing can inferior be.  
What makes thee wicked man, to stomach me,  
Insulting in that which may hap to thee.  
Cannot my miseries make thee soft and mild.  
For which the beasts would weep though they are wild.  
Fearest thou not fortune, on a Globe that stands,  
Nor yet that hated goddesses commands?  
Rhamnutia will on thee revenged be,  
Because thou treadest upon my misery.  
I have seen a shipwreck, and men cast away,  
Yet that the water was just ne'er did say.  
Who once denied the poor some broken meat,  
Is glad himself of begged bread th' eat.  
Fortune doth rove with an unconstanc pace,  
And ne'er remaineth certain in one place.  
Now she is merry, then sullen by and by,  
And constant in nothing but inconstancy.  
We flourished once, but soon that flower did fade,  
And this our sudden blaze of straw was made.  
Yet lest thou cruelly rejoice in vain,  
I have some hope to please the gods again.  
My fault is not wicked, though it merit blame,  
And envy is wanting to increase my shame.  
Besides, from Sun rising till he down doth go,  
The world a milder man can never show.  
And though he cannot be o'ercome by strength,  
Entreaty makes his heart grow soft at length.  
And like the gods to whom he shall go at last,  
Will pardon me, and give more than I ask.  
If you count the fair and fowl days in a year,  
You shall find the day hath oftener been clear:  
Then lest thou joy in my ruin any more,  
Think Caesar may me once again restore.  
Think that the Prince appeased, it may come to pass,  
That in the City thou mayst see my face:  
And see thee banished for a worse fault than this,  
Which is the next unto my former wish.    


He shows why his friend he dares not name,  
Or mention him for fear of blame.   
ELEGY IX.  

IF thou wouldst let thy name be in my verse,  
How often then should I thy name rehearse.  
For thou the subject of my song shouldst be,  
And each leaf of my Book should mention thee.  
My love to thee through the City should be spread,  
If banished, I am in the City read:  
The present age and latter should know thee,  
If that my writings bear antiquity.  
And the Learned Reader praise to thee should give,  
And be honoured while that I thy Poet live.  
'tis Caesar's gift that we do breath this air,  
After the gods thanks unto thee due are.  
He gave me life, and thou dost it maintain,  
That so I may enjoy that gift again.  
When some to see my ruin were dismayed,  
And some I think for company were dismayed,  
And beheld my shipwreck from some hill on land,  
And to me swimming would not reach their hand:  
Thou calld'st me half dead from the Stygian water,  
And mad'st me to remember this hereafter.  
Hard Lachesis thou gav'st too long a thread  
Of life to me, under an ill star bred:  
That my country's sight and friends I now do want,  
And thus in Scythia do make my complaint.  
Both grievous are, I have deserved from Rome  
To be banished, not to such a place to come:  
What speak I madly? I deserved to dye,  
When I offended Caesar's majesty.    


To his wife 'cause some did her defame,  
And call her wife to a banished man.   
ELEGY XI.  

THy Letter which thou send'st me doth complain,  
That some one called thee wife to a banished man:  
I grieved, not that my life is ill spoke by,  
Who now have used to suffer valiantly:  
But that I am a cause of shame to thee,  
And I think thou blushest at my misery.  
Endure, thou hast suffered more even for my sake,  
When the Prince's wrath me from thee first did take.  
he's deceived who calleth me a banished man,  
My fault a gentler punishment did attain:  
Our ship though broke is not o'erwhelmed or drowned,  
It bears up still, though it no Porte hath found.  
My life, my wealth, my right he doth not take,  
Which I deserved to lose for my faults sake.  
To ofend him was a punishment far more,  
I wish my funeral hour had gone before:  
But because no wickedness was in my fault,  
To banish me he only fittest thought.  
As to those whose numbers cannot reckoned be,  
So Caesar's Majesty was mild to me.  
Therefore my verses by right as they may,  
O Caesar, do sing forth thy praise always:  
I beseech the gods to shut up heaven's gate,  
And let thee be a god on earth in state.  
But thou that calld'st me thus a banished man,  
Increase not my sorrow with a feigned name.    


To his friend who wished him to delight  
Himself, while he did verses write.   
ELEGY XII.  

THou writ'st that I should pass the time away,  
With study lest my mind with rust decay:  
'tis hard (my friend) verse is a merry task,  
And it a quiet mind doth always ask.  
Our fate is droven by adverse wind,  
No chance more sad than mine can be assigned:  
Thou wouldst have Priam at his son's death jest,  
And Niobe dance as it were at a feast.  
Ought I to study or else to lament?  
That alone unto the farthest geats am sent.  
Give me a breast with so much strength sustained,  
Such as Anytus had, as it is famed.  
So great a weight would sink his wit at length;  
joves' anger is above all humane strength.  
That old man which Apollo wise did call,  
In such a case would not have writ at all.  
Though I forget my country and myself,  
And have no sense at all of my lost wealth:  
To do my office fear doth me forbid,  
Being compassed in with foes on every side.  
Besides, my vain grows dull being rusted o'er,  
And now it is far lesser than before,  
The field if that it be not daily tilled,  
Will nothing else but thorns and knot grass yield.  
The horse having long stood still will badly run,  
And be last of those that from the lists do come.  
The boat that hath long out of water been,  
Grows rotten, and the chinks thereof are seen.  
Then hope not I that had an humble vain,  
Can ere return like to myself again.  
My wit by my long suffering is decayed,  
And part of my former vigour now doth fade.  
Sometimes my tables in my hand I take,  
And I my words to run in feet would make.  
I can write no verses but such as you see,  
Fitting the place and their Author's misery.  
And lastly, glory gives strength to a strain.  
And love of praise, doth make a fruitful vain.  
I was allured with hope of fame before,  
While as a prosperous wind my sails out bore.  
But now in glory I take not delight,  
I had rather be unknown if that I might:  
Because that some my verse at first did like,  
Wouldst thou have me therefore proceed to write?  
M●y I speak it with your leave, you Sisters nine,  
You chiefly caused this banishment of mine.  
As the maker of the Bull in it did smart,  
So I am also punished by my Art.  
And now with verse I ought for to have done,  
And being shipwrecked I the sea should shun.  
Suppose that study I should again assay,  
This place is unfit for verses any way.  
Here are no books nor none to lend an ear,  
Nor none can understand me if they hear.  
All places here both rude and wild are found,  
And filled with the fearful Gettick sound.  
I have forgot in Latin for to speak,  
And I have learned the language of the G●●e.  
Yet to speak truth, I cannot so restrain  
My Muse, but sometime she ● verse will frame.  
I write, and then I burn those books again,  
And thus my study endeth in a flame.  
I cannot make a verse, nor do desire,  
Which makes me put my labour in the fire.  
No part of my invention to you came,  
But that which was stole or snatched from the flame.  
And would that Art too hard been burnt for me,  
Which brought the Author unto misery.    


Here he doth accuse his friend,  
Because he did no letters send.   
ELEGY XIII.  

FRom the Getticke land thy Ovid sends thee health,  
If one can send what he doth want himself:  
For my mind from my body infected is,  
Lest any part of me should torment miss.  
A pain in my side me many days hold,  
Which I had gotten by the winter's cold.  
If thou art well, than we in part are well,  
For thou didst underprop me when I fell.  
Thou gav'st the many pledges of thy heart,  
And didst defend me still in every part.  
'Tis thy fault that letters thou dost seldom send,  
Thou performedst deeds, deniest words to thy friend.  
Pray mend this fault, which if you shall correct,  
In thee alone there will be no defect.  
I do not need thy death, show love to me,  
And thence thou shalt get fame most easily.  
Nor think I exhort thee, cause that thou dost fail,  
Though the ship go with oars, we put on sail.  
He that exhorts, doth praise what thou dost do,  
And by exhorting doth his liking show.    
FINIS.