Chapter I: Book THE FIRST: An Epigram on the Amours

|We who of late were five books [001] of Naso, are now but three: this work our author has preferred to the former one. Though it should [002] now be no pleasure to thee to read us; still, the labour will be less, the two being removed.

ELEGY I.

_He says that he is compelled by Cupid to write of love instead of battles and that the Divinity insists on making each second Hexameter line into a Pentameter._

|I was preparing to write of arms and impetuous warfare in serious numbers, [003] the subject-matter being suited to the measure. [004] The second verse was of equal measure with the first; but Cupid is said to have smiled, and to have abstracted one foot. [005] "Who, cruel boy, has given thee this right over my lines? We poets are the choir of _the Muses,_ the Pierian maids, not thine. What if Venus were to seize the arms of the yellow-haired Minerva, _and_ if the yellow-haired Minerva were to wave the lighted torches _of Love?_ Who would approve of Ceres holding her reign in the woods on the mountain ridges, _or_ of the fields being tilled under the control of the quivered Virgin? Who would arm Phoebus, graceful with his locks, with the sharp spear, while Mars is striking the Aonian lyre? Thy sway, O youth, is great, and far too potent; why, in thy ambition, dost thou attempt a new task? Is that which is everywhere, thine? Is Heliconian Tempe thine? Is even his own lyre hardly safe now for Phoebus? When the new page has made a good beginning in the first line, at that moment does he diminish my energies. [008] I have no subject fitted for _these_ lighter numbers, whether youth, or girl with her flowing locks arranged."

_Thus_ was I complaining; when, at once, his quiver loosened, [009] he selected the arrows made for my destruction; and he stoutly bent upon his knee the curving bow, and said, "Poet, receive a subject on which to sing." Ah wretched me! unerring arrows did that youth possess. I burn; and in my heart, _hitherto_ disengaged, does Love hold sway. _Henceforth_, in six feet [010] let my work commence; in five let it close. Farewell, ye ruthless wars, together with your numbers. My Muse, [011] to eleven feet destined to be attuned, bind with the myrtle of the sea shore thy temples encircled with their yellow _locks_.

ELEGY II.

_He says, that being taken captive by Love, he allows Cupid to lead him away in triumph._

|Why shall I say it is, that my bed appears thus hard to me, and that my clothes rest not upon the couch? The night, too, long as it is, have I passed without sleep; and why do the weary bones of my restless body ache? But were I assailed by any flame, I think I should be sensible of it. Or does _Love_ come unawares and cunningly attack in silent ambush? 'Tis so; his little arrows have pierced my heart; and cruel Love is tormenting the breast he has seized.

Am I to yield? Or by struggling _against it_, am I to increase this sudden flame? I must yield; the burden becomes light which is borne contentedly. I have seen the flames increase when agitated by waving the torch; and when no one shook it, I have seen them die away. The galled bulls suffer more blows while at first they refuse the yoke, than those whom experience of the plough avails. The horse which is unbroken bruises his mouth with the hard curb; the one that is acquainted with arms is less sensible of the bit. Love goads more sharply and much more cruelly those who struggle, than those who agree to endure his servitude. Lo! I confess it; I am thy new-made prey, O Cupid; I am extending my conquered hands for thy commands. No war _between us_ is needed; I entreat for peace and for pardon; and no credit shall I be to thee, unarmed, conquered by thy arms. Bind thy locks with myrtle; yoke thy mother's doves; thy stepfather [014] himself will give a chariot which becomes thee. And in the chariot _so_ given thee, thou shalt stand, and with thy skill shalt guide the birds _so_ yoked [015], while the people shout "_Io_ triumphe" [016] aloud. The captured youths and the captive fair shall be led _in triumph_; this procession shall be a splendid triumph for thee. I myself, a recent capture, shall bear my wound _so_ lately made; and with the feelings of a captive shall I endure thy recent chains. Soundness of Understanding shall-be led along with hands bound behind his back, Shame as well, and whatever _beside_ is an enemy to the camp of Love. All things shall stand in awe of thee: towards thee the throng, stretching forth its hands, shall sing "Io triumphe" with loud voice. Caresses shall be thy attendants, Error too, and Madness, a troop that ever follows on thy side. With these for thy soldiers, thou dost overcome both men and Gods; take away from thee these advantages, _and_ thou wilt be helpless. From highest Olympus thy joyous mother will applaud thee in thy triumph, and will sprinkle her roses falling on thy face. While gems bedeck thy wings, _and_ gems thy hair; in thy golden chariot shalt thou go, resplendent thyself with gold. [017]

Then too, (if well I know thee) wilt thou influence not a few; then too, as thou passest by, wilt thou inflict many a wound. Thy arrows (even shouldst thou thyself desire it) cannot be at rest. A glowing flame _ever_ injures by the propinquity of its heat. Just such was Bacchus when the Gangetic land [018] was subdued; thou art the burden of the birds; he was _that_ of the tigers. Therefore, since I may be some portion of thy hallowed triumph, forbear, Conqueror, to expend thy strength on me. Look at the prospering arms of thy kinsman Cæsar; [019] with the same hand with which he conquers does he shield the conquered. [020]

ELEGY III.

_He entreats his mistress to return his affection, and shows that he is deserving of her favour._

|I ask for what is just; let the fair who has so lately captivated me, either love me, or let her give me a cause why I should always love her. Alas! too much have I desired; only let her allow herself to be loved; _and then_ Cytherea will have listened to my prayers so numerous. Accept one who will be your servant through lengthened years; accept one who knows how to love with constant attachment. If the great names of ancient ancestors do not recommend me, or if the Equestrian founder of my family [021] _fails to do so_; and _if_ no field of mine is renewed by ploughs innumerable, and each of my parents [022] with frugal spirit limits my expenditure; still Phoebus and his nine companions and the discoverer of the vine may do so; and Love _besides_, who presents me as a gift to you; a fidelity, too that will yield to none, manners above reproach, ingenuousness without guile, and modesty _ever_ able to blush.

A thousand damsels have no charms for me; I am no rover in affection; [023] you will for ever be my choice, if you do but believe me. May it prove my lot to live with you for years as many as the threads of the Sister _Destinies_ shall grant me, and to die with you sorrowing _for me_. Grant me yourself as a delightful theme for my verse; worthy of their matter my lines will flow. Io, frightened by her horns, and she whom the adulterer deceived in _the shape of_ the bird [024] of the stream have a name in song; she, too, who, borne over the seas upon the fictitious bull, held fast the bending horns with her virgin hand. We, too, together shall be celebrated throughout all the world; and my name shall ever be united with thy own.

ELEGY IV.

_He instructs his mistress what conduct to-observe in the presence of her husband at a feast to which he has been invited._

_Your_ husband is about to come to the same banquet [026] as ourselves: I pray that it may be the last meal [027] for this husband of yours. And am I then only as a guest to look upon the fair so much beloved? And shall there be another, to take pleasure in being touched _by you?_ And will you, conveniently placed below, be keeping warm the bosom of another? [028] _And_ shall he, when he pleases, be placing his hand upon your neck? Cease to be surprised that the beauteous damsel of Atrax [029] excited the two-formed men to combat when the wine was placed _on table_. No wood is my home, and my limbs adhere not to _those of_ a horse; _yet_ I seem to be hardly able to withhold my hands from you. Learn, however, what must be done by you; and do not give my injunctions to be borne away by the Eastern gales, nor on the warm winds of the South.

Come before your husband; and yet, I do not see what can be done, if you do come first; but still, do come first. [031] When he presses the couch, with modest air you will be going as his companion, to recline by him; _then_ secretly touch my foot. [032] Keep your eye on me, and my nods and the expression of my features; apprehend my secret signs, [033] and yourself return them. Without utterance will I give expression to words by my eyebrows; [034] you shall read words traced by my fingers, words _traced_ in the wine. [035] When the delights of our dalliance recur to your thoughts, press your blooming cheeks [036] with your beauteous finger. If there shall be anything, of which you may be making complaint about me silently in your mind, let your delicate hand reach from the extremity of your ear. When, my life, I shall either do or say aught which shall give you delight, let your ring be continually twisted on your fingers. [037] Take hold of the table with your hand, in the way in which those who are in prayer [038] take hold _of the altar_, when you shall be wishing many an evil for your husband, who so well deserves it. _The cup_ which he has mixed for you, if you are discreet, [039] bid him drink himself; _then_, in a low voice, do you ask the servant [041] for what _wine_ you wish. I will at once take the cup which you have put down; [042] and where you have sipped, on that side will I drink. If, perchance, he shall give you any morsels, of which he has tasted beforehand, reject them _thus_ touched by his mouth. [043] And do not allow him to press your neck, by putting his arms around it; nor recline your gentle head on his unsightly breast. [044] Let not your bosom, or your breasts so close at hand, [045] admit his fingers; _and_ especially allow him to give you no kisses. If you do give him _any_ kisses, I shall be discovered to be your lover, and I shall say, "Those are my own," and shall be laying hands upon him.

Still, this I shall _be able to_ see; but what the clothing carefully conceals, the same will be a cause for me of apprehension full of doubts. Touch not his thigh with yours, and cross not legs with him, and do not unite your delicate foot with his uncouth leg. To my misery, I am apprehensive of many a thing, because many a thing have I done in my wantonness; and I myself am tormented, through fear of my own precedent.

Oft _by joining hands_ beneath the cloth, [048] have my mistress and I forestalled our hurried delights. This, I _am sure_, you will not do _for him_; but that you may not _even_ be supposed to do so, take away the conscious covering [049] from your bosom. Bid your husband drink incessantly, but let there be no kisses with your entreaties; and while he is drinking, if you can, add wine by stealth. [050] If he shall be soundly laid asleep with dozing and wine, circumstances and opportunity will give us _fitting_ counsel. When you shall rise to go home, we all will rise as well; _and_ remember that you walk in the middle rank of the throng. In that rank you will either find me, or be found _by me_; _and_ whatever part of me you can there touch, _mind and_ touch.

Ah wretched me! I have given advice to be good for _but_ a few hours; _then_, at the bidding of night, I am separated from my mistress. At night her husband will lock her in; I, sad with my gushing tears, will follow her as far as I may, even to her obdurate door. _And_ now will he be snatching a kiss; _and_ now not kisses only will he snatch; you will be compelled to grant him that, which by stealth you grant to me. But grant him this (you can do so) with a bad grace, and like one acting by compulsion; let no caresses be heard; and let Venus prove inauspicious. If my wishes avail, I trust, too, that he will find no satisfaction therein; but if otherwise, still at least let it have no delights for you. But, however, whatever luck may attend upon the night, assure me in positive language to-morrow, that you did not dally with him.

ELEGY V.

_The beauties of Corinna._

|Twas summer time, [051] and the day had passed the hour of noon; _when_ I threw my limbs to be refreshed on the middle of the couch. A part of the window [053] was thrown open, the other part shut; the light was such as the woods are wont to have; just as the twilight glimmers, when Phoebus is retreating; or _as_ when the night has gone, and still the day is not risen. Such light should be given to the bashful fair, in which coy modesty may hope to have concealment.

Behold! Corinna [054] came, clothed in a tunic [055] hanging loose, her flowing hair [056] covering her white neck.

Beauteous Semiramis [057] is said to have entered her chamber, and Lais, [058] beloved by many a hero. I drew aside the tunic; in its thinness [059] it was but a small impediment; still, to be covered with the tunic did she strive; and, as she struggled as though she was not desirous to conquer, without difficulty was she overcome, through betrayal of herself. When, her clothing laid aside, she stood before my eyes, throughout her whole body nowhere was there a blemish. What shoulders, what arms I _both_ saw and touched! The contour of her breast, how formed was it to be pressed! How smooth her stomach beneath her faultless bosom! How full and how beauteous her sides! How plump with youthfulness the thigh! _But_ why enlarge on every point? Nothing did I behold not worthy of praise; and I pressed her person even to my own.

The rest, who knows not? Wearied, we both reclined. May such a midday often prove my lot.

ELEGY VI.

_He entreats the porter to open to him the door of his mistress's house._

Porter, fastened (_and_ how unworthily!) with the cruel fetter, [060] throw open the stubborn door with its turning hinge. What I ask, is but a trifle; let the door, half-opened, admit me sideways with its narrow passage. Protracted Love has made my body thin for such an emergency, and by diminishing my bulk, has rendered my limbs _quite_ supple.'Tis he who shows me how to go softly amid the watches of the keepers; [062] 'tis he directs my feet that meet no harm. But, at one time, I used to be afraid of the night and imaginary ghosts; _and_ I used to be surprised if any one was about to go in the dark: Cupid, with his graceful mother, laughed, so that I could hear him, and he softly said, "Thou too wilt become bold." Without delay, love came _upon me_; then, I feared not spectres that flit by night, [063] or hands uplifted for my destruction.

I only fear you, _thus_ too tardy; you alone do I court; you hold the lightning by which you can effect my destruction. Look (and that you may see, loosen the obdurate bars) how the door has been made wet with my tears. At all events, 'twas I, who, when, your garment laid aside, you stood ready for the whip, [064] spoke in your behalf to your mistress as you were trembling. Does then, (O shocking thought!) the credit which once prevailed in your behalf, now fail to prevail in my own favour? Give a return for my kindness; you may _now_ be grateful. As you wish, [065] the hours of the night pass on; [066] from the door-post [067] strike away the bar. Strike it away then may you one day be liberated from your long fetters and may the water of the slave [068] be not for ever drunk of by you. Hard-hearted porter! you hear me, as I implore in vain; the door, supported by its hard oaken _posts_, is still unmoved. Let the protection of a closed gate be of value to cities when besieged; _but_ why, in the midst of peace are you dreading warfare? What would you do to an enemy, who thus shut out the lover? The hours of the night pass on; from the door-post strike away the bar.

I am not come attended with soldiers and with arms; I should be alone, if ruthless Love were not here. Him, even if I should desire it, I can never send away; first should I be even severed from my limbs. Love then, and a little wine about my temples, [069] are with me, and the chaplet falling from off my anointed hair. Who is to dread arms _such_ as these? Who may not go out to face them? The hours of the night pass on; from the door-post strike away the bar.

Are you delaying? or does sleep (who but ill befriends the lover) give to the winds my words, as they are repelled from your ear? But, I remember, when formerly I used to avoid you, you were awake, with the stars of the midnight. Perhaps, too, your own mistress is now asleep with you; alas! how much superior _then_ is your fate to my own! And since 'tis so, pass on to me, ye cruel chains. The hours of the night pass on; from the door-post strike away the bar.

Am I mistaken? Or did the door-posts creak with the turning hinge, and did the shaken door give the jarring signal? Yes, I am mistaken; the door was shaken by the boisterous wind. Ah me! how far away has that gust borne my hopes! Boreas, if well thou dost keep in mind the ravished Orithyia, come hither, and with thy blast beat open this relentless door. 'Tis silence throughout all the City; damp with the glassy dew, the hours of the night pass on; from the door-post strike away the bar.

Otherwise I, myself, [073] now better prepared _than you_, with my sword, and with the fire which I am holding in my torch, [074] will scale this arrogant abode. Night, and lore, and wine, [075] are persuasive of no moderation; the first is without shame, Bacchus and Love _are without fear_.

I have expended every method; neither by entreaties nor by threats have I moved you, O _man, even_ more deaf yourself than your door. It becomes you not to watch the threshold of the beauteous fair; of the anxieties of the prison, [076] are you more deserving. And now Lucifer is moving his wheels beset with rime; and the bird is arousing [077] wretched _mortals_ to their work. But, chaplet taken from my locks joyous no longer, be you the livelong night upon this obdurate threshold. You, when in the morning she shall see you _thus_ exposed, will be a witness of my time thus thrown away. _Porter_, whatever your disposition, good bye, and _one day_ experience the pangs of him who is now departing; sluggish one, and worthless in not admitting the lover, fare you well. And you, ye cruel door-posts, with your stubborn threshold; and _you, ye_ doors, equally slaves, [078] hard-hearted blocks of wood, farewell.

ELEGY VII.

_He has beaten his mistress, and endeavours to regain her favour._

|Put my hands in manacles (they are deserving of chains), if any friend of mine is present, until all my frenzy has departed. For frenzy has raised my rash arms against my mistress; hurt by my frantic hand, the fair is weeping. In such case could I have done an injury even to my dear parents, or have given unmerciful blows to even the hallowed Gods. Why; did not Ajax, too, [080] the owner of the sevenfold shield, slaughter the flocks that he had caught along the extended plains? And did Orestes, the guilty avenger of his father, the punisher of his mother, dare to ask for weapons against the mystic Goddesses? [081]

And could I then tear her tresses so well arranged; and were not her displaced locks unbecoming to my mistress? Even thus was she beauteous; in such guise they say that the daughter of Schoeneus [082] pursued the wild beasts of Mænalus with her bow. 'Twere more fitting for her face to be pale from the impress of kisses, and for her neck to bear the marks of the toying teeth.

In such guise did the Cretan damsel [083] weep, that the South winds, in their headlong flight, had borne away both the promises and the sails of the forsworn Theseus. Thus, _too_, chaste Minerva, did Cassandra [084] fall in thy temple, except that her locks were bound with the fillet.

Who did not say to me, "You madman!" who did not say _to me_, "You barbarian!" She herself _said_ not a word; her tongue was restrained by timid apprehensions. But still her silent features pronounced my censure; by her tears _and_ by her silent lips did she convict me.

First could I wish that my arms had fallen from off my shoulders; to better purpose could I have parted with a portion of myself. To my own disadvantage had I the strength of a madman; and for my own punishment did I stoutly exert my strength. What do I want with you, ye ministers of death and criminality? Impious hands, submit to the chains, your due. Should I not have been punished had I struck the humblest Roman [085] of the multitude? _And_ shall I have a greater privilege against my mistress? The son of Tydeus has left the worst instance of crime: he was the first to strike a Goddess, [086] I, the second. But less guilty was he; by me, she, whom I asserted to be loved _by me_, was injured; against an enemy the son of Tydeus was infuriate.

Come now, conqueror, prepare your boastful triumphs; bind your locks with laurel, and pay your vows to Jove, and let the multitude, the train, that escorts your chariot, shout aloud, "Io _triumphe!_ by _this_ valiant man has the fair been conquered!" Let the captive, in her sadness, go before with dishevelled locks, pale all over, if her hurt cheeks [087] may allow.

In short, if, after the manner of a swelling torrent, I was impelled, and if impetuous anger did make me its prey; would it not have been enough to have shouted aloud at the trembling girl, and not to have thundered out my threats far too severe? Or else, to my own disgrace, to have torn her tunic from its upper edge down to the middle? Her girdle should, at the middle [089] have come to its aid. But now, in the hardness of my heart, I could dare, seizing her hair on her forehead, to mark her free-born cheeks [090] with my nails. _There_ she stood, amazed, with her features pale and bloodless, just as the marble is cut in the Parian mountains. [091] I saw her fainting limbs, and her palpitating members; just as when the breeze waves the foliage of the poplars; just as the slender reed quivers with the gentle Zephyr; or, as when the surface of the waves is skimmed by the warm South wind. Her tears, too, so long repressed, flowed down her face, just as the water flows from the snow when heaped up.

Then, for the first time, did I begin to be sensible that I was guilty; the tears which she was shedding were _as_ my own blood. Yet, thrice was I ready, suppliantly to throw myself before her feet; thrice did she repel my dreaded hands. But, _dearest,_ do not you hesitate, (_for_ revenge will lessen your grief) at once to attack my face with your nails. Spare not my eyes, nor _yet_ my hair; let anger nerve your hands, weak though they may be.

And that tokens so shocking of my criminality may no longer exist, put your locks, arranged anew, in their proper order. [092]

ELEGY VIII.

_He curses a certain procuress, whom he overhears instructing his mistress in the arts of a courtesan._

|There is a certain--(whoever wishes to make acquaintance with a procuress, let him listen.)--There is a certain old hag, Dipsas by name. From fact does she derive [094] her name; never in a sober state does she behold the mother of the swarthy Memnon with her horses of roseate hue. She knows well the magic arts, and the charms of Ææa, [095] and by her skill she turns back to its source [096] the flowing stream. She knows right well what the herbs, what the thrums impelled around the whirling spinning-wheel, [097] _and_ what the venomous exudation [098] from the prurient mare can effect. When she wills it, the clouds are overspread throughout all the sky; when she wills it, the day is bright with a clear atmosphere.

I have beheld (if I may be believed) the stars dripping with blood: the face of the moon was empurpled [099] with gore. I believe that she, transformed, [101] was flying amid the shades of night, and that her hag's carcase was covered with feathers. _This_ I believe, and such is the report. A double pupil, too, [102] sparkles in her eyes, and light proceeds from a twofold eyeball. Forth from the ancient sepulchres she calls our great grandsires, and their grandsires [103] as well; and with her long incantations she cleaves the solid ground. She has made it her occupation to violate the chaste bed; and besides, her tongue is not "wanting in guilty advocacy. Chance made me the witness of her language; in such words was she giving her advice; the twofold doors [105] concealed me.

"You understand, my life, how greatly you yesterday pleased a wealthy young man; _for_ he stopped short, and stood gazing for some time on your face. And whom do you not please? Your beauty is inferior to no one's. _But_ woe is me! your person has not a fitting dress. I _only_ wish you were as well off, as you are distinguished for beauty; if you became rich, I should not be poor. The adverse star of Mars in opposition [106] was unfortunate for you; Mars has gone; now Venus is befriending you with her planet. See now how favourable she is on her approach; a rich lover is sighing for you, and he makes it his care [107] what are your requirements. He has good looks, too, that may compare with your own; if he did not wish to have you at a price, he were worthy himself to be purchased."

_On this the damsel_ blushed: [108] "Blushing," _said the hag_, "suits a faircomplexion indeed; but if you _only_ pretend it, 'tis an advantage; _if_ real, it is wont to be injurious. When, your eyes cast down, [109] you are looking full upon your bosom, each man must _only_ be looked at in the proportion in which he offers. Possibly the sluttish Sabine females, [111] when Tati us was king, were unwilling to be accommodating to more men _than one_. Now-a-days, Mars employs the bravery _of our men_ in foreign warfare; [112] but Venus holds sway in the City of her own Æneas. Enjoy yourselves, my pretty ones; she is chaste, whom nobody has courted; or else, if coyness does not prevent her, she herself is the wooer. Dispel these frowns [113] as well, which you are carrying upon your lofty brow; with those frowns will numerous failings be removed. Penelope used to try [114] the strength of the young men upon the bow; the bow that tested _the strength_ of their sides, was made of horn. Age glides stealthily on, and beguiles us as it flies; just as the swift river glides onward with its flowing waters. Brass grows bright by use; good clothes require to be worn; uninhabited buildings grow white with nasty mould. Unless you entertain _lovers_, beauty _soon_ waxes old, with no one to enjoy it; and _even_ one or two _lovers_ are not sufficiently profitable. From many _of them_, gain is more sure, and not so difficult to be got. An abundant prey falls to the hoary wolves out of a _whole_ flock.

"See now! what does this poet of yours make you a present of besides his last verses? You will read many thousands of them by _this_ new lover. The God himself of poets, graceful in his mantle [116] adorned with gold, strikes the harmonious strings of the gilded lyre. He that shall make you presents, let him be to you greater than great Homer; believe me, it is a noble thing to give. And, if there shall be any one redeemed at a price for his person [117], do not you despise him; the fault of having the foot rubbed with chalk [118] is a mere trifle. Neither let the old-fashioned wax busts about the halls [119] take you in; pack off with your forefathers, you needy lover. Nay more, should [120] one, because he is good-looking, ask for a night without a present; _why_, let him first solicit his own admirer for something to present to you.

"Be less exacting of presents, while you are laying your nets, _for fear_ lest they should escape you: _once_ caught, tease them at your own pleasure. Pretended affection, too, is not a bad thing; let him fancy he is loved; but have you a care that this affection is not all for nothing. Often refuse your favours; sometimes pretend a head-ache; and sometimes there will be Isis [121] to afford a pretext. _But_ soon admit him again; that he may acquire no habits of endurance, and that his love, so often repulsed, may not begin to flag. Let your door be deaf to him who entreats, open to him who brings. Let the lover that is admitted, hear the remarks of him who is excluded. And, as though you were the first injured, sometimes get in a passion with him when injured _by you_. His censure, when counterbalanced by your censure, [127] may wear away. But do you never afford a long duration for anger; prolonged anger frequently produces hatred. Moreover, let your eyes learn, at discretion, to shed tears; and let this cause or that cause your cheeks to be wet. And do not, if you deceive any one, hesitate to be guilty of perjury; Venus lends _but_ a deaf hearing [128] to deceived _lovers_.

"Let a male servant and a crafty handmaid [129] be trained up to their parts; who may instruct him what may be conveniently purchased for you. And let them ask but little for themselves; if they ask a little of many, [130] very soon, great will be the heap from the gleanings. [131] Let your sister, and your mother, and your nurse as well, fleece your admirer. A booty is soon made, that is sought by many hands. When occasions for asking for presents shall fail you, call attention with a cake [132] to your birthday Take care that no one loves you in security, without a rival; love is not very lasting if you remove _all_ rivalry. Let him perceive the traces of _another_ person on the couch; all your neck, too, discoloured by the marks of toying. Especially let him see the presents, which another has sent. If he gives you nothing, the Sacred Street [133] must be talked about. When you have received many things, but yet he has not given you every thing, be continually asking him to lend you something, for you never to return. Let your tongue aid you, and let it conceal your thoughts; [134] caress him, and prove his ruin. [135] Beneath the luscious honey cursed poisons lie concealed. If you observe these precepts, tried by me throughout a long experience; and if the winds and the breezes do not bear away my words; often will you bless me while I live; often will you pray, when I am dead, that in quietude my bones may repose.".

She was in the middle of her speech, when my shadow betrayed me; but my hands with difficulty refrained from tearing her grey scanty locks, and her eyes bleared with wine, and her wrinkled cheeks. May the Gods grant you both no home, [136] and a needy old age; prolonged winters as well, and everlasting thirst.

ELEGY IX.

_He tells Atticus that like the soldier, the lover ought to be on his guard and that Love is a species of warfare._

|Every lover is a soldier, and Cupid has a camp of his own; believe me, Atticus, [138] every lover is a soldier. The age which is fitted for war, is suited to love as well. For an old man to be a soldier, is shocking; amorousness in an old man is shocking. The years which [139] generals require in the valiant soldier, the same does the charming fair require in her husband. Both _soldier and lover_ pass sleepless nights; both rest upon the ground. The one watches at the door of his mistress; but the other _at that_ of his general. [140] Long marches are the duty of the soldier; send the fair _far_ away, _and_ the lover will boldly follow her, without a limit _to his endurance_. Over opposing mountains will he go, and rivers swollen with rains; the accumulating snows will he pace.

About to plough the waves, he will not reproach the stormy East winds; nor will he watch for Constellations favourable for scudding over the waves. Who, except either the soldier or the lover, will submit to both the chill of the night, and the snows mingled with the heavy showers? The one is sent as a spy against the hostile foe; the other keeps his eye on his rival, as though upon an enemy. The one lays siege to stubborn cities, the other to the threshold of his obdurate mistress: the one bursts open gates, and the other, doors. [142] Full oft has it answered to attack the enemy when buried in sleep; and to slaughter an unarmed multitude with armed hand. Thus did the fierce troops of the Thracian Rhesus [143] fall; and you, captured steeds, forsook your lord. Full oft do lovers take advantage of the sleep of husbands, and brandish their arms against the slumbering foe. To escape the troops of the sentinels, and the bands of the patrol, is the part _both_ of the soldier, and of the lover always in misery. Mars is wayward, and Venus is uncertain; both the conquered rise again, and those fall whom you would say could never possibly be prostrate.

Whoever, then, has pronounced Love _mere_ slothfulness, let him cease _to love_: [144] to the discerning mind does Love belong. The mighty Achilles is inflamed by the captive Briseis. Trojans, while you may, destroy the Argive resources. Hector used to go to battle _fresh_ from the embraces of Andromache; and it was his wife who placed his helmet on his head. The son of Atreus, the first of _all_ the chiefs, on beholding the daughter of Priam, is said to have been smitten with the dishevelled locks of the raving _prophetess_. [146] Mars, too, when caught, was sensible of the chains wrought at the forge; [147] there was no story better known than his, in all the heavens.

I myself was of slothful habit, and born for a lazy inactivity; [148] the couch and the shade [149] had enervated my mind. Attentions to the charming fair gave a fillip to me, in my indolence; and _Love_ commanded me to serve [150] in his camp. Hence it is that thou seest me active, and waging the warfare by night. Let him who wishes not to become slothful, fall in love.

ELEGY X.

_He tells his mistress that she ought not to require presents as a return for her love._

|Such as she, who, borne away from the Eurotas, [151] in the Phrygian ships, was the cause of warfare to her two husbands; such as Leda was, whom her crafty paramour, concealed in his white feathers, deceived under _the form of_ a fictitious bird; such as Amymone [152] used to wander in the parched _fields of_ Argos, when the urn was pressing the locks on the top of her head; such were you; and I was in dread of both the eagle and the bull with respect to you, and whatever _form besides_ Love has created of the mighty Jove.

Now, all fears are gone, and the disease of my mind is cured; and now no longer does that form _of yours_ rivet my eyes. Do you inquire why I am changed? _It is_, because you require presents. This reason does not allow of your pleasing me. So long as you were disinterested, I was in love with your mind together with your person; now, _in my estimation_ your appearance is affected by this blemish on your disposition. Love is both a child and naked; he has years without sordidness, and _he wears_ no clothes, that he may be without concealment. Why do you require the son of Venus to be prostituted at a price? He has no fold in his dress, [153] in which to conceal that price. Neither Venus is suited for cruel arms, nor yet the son of Venus; it befits not such unwarlike Divinities to serve for pay. The courtesan stands for hire to any one at a certain price; and with her submissive body, she seeks for wretched pelf. Still, she curses the tyranny of the avaricious procurer; [154] and she does by compulsion [155] what you are doing of your own free will.

Take, as an example, the cattle, devoid of reason; it were a shocking thing for there to be a finer feeling in the brutes. The mare asks no gift of the horse, nor the cow of the bull; the ram does not woo the ewe, induced by presents. Woman alone takes pleasure in spoils torn from the man; she alone lets out her nights; alone is she on sale, to be hired at a price. She sells, too, _joys_ that delight them both, _and_ which both covet; and she makes it a _matter_ of pay, at what price she herself is to be gratified. Those joys, which are so equally sweet to both, why does the one sell, and _why_ the other buy them? Why must that delight prove a loss to me, to you a gain, for which the female and the male combine with kindred impulse? Witnesses hired dishonestly, [156] sell their perjuries; the chest [157] of the commissioned judge [158] is disgracefully open _for the bribe_.

'Tis a dishonourable thing to defend the wretched criminals with a tongue that is purchased; [159] 'tis a disgrace for a tribunal to make great acquisitions. 'Tis a disgrace for a woman to increase her patrimonial possessions by the profits of her embraces, and to prostitute her beauty for lucre. Thanks are _justly_ due for things obtained without purchase; there are no thanks for an intercourse disgracefully bartered. He who hires, [160] pays all _his due_; the price _once_ paid, he no longer remains a debtor for your acquiescence. Cease, ye beauties, to bargain for pay for your favours. Sordid gains bring no good results. It was not worth her while to bargain for the Sabine bracelets, [161] in order that the arms should crush the head of the sacred maiden. The son pierced [163] with the sword those entrails from which he had sprung, and a simple necklace [164] was the cause of the punishment.

But yet it is not unbecoming for a present to be asked of the wealthy man; he has something to give to her who does ask for a present. Pluck the grapes that hang from the loaded vines; let the fruitful soil of Alcinous [165] afford the apples. Let the needy man proffer duty, zeal, and fidelity; what each one possesses, let him bestow it all upon his mistress. My endowments, too, are in my lines to shig the praises of those fair who deserve them; she, whom I choose, becomes celebrated through my skill. Vestments will rend, gems and gold will spoil; the fame which poesy confers is everlasting.

_Still_ I do not detest giving and revolt at it, but at being asked for a price. Cease to demand it, _and_ I will give you that which I refuse you while you ask.

ELEGY XI.

_He begs Nape to deliver his letter to her mistress, and commences by praising her neatness and dexterity, and the interest she has hitherto manifested in his behalf._

|Nape, skilled at binding the straggling locks [166] and arranging them in order, and not deserving to be reckoned [167] among the female slaves; _known_, too, _by experience_ to be successful in the contrivances of the stealthy night, and clever in giving the signals; [168] you who have so oft entreated Corinna, when hesitating, to come to me; who have been found so often faithful by me in my difficulties; take and carry these tablets, [169] so well-filled, [170] this morning to your mistress; and by your diligence dispel _all_ impeding delay. Neither veins of flint, nor hard iron is in your breast, nor have you a simplicity greater than that of your _clever_ class. There is no doubt that you, too, have experienced the bow of Cupid; in my behalf defend the banner of your service. If _Corinna_ asks what I am doing, you will say that I am living in expectation of the night. The wax inscribed with my persuasive hand is carrying the rest.

While I am speaking, time is flying; opportunely give her my tablets, when she is at leisure; but still, make her read them at once. I bid you watch her eyes and her forehead as she reads; from the silent features we may know the future. And _be there_ no delay; when she has read them through, request her to write a long answer; [172] I hate it, when the bleached wax is empty, with a margin on every side. Let her write the lines close as they run, and let the letters traced in the extreme margin long detain my eyes.

_But_ what need is there for wearying her fingers with holding the pen? [175] Let the whole of her letter contain this one word, "Come." Then, I should not delay to crown my victorious tablets with laurel, nor to place them in the midst of the temple of Venus. Beneath them I would inscribe "Naso consecrates these faithful servants of his to Venus; but lately, you were pieces of worthless maple." [176]

ELEGY XII.

_He curses the tablets which he has sent, because his mistress has written an answer on them, in which she refuses to grant his request._

|Lament my misfortune; my tablets have returned to me with sad intelligence. Her unlucky letter announces that she cannot _be seen_ to-day. There is something in omens; just now, when she was preparing to go, Napè stopped short, having struck her foot [178] against the threshold. When sent out of doors another time, remember to pass the threshold more carefully, and _like_ a sober woman lift your foot high _enough._

Away with you; obdurate tablets, fatal bits of board; and you wax, as well, crammed with the lines of denial. I doubt the Corsican bee [180] has sent you collected from the blossom of the tall hemlock, beneath its abominable honey.

Besides, you were red, as though you had been thoroughly dyed in vermilion; [181] such a colour is exactly that of blood. Useless bits of board, thrown out in the street, _there_ may you lie; and may the weight of the wheel crush you, as it passes along. I could even prove that he who formed you to shape from the tree, had not the hands of innocence. That tree surely has afforded a gibbet for some wretched neck, _and_ has supplied the dreadful crosses [182] for the executioner. It has given a disgusting shelter to the screeching owls; in its branches it has borne the eggs of the vulture and of the screech-owl. [183] In my madness, have I entrusted my courtship to these, and have I given soft words to be _thus_ carried to my mistress?

These tablets would more becomingly hold the prosy summons, [184] which some judge [185] pronounces, with his sour face.

ELEGY XIII.

_He entreats the morning not to hasten on with its usual speed._

|Now over the Ocean does she come from her aged husband _Tithonus_, who, with her yellow locks, brings on the day with her frosty chariot. Whither, Aurora, art thou hastening? Stay; _and_ then may the yearly bird, with its wonted death, honour the shades [189] of thy Memnon, its parent. Now do I delight to recline in the soft arms of my mistress; now, if ever, is she deliciously united to my side. Now, too, slumbers are sound, and now the moisture is cooling the birds, too, are sweetly waronng with their little throats. Whither art thou hastening, hated by the men, detested by the fair? Check thy dewy reins with thy rosy hand. [190]

Before thy rising, the sailor better observes his Constellations; and he wanders not in ignorance, in the midst of the waves. On thy approach, the wayfarer arises, weary though he be; the soldier lays upon his arms the hands used to bear them. Thou art the first to look upon the tillers of the fields laden with the two-pronged fork; thou art the first to summon the lagging oxen to the crooked yoke. 'Tis thou who dost deprive boys of their sleep, and dost hand them over to their masters; [192], that their tender hands may suffer the cruel stripes. [193] 'Tis thou, too, who dost send the man before the vestibule of the attorney, [194] when about to become bail; [195] that he may submit to the great risks of a single word.

Thou art no source of pleasure to the pleader, [198] nor yet to the counsel; for fresh combats each is forced to rise. Thou, when the labours of the females might have had a pause, dost recal the hand of the worker in wool to its task.

All _this_ I could endure; but who could allow the fair to arise _thus_ early, except _the man_ who has no mistress of his own? How often have I wished that night would not make way for thee; and that the stars when put to flight would not fly from thy countenance. Many a time have I wished that either the wind would break thy chariot to pieces, or that thy steed would fall, overtaken by _some_ dense cloud. Remorseless one, whither dost thou hasten? Inasmuch as thy son was black, such was the colour of his mother's heart. What if [199] she had not once burned with passion for Cephalus? Or does she fancy that her escapade was not known? I _only_ wish it was allowed Tithonus to tell of thee; there would not be a more coarse tale in _all_ the heavens. While thou art avoiding him, because he is chilled by length of years, thou dost rise early in the morning from _the bed of_ the old man to thy odious chariot. But if thou wast _only_ holding some Cephalus embraced in thy arms; _then_ wouldst thou be crying out, "Run slowly on, ye horses of the night."

Why should I be punished in my affections, if thy husband does decay through _length of_ years? Wast thou married to the old fellow by my contrivance? See how many hours of sleep the Moon gave [201] to the youth beloved by _her_; and yet her beauty is not inferior to thine. The parent of the Gods himself, that he might not see thee so often, joined two nights together [202] for _the attainment of_ his desires.

I had finished my reproaches; you might be sure she heard them; _for_ she blushed'. However, no later than usual did the day arise.

ELEGY XIV.

_His mistress having been in the habit of dyeing her hair with noxious compositions, she has nearly lost it, becoming almost bald. He reminds her of his former advice, and entreats her to abstain from the practice, on which there may be a chance of her recovering it._

|I always used to say; "Do leave off doctoring your hair." [203] _And_ now you have no hair _left_, that you can be dyeing. But, if you had let it alone, what was more plenteous than it? It used to reach down your sides, so far as ever [204] they extend. And besides: Was it not so fine, that you were afraid to dress [205] it; just like the veils [206] which the swarthy Seres use? Or _like_ the thread which the spider draws out with her slender legs, when she fastens her light work beneath the neglected beam? And yet its colour was not black, nor yet was it golden, but though it was neither, it was a mixture of them both. A _colour_, such as the tall cedar has in the moist vallies of craggy Ida, when its bark is stript off.

Besides, it was _quite_ tractable, and falling into a thousand ringlets; and it was the cause of no trouble to you. Neither the bodkin, [208] nor the tooth of the comb _ever_ tore it; your tire woman always had a whole skin. Many a time was it dressed before my eyes; and _yet_, never did the bodkin [210] seized make wounds in her arms. Many a time too, in the morning, her locks not yet arranged, was she lying on the purple couch, with her face half upturned. Then even, unadorned, was she beauteous; as when the Thracian Bacchanal, in her weariness, throws herself carelessly upon the green grass. Still, fine as it was, and just like down, what evils, alas! did her tortured hair endure! How patiently did it submit itself to the iron and the fire; [211] that the curls might become crisp with their twisting circlets. "'Tis a shame," I used to cry, "'tis a shame, to be burning that hair; naturally it is becoming; do, cruel one, be merciful to your own head. Away with all violence from it; it is not _hair_ that deserves to be scorched; the very locks instruct [212] the bodkins when applied."

Those beauteous locks are gone; which Apollo might have longed for, _and_ which Bacchus might have wished to be on his own head. With them I might compare those, which naked Dione is painted [213] as once having held up with her dripping hand. Why are you complaining that hair so badly treated is gone? Why, silly girl, do you lay down the mirror [214] with disconsolate hand? You are not seen to advantage by yourself with eyes accustomed _to your former self._ For you to please, you ought to be forgetful of your _former_ self.

No enchanted herbs of a rival [215] have done you this injury; no treacherous hag has been washing you with Itæmonian water. The effects, too, of no disease have injured you; (far away be all _bad_ omens; [216]) nor has an envious tongue thinned your abundant locks;'twas your own self who gave the prepared poison to your head. Now Germany will be sending [217] for you her captured locks; by the favour of a conquered race you will be adorned. Ah! how many a time will you have to blush, as any one admires your hair; and _then_ you will say, "Now I am receiving praise for a bought commodity! In place of myself, he is now bepraising some Sygambrian girl [218] unknown to me; still, I remember _the time_ when that glory was my own."

Wretch that I am! with difficulty does she restrain her tears; and she covers her face with her hand, having her delicate cheeks suffused with blushes. She is venturing to look at her former locks, _placed_ in her bosom; a treasure, alas! not fitted for that spot. [219]

Calm your feelings with your features; the loss may still be repaired. Before long, you will become beauteous with your natural hair.

ELEGY XV.

_He tells the envious that the fame of Poets is immortal, and that theirs is not a life devoted to idleness._

|Why, gnawing Envy, dost thou blame me for years of slothfulness; and _why_ dost thou call poesy the employment of an idle mind? _Thou sayest_ that I do not, after the manner of my ancestors, while vigorous years allow me, seek the prizes of warfare covered with dust; that I do not make myself acquainted with the prosy law, and that I have not let my tongue for hire [221] in the disagreeable courts of justice.

The pursuits of which thou art speaking, are perishable; by me, everlasting fame is sought; that to all time I may be celebrated throughout the whole world. The Mæonian bard [222] will live, so long as Tenedos and Ida [223] shall stand; so long as Simois shall roll down to the sea his rapid waves. The Ascræan, too, [224] will live, so long as the grape shall swell with its juices; [225] so long as the corn shall fall, reaped by the curving sickle. The son of Battus [226] will to all time be sung throughout the whole world; although he is not powerful in genius, in his skill he shows his might. No mischance will _ever_ come to the _tragic_ buskin [227] of Sophocles; with the Sun and Moon Aratus [228] will ever exist. So long as the deceitful slave, [229] the harsh father, the roguish procuress, and the cozening courtesan shall endure, Menander will exist. Ennius, [230] without any _art_, and Accius, [231] with his spirited language, have a name that will perish with no lapse of time.

What age is to be forgetful of Varro, [232] and the first ship _that sailed_, and of the golden fleece sought by the chief, the son of Æson? Then will the verses perish of the sublime Lucretius, [233] when the same day shall give the world to destruction. Tityrus, [234] and the harvests, and the arms of Æneas, will be read of, so long as thou, Rome, [235] shalt be the ruler of the conquered earth. So long as the flames and the bow shall be the arms of Cupid, thy numbers, polished Tibullus, [236] will be repeated. Gallus [237] _will be known_ by the West, and Gallus _known_ by the East, [238] and with Gallus will his Lycoris be known. Though flint-stones, then, _and_ though the share of the enduring plough perish by lapse of time, _yet_ poetry is exempt from death. Let monarchs and the triumphs of monarchs yield to poesy, and let the wealthy shores of the golden Tagus [239] yield.

Let the vulgar throng admire worthless things; let the yellow-haired Apollo supply for me cups filled from the Castalian stream; let me bear, too, on my locks the myrtle that dreads the cold; and let me often be read by the anxious lover. Envy feeds upon the living; after death it is at rest, when his own reward protects each according to his merit. Still then, when the closing fire [240] shall have consumed me, shall I live on; and a great portion of myself will _ever_ be surviving.