Part 22

Ad Macrum, quod de amoribus scribat.

To tragic verse while thou Achilles train'st, And new sworn soldiers' maiden arms retain'st, We, Macer, sit in Venus' slothful shade, And tender love hath great things hateful made. Often at length, my wench depart I bid, She in my lap sits still as erst she did. I said, "It irks me:" half to weeping framed, "Ay me!" she cries, "to love why art ashamed?" Then wreathes about my neck her winding arms, And thousand kisses gives, that work my harms: 10 I yield, and back my wit from battles bring, Domestic acts, and mine own wars to sing. Yet tragedies, and sceptres fill'd my lines, But though I apt were for such high designs, Love laughËd at my cloak, and buskins painted, And rule, so soon with private hands acquainted. My mistress' deity also drew me fro it, And love triumpheth o'er his buskined poet. What lawful is, or we profess love's art: (Alas, my precepts turn myself to smart!) 20 We write, or what Penelope sends Ulysses, Or Phillis' tears that her Demophoon misses. What thankless Jason, Macareus, and Paris, Phedra, and Hippolyte may read, my care is. And what poor Dido, with her drawn sword sharp, Doth say, with her that loved the Aonian harp. As soon as from strange lands Sabinus came, And writings did from divers places frame, White-cheeked Penelope knew Ulysses' sign, The step-dame read Hippolytus' lustless line. 30 ∆neas to Elisa answer gives, And Phillis hath to read, if now she lives. Jason's sad letter doth Hypsipyle greet; Sappho her vowed harp lays at Phoebus' feet. Nor of thee, Macer, that resound'st forth arms, Is golden love hid in Mars' mid alarms. There Paris is, and Helen's crimes record, With Laodamia, mate to her dead lord, Unless I err to these thou more incline, Than wars, and from thy tents wilt come to mine. 40

FOOTNOTES:

Not in Isham copy or ed. A.

The original has "Quam cito de toto rediit meus orbe Sabinus," &c.

ELEGIA XIX.

Ad rivalem cui uxor curÊ non erat.

Fool, if to keep thy wife thou hast no need, Keep her from me, my more desire to breed; We scorn things lawful; stolen sweets we affect; Cruel is he that loves whom none protect. Let us, both lovers, hope and fear alike, And may repulse place for our wishes strike. What should I do with fortune that ne'er fails me? Nothing I love that at all times avails me. Wily Corinna saw this blemish in me, And craftily knows by what means to win me. 10 Ah, often, that her hale head ached, she lying, Willed me, whose slow feet sought delay, be flying! Ah, oft, how much she might, she feigned offence; And, doing wrong, made show of innocence. So, having vexed, she nourished my warm fire, And was again most apt to my desire. To please me, what fair terms and sweet words has she! Great gods! what kisses, and how many ga' she! Thou also that late took'st mine eyes away, Oft cozen me, oft, being wooed, say nay; 20 And on thy threshold let me lie dispread, Suff'ring much cold by hoary night's frost bred. So shall my love continue many years; This doth delight me, this my courage cheers. Fat love, and too much fulsome, me annoys, Even as sweet meat a glutted stomach cloys. In brazen tower had not Dan‰e dwelt, A mother's joy by Jove she had not felt. While Juno Iˆ keeps, when horns she wore, Jove liked her better than he did before. 30 Who covets lawful things takes leaves from woods, And drinks stolen waters in surrounding floods. Her lover let her mock that long will reign: Ay me, let not my warnings cause my pain! Whatever haps, by sufferance harm is done, What flies I follow, what follows me I shun. But thou, of thy fair damsel too secure, Begin to shut thy house at evening sure. Search at the door who knocks oft in the dark, In night's deep silence why the ban-dogs bark. 40 Whither the subtle maid lines brings and carries, Why she alone in empty bed oft tarries. Let this care sometimes bite thee to the quick, That to deceits it may me forward prick. To steal sands from the shore he loves a-life That can affect a foolish wittol's wife. Now I forewarn, unless to keep her stronger Thou dost begin, she shall be mine no longer. Long have I borne much, hoping time would beat thee To guard her well, that well I might entreat thee. 50 Thou suffer'st what no husband can endure, But of my love it will an end procure. Shall I, poor soul, be never interdicted? Nor never with night's sharp revenge afflicted. In sleeping shall I fearless draw my breath? Wilt nothing do, why I should wish thy death? Can I but loathe a husband grown a bawd? By thy default thou dost our joys defraud. Some other seek that may in patience strive with thee, To pleasure me, forbid me to corrive with thee. 60

FOOTNOTES:

Not in Isham copy or ed. A.

"Et faciat voto rara repulsa locum."

Old eds, "haole"--The construction is not plain without a reference to the original:--

"Ah, quotiens sani capitis mentita dolores, Cunctantem tardo jussit abire pede."

So Dyce for "gave" of the old eds.

The reading of the original is "Saepe time insidias."

Dogs tied up on account of their fierceness.

Old eds. "Whether" (a common form of "whither").

"Tabellas."

As dearly as life.

Old eds. "effect."

"Multa diuque tuli; speravi saepe futurum Cum bene servasses ut bene verba darem."

"Me tibi rivalem si juvat esse, veta."

P. OVIDII MASONIS AMORUM.

LIBER TERTIUS.

ELEGIA I.

Deliberatio poetÊ, utrum elegos pergat scribere an potius tragoedias.

An old wood stands, uncut of long years' space, 'Tis credible some godhead haunts the place. In midst thereof a stone-paved sacred spring, Where round about small birds most sweetly sing. Here while I walk, hid close in shady grove, To find what work my muse might move, I strove, Elegia came with hairs perfumËd sweet, And one, I think, was longer, of her feet: A decent form, thin robe, a lover's look, By her foot's blemish greater grace she took. 10 Then with huge steps came violent Tragedy, Stern was her front, her cloak on ground did lie. Her left hand held abroad a regal sceptre, The Lydian buskin fit paces kept her. And first she said, "When will thy love be spent, O poet careless of thy argument? Wine-bibbing banquets tell thy naughtiness, Each cross-way's corner doth as much express. Oft some points at the prophet passing by, And, 'This is he whom fierce love burns,' they cry. 20 A laughing-stock thou art to all the city; While without shame thou sing'st thy lewdness' ditty. 'Tis time to move great things in lofty style, Long hast thou loitered; greater works compile. The subject hides thy wit; men's acts resound; This thou wilt say to be a worthy ground. Thy muse hath played what may mild girls content, And by those numbers is thy first youth spent. Now give the Roman Tragedy a name, To fill my laws thy wanton spirit frame." 30 This said, she moved her buskins gaily varnished, And seven times shook her head with thick locks garnished. The other smiled (I wot), with wanton eyes: Err I, or myrtle in her right hand lies? "With lofty words stout Tragedy," she said, "Why tread'st me down? art thou aye gravely play'd? Thou deign'st unequal lines should thee rehearse; Thou fight'st against me using mine own verse. Thy lofty style with mine I not compare, Small doors unfitting for large houses are. 40 Light am I, and with me, my care, light Love; Not stronger am I, than the thing I move. Venus without me should be rustical: This goddess' company doth to me befal. What gate thy stately words cannot unlock, My flattering speeches soon wide open knock. And I deserve more than thou canst in verity, By suffering much not borne by thy severity. By me Corinna learns, cozening her guard, To get the door with little noise unbarred; 50 And slipped from bed, clothed in a loose nightgown, To move her feet unheard in setting down. Ah, how oft on hard doors hung I engraved, From no man's reading fearing to be saved! But, till the keeper went forth, I forget not, The maid to hide me in her bosom let not. What gift with me was on her birthday sent, But cruelly by her was drowned and rent. First of thy mind the happy seeds I knew; Thou hast my gift, which she would from thee sue." 60 She left; I said, "You both I must beseech, To empty air may go my fearful speech. With sceptres and high buskins th' one would dress me, So through the world should bright renown express me. The other gives my love a conquering name; Come, therefore, and to long verse shorter frame. Grant, Tragedy, thy poet time's least tittle: Thy labour ever lasts; she asks but little." She gave me leave; soft loves, in time make haste; Some greater work will urge me on at last. 70

FOOTNOTES: