Ovid's Amours.
Book 1
Poem ep
The epigram is not here translated.
Poem 1
Elegy I: By Dryden
For mighty wars I thought to tune my lute,
And make my measures to my subject suit.
Six feet for ev'ry verse the muse design'd,
But Cupid laughing, when he saw my mind,
From ev'ry second verse a foot purloin'd.
"Who gave thee, boy, this arbitrary sway,
On subjects, not thy own, commands to lay,
Who Phoebus only, and his laws obey ?
'Tis more absurd, than if the queen of love
Should in Minerva's arms to battle move;
Or manly Pallas from that queen should take
Her torch, and o'er the dying lover shake.
In fields as well may Cynthia sow the corn,
Or Ceres wind in woods the bugle-horn;
As well may Phoebus quit the trembling string,
For sword and shield; and Mars may learn to sing.
Already thy dominions are too large;
Be not ambitious of a foreign charge.
If thou wilt reign o'er all, and ev'ry where,
The god of music for his harp may fear.
Thus when with soaring wings I seek renown,
Thou pluck'st my pinions, and I flutter down.
Could I on such mean thoughts my muse employ,
I want a mistress, or a blooming boy."
Thus I complain'd; his bow the stripling bent,
And chose an arrow fit for his intent.
The shaft his purpose fatally pursues;
" Now, poet, there's a subject for thy muse,"
He said: (too well, alas, he knows his trade,)
For in my breast a mortal wound he made.
Far hence ye proud Hexameters remove,
My verse is pac'd, and tramell'd into love.
With myrtle wreaths my thoughtful brows enclose,
While in unequal verse I sing my woes.
Poem 2
Elegy II: By Creech
Ah me! why am I so uneasy grown?
Ah! why so restless on my bed of down?
Why do I wish to sleep, but wish in vain?
Why am I all the tedious night in pain?
What cause is this, that ease, that rest denies?
And why my words break forth in gentle sighs?
Sure I should know if love had fix'd his dart;
Or creeps he softly in with treacherous art,
And then grows tyrant, there and wounds the heart?
'Tis so, the shaft sticks deep, and galls my breast;
'Tis tyrant love, that robs my thoughts of rest!
Well, shall I tamely yield, or must I fight?
I'll yield; 'tis patience makes a burden light:
A shaken torch grows fierce, and sparks arise;
But, if unmov'd, the fire looks pale and dies.
The hard-mouth'd horse smarts for his fierce disdain
The gentle's ridden with a looser rein.
Love smooths the gentle, but the fierce reclaims;
He fires their breasts, and fills their souls with flames.
I yield; great Love, my former crimes forgive,
Forget my rebel thoughts, and let me live;
No need of force: I willingly obey,
And now unarm'd, shall prove no glorious prey.
Go take thy mother's doves, thy myrtle crown,
And for thy chariot, Mars shall lend his own;
There thou shalt sit in thy triumphant pride,
And, whilst glad shouts resound on ev'ry side,
Thy gentle hands thy mother's doves shall guide.
And there to make thy glorious pomp and state,
A train of sighing youths, and maids shall wait,
Yet none complain of an unhappy fate.
There newly conquer'd I, still fresh my wound,
Will march along, my hands with myrtle bound;
There modesty, with veils thrown o'er her face,
Now doubly blushing at her own disgrace;
There sober thoughts, and whatso'er disdains
Love's rules, shall feel his power, and bear his chains:
Then all shall fear, all bow, yet all rejoice;
"Io triumphe" be the public voice.
Thy constant guards, soft fancy, hope and fear,
Anger, and soft caresses shall be there:
By these strong guards are men and gods o'erthrown;
These conquer for thee, Love, and these alone,
Thy mother, from the sky thy pomp shall grace,
And scatter sweetest roses in thy face:
There glorious Love shall ride, profusely dress'd
With all the richest jewels of the east:
Rich gems thy quiver, and thy wheels infold,
And hide the poorness of the baser gold.
Then thou shalt conquer many, then.thy darts
Shall scatter thousand wounds on tender hearts:
Thy shafts themselves will fly, thy neighb'ring fire
Will catch mens' breasts, and kindle warm desire.
Thus conqu'ring Bacchus looks in Indian groves,
He drawn by tigers, thou by murm'ring doves.
Well then, since I too can increase thy train,
Spend not thy force on me, and rage in vain;
Look on thy kinsman Caesar's happy slaves,
The same victorious arm that conquers, saves.
Poem 3
Elegy III: To His Mistress. By Charles Hopkins.
Be just, dear maid, an equal passion prove,
Or show me cause why I should ever love.
I do not at your cold disdain repine,
Nor ask your love, do you but suffer mine.
I dare not aim at more exalted bliss,
And Venus will bestow her vot'ry this.
Take hin, who will for endless ages serve:
Take him whose faithful flame will never swerve
Though no illustrious names my race adorn;
Who am but of equestrian order born;
Though a few ploughs serve my paternal fields,
Nor my small table many dishes yields;
Yet Bacchus, Phoebus, and the tuneful nine,
Are all my friends, and to my side incline,
And love's great god, at last, will make me thine.
Heav'n knows, dear maid, I love no other fair;
In thee lives all my love, my heav'n lies there.
Oh! may I by indulgent Fate's decree,
With thee lead all my life, and die with thee.
Thy beauties yield me my transporting theme;
And while I celebrate thy charming name,
My verse shall be as sacred as my flame.
Jove's sev'ral rapes, his injur'd Io's wrongs,
Are made immortal in his poet's songs.
Verse still reveals where Leda's flames began,
Rais'd by the secret godhead in the swan,
The story of the rape Europa bore,
Shall last while winds shall rage, or waters roar.
Your name shall live like theirs, while verse endures,
And mine be ever writ, and read with yours.
Poem 4
Elegy IV: To His Mistress, whose husband is invited to a feast with him. The poet instructed her how to behave herself in his company. By Dryden.
Your husband will be with us at the treat,
May that be the last supper he shall eat.
And am poor I, a guest invited there,
Only to see, while he may touch the fair?
To see you kiss, and hug your nauseous lord,
While his lewd hand descends below the board?
No wonder that Hippodamia's charms,
At such a sight, the Centaurs urg'd to arms:
That in a rage, they threw their cups aside,
Assail'd the bridegroom, and would force the bride.
I am not half a horse, (I would I were :)
Yet hardly can from you my hands forbear.
Take, then, my counsel; which observ'd, may be,
Of some importance both to you and me.
Be sure to come before your man be there,
There's nothing can be done, but come howe'er.
Sit next him, (that belongs to decency;)
But tread upon my foot in passing by.
Read in my looks what silently they speak,
And slily, with your eyes, your answer make.
My lifted eye-brow shall declare my pain,
My right hand to his fellow shall complain;
And on the back a letter shall design,
Beside a note that shall be writ in wine.
Whene'er you think upon our last embrace,
With your fore-finger gently touch your face.
If any word of mine offend my dear,
Pull with your hand the velvet of your ear;
If you are pleas'd with what I do or say,
Handle your rings, or vith your fingers play.
As suppliants use at altars, hold the board,
Whene'er you wish the devil may take your lord.
When he fills for you, never touch the cup,
But bid th' officious cuckold drink it up:
The waiter on those services employ;
Drink you, and I will snatch it from the boy,
Watching the part where your sweet mouth hath been,
And thence, with eager lips, will suck it in.
If he, with clownish manners, thinks it fit
To taste, and offer you the nasty bit,
Reject his greasy kindness, and restore
Th' unsav'ry morsel he had chew'd before.
Nor let his arms embrace your neck, nor rest
Your tender cheek upon his hairy breast;
Let not his hand within your bosom stray,
And rudely with your pretty bubbies play.
But, above all, let him no kiss receive,
That's an offence I never can forgive;
Do not, oh! do not that sweet mouth resign,
Lest I rise up in arms, and cry 'tis mine.
I shall thrust in betwixt, and void of fear
The manifest adult'rer will appear.
These things are plain to sight, but more I doubt
What you conceal beneath your petticoat;
Take not his leg between your tender thighs,
Nor with your hand provoke my foe to rise.
How many love inventions I deplore,
Which I myself have practis'd all before !
How oft have I been forc'd the robe to lift
In company; to make a homely shift
For a bare bout, ill huddled o'er in haste,
While o'er my side the fair her mantle cast!
You to your husband shall not be so kind,
But lest you should, your mantle leave behind.
Encourage him to tope, but kiss him not,
Nor mix one drop of water in his pot.
If he be fuddled well, and snores apace,
Then we may take advice from time and place.
When all depart, while compliments are loud,
Be sure to mix among the thickest crowd;
There I will be, and there we cannot miss,
Perhaps to grubble, or at least to kiss.
Alas, what length of labor I employ,
Just to secure a short and transient joy!
For night must part us, and when night is come
Tuck'd underneath his arm, he leads you home.
He locks you in, I follow to the door,
His fortune envy, and my own deplore;
He kisses you, he more than kisses too,
Th' outrageous cuckold thinks it all his due.
But add not to his joy by your consent,
And let it not be given, but only lent;
Return no kiss, nor move in any sort,
Make it a dull and a malignant sport.
Had I my wish he should no pleasure take,
But slubber o'er your bus'ness for my sake;
And whate'er fortune shall this night befall,
Coax me to morrow by forswearing all.
Poem 5
Elegy V: By Duke
'Twas noon when I, scorch'd with the double fire
Of the hot sun and my more hot desire,
Stretch'd on my downy couch at ease was laid,
Big with expectance of the lovely maid.
The curtains but half drawn, a light let in
Such as in shades of thickest groves is seen,
Such as remains when the sun flies away,
Or when night's gone, and yet it is not day.
This light to modest maids must be allow'd,
Where shame may hope its guilty head to shroud.
And now my love Corinna did appear,
Loose on her neck fell her divided hair;
Loose as her flowing gown, that wanton'd in the air.
In such a garb, with such a grace and mien,
To her rich bed came the Assyrian queen;
So Lais looked when all the youth of Greece
With adoration did her charms confess.
Her envious gown to pull away I tried,
But she resisted still, and still denied;
But so resisted that she seem'd to be
Unwilling to obtain the victory;
So I at last an easy conquest had,
Whilst my fair combatant herself betray'd.
But when she naked stood before my eyes,
Gods, with what charms did she my soul surprise!
What snowy arms did I both see and feel!
With what rich globes did her soft bosom swell!
Plump as ripe clusters rose each glowing breast,
Courting the hand, and suing to be press'd!
What a smooth plain was on her belly spread,
Where thousand little loves and graces play'd!
What thighs! what legs ! but why strive I in vain,
Each limb, each grace, each feature to explain
One beauty did through her whole body shine;
I saw, admir'd, and press'd it close to mine
The rest who knows not? Thus entranc'd we lay,
Till in each other's arms we died away;
0 give me such a noon, ye gods, to ev'ry day!
Poem 6
Elegy VI: To His Mistress's Porter, to open the gate to him. By an unknown hand.
Slave, if thou worthy of thy chains wouldst be,
A grateful office do to love and me.
Unbar the wicket, and a friend admit;
The trouble is not much, nor favour great.
I ask thee not to spread the foldings wide;
Keep it at jar,-I'll softly by thee slide.
I to love's labours have so long been us'd,
My shapes are to a lath's lank size reduc'd.
The smallest crevice will my bus'ness do,
It cannot be so straight but I'll slip through.
Love guides me when by night I walk the street,
And when I grope my way directs my feet.
By night I was a youth afraid to walk,
Frighted by children and old nurses' talk;
I wonder'd men could wander in the gloom,
And kept, for fear of spirits, close at home.
Love and his mother, when they knew my care,
Cried, "Fool, thou shalt not long these phantoms fear."
Nor fear'd I long, for love my heart possess'd;
Those visions vanish'd, and my terrors ceas'd:
Nor ghosts nor scourers did I dread, but stroll'd
The streets a-nights, and grew in peril bold.
Thee only do I fear, and trembling stand
To wait the motions of thy tardy hand:
With soft request thy succour I implore,
Nor sue to Jove nor dread the Thund'rer more.
See how the gate is moistened with my tears!
What marks of my impatient love it bears!
Remember, when thou for the lash wert stripp'd
Who sav'd thee, at whose suit thou wert not whipp'd.
Did not I sooth thy angry lady's mind,
And make thy peace? Be thou to me as kind.
Think what soft things to move her soul I said,
And let them in a lover's favour plead.
But ah! the tender things that made her kind,
Work no such wonders on thy cruel mind.
Wouldst thou my friendly offices repay,
Fate throws a fair occasion in thy way;
Unlock the gate, the morning will not stay.
Unlock the gate; and as thou'rt kind to me,
So may thy gentle lady prove to thee;
May she to loose thy hateful chains incline,
And stead of water, be thy portion wine.
But what avail my soothing words? Thy ear
Is deaf, inhuman! to my moving pray'r.
Your gates with posts of pond'rous oak are barr'd,
As if your house was for a siege prepar'd;
Why all this fence? what foe have you to fear?
And why in peace do you provide for war?
Thus rudely if your lady's friends you treat,
What usage must her foes expect to meet?
Unlock the gate,-the morning will not stay;
Unlock the gate, and give my love its way.
Or is it sloth or is it sleep that brings,
This let to love, and pinions down his wings!
Why else do I in vain repeat my prayer,
Is it, thou dost not, or thou wilt not hear?
When first I waited at thy gate, and thought
To 'scape thy care, I was at midnight caught.
With over-dilligence thou then look'st out,
To spy what lover was upon the scout.
These are wild guesses, thou'rt perhaps employ'd
More sweetly, and enjoy'st what I enjoy'd.
And while I'm waiting with impatience here,
Thy envied fortune's with the faithless fair.
Oh, for thy pleasure, give me all thy pains,
Let us change chances, and be mine thy chains.
Unlock the gate, the morning will not stay,
Unlock the gate, and kindness past repay.
Hark: or I dream, or on the hinge I hear
The wicket turn, or bolts unloosen'd jar.
I dream, indeed, the bolts as they were laid,
Stand fix'd: the noise was by my fancy made.
But all, alas! is hush'd, I hear no sound,
All in the silence of the night is drown'd.
Here, hopeless of admittance, I attend,
While on my head the pearly dews descend.
Unlock the gate, the morning will not stay,
Unlock the gate, I will no longer pray,
But force by sword and fire my readier way.
What need of fire or sword? myself alone,
More pow'rful, than or sword or fire am grown.
Around your heads shall flaming torches fly,
And Jove the house shall burn, as well as I.
Night, love, and wine encourage and inflame:
These triumph over fear, and that o'er shame.
All ways I've tried, but all successless prove,
Nor threats can fright thee, nor entreaties move;
Deaf to my pray'rs as to my tears thou'rt blind,
Thy gate is less obdurate than thy mind.
But see, the ruddy morn begins to rise,
And paints with rosy streaks the eastern skies,
While crowing cocks the lab'rer's sloth revile,
And summon wretches to their daily toil.
Throw then, fond man, thy fragrant chaplet by,
And let it at thy lady's threshold lie.
When in the morn thy faded flow'rs she spies,
Kind thoughts of me may in her bosom rise,
Perhaps she may resent her porter's crime,
And grieve that here so ill I spent my time.
Against me though thou shut'st thy lady's gate,
I cannot one, that serves my mistress, hate.
You both who did against my hopes rebel,
Ah, porter; and ah, cruel gate, farewell.
Poem 7
Elegy VII: To His Mistress, whom he had beaten. By Henry Cromwell.
Come, if ye're friends, and let these hands be bound,
Which could with impious rage a mistress wound:
What more did Ajax in his fury do,
When all the sacred grazing herd he slew?
Or he184 who spared not her who gave him breath?
So ill the son reveng'd his father's death!
Then I had broke the most religious ties,
Both to my parents and the deities:
I tore (0 heav'ns!) her finely braided hair,
How charming then look'd the disorder'd fair.
So Atalanta in her chaise is drawn,
Where the Arcadian beasts her empire own:
So Ariadne, left upon the shore,
Does all alone her lost estate deplore.
Who would not then have rail'd and talk'd aloud
(Which to the helpless sex might be allowed.)
She only did upbraid me with her eye,
Whose speaking tears did want of words supply.
0, that some merciful superior pow'r
Had struck me lame before that fatal hour,
And not have suffer'd me to pierce my heart
So deeply, in the best and tend'rest part;
To make a lady that subjection own,
Which is not to the meanest Roman known.
'Twas Diomede, who first a goddess struck,
I from his hand that curs'd example took;
But he was far less criminal than I,
I was a lover, he an enemy.
March like a conqueror in triumph now,
With laurel wreaths encompassing your brow,
And render to the mighty gods your vow:
So, as you pass, th' attending gazing crowd,
By their applause shall speak your courage loud:
Let your sad captive in the front appear,
With streaming cheeks, and with dishevell'd hair.
Such lips were form'd for kinder words than these,
Wounds made by lovers' furious ecstasies.
Though like a torrent I was hurried on,
A slave to passion which I could not shun,
I might have only pierc'd her tender ear
With threatening language, such as virgins fear.
Fear having chill'd the current of her blood,
She pale as Parian marble statue stood;
Tears, which suspense did for a while restrain,
Gush'd forth, and down her cheeks the deluge ran.
As when the sun does by a powerful beam
Dissolve the frost, it runs into a stream.
The lamentable objects struck me dead,
And tears of blood to quench those tears I shed;
Thrice at her feet the prostrate suppliant fell,
And thrice did she repulse the criminal.
What would I not your anger to abate,
Redeem your favour, or remove your hate?
To your revenge no means or method spare;
Revenge, alas! is easy to the fair.
Poem 8
Elegy VIII: He Curses a Bawd, for going about to debauch his mistress. By Sir Charles Sedley.
There is a bawd renown'd in Venus' wars,
Aud dreadful still with honorable scars;
Her youth and beauty, craft and guile supply,
Sworn foe to all degrees of chastity.
Dypsas, who first taught love-sick maids the way
To cheat the bridegroom on the wedding-day,
And then a hundred subtle tricks devis'd,
Wherewith the am'rous theft might be disguis'd;
Of herbs and spells she tries the guilty force,
The poison of a mare that goes to horse.
Cleaving the midnight air upon a switch,
Some for a bawd, most take her for a witch.
Each morning sees her reeling to her bed,
Her native blue o'ercome with drunken red:
Her ready tongue ne'er wants a useful lie,
Soft moving words, nor charming flattery.
Thus I o'erheard her to my Lucia speak:
"Young Damon's heart wilt thou for ever break
He long has lov'd thee, and by me he sends
To learn thy motions, which he still attends;
If to the park thou go'st, the plays are ill;
If to the plays, he thinks the air would kill.
The other day he gaz'd upon thy face,
As he would grow a statue in the place;
And who indeed does not? like a new star,
Beauty like thine strikes wonder from afar.
Alas! methinks thou art ill-dress'd to-night;
This point's too poor; thy necklace is not right;
This gown was by some botching tailor made,
It spoils thy shape; this fucus is ill laid.
Hear me, and be as happy as thou'rt fair:
Damon is rich, and what thou wanst, can spare.
Like thine his face, like thine his eyes are thought.
Would he not buy, he might himself be bought."
Fair Lucia blush'd. "It is a sign of grace,
(Dypsas replied,) that red becomes thy face.
All lovers now by what they give are weighed,
And she is best belov'd that best is paid;
The sun-burnt Latins, in old Tatius' reign,
Did to one man perhaps their love restrain:
Venus in her Aeneas' city rules,
And all adore her deity but fools.
Go on, ye fair, chaste only let such live
As none will ask, and know not how to give.
Life steals away, and our best hours are gone
Ere the true use or worth of them be known.
Things long neglected, of themselves decay;
What we forbear, time rudely makes his prey.
Beauty is best preserv'd by exercise,
Nor for that task can one or few suffice.
Wouldst thou grow rich, thou must from many take:
From one 'twere hard continually to rake.
Without new gowns and coaches, who can live ?
What does thy poet but new verses give?
A poet, the last thing that earth does breed,
Whose wit, for sixpence, any one may read.
Hang the poor lover, and his pedigree;
The thriving merchant, or fat judge, give me.
Love truly none, but seem in love with all,
And at old friends to thy new lovers rail.
Sometimes deny, 'twill appetite procure;
The sharp-set hawks will stoop to any lure.
Then grant again, lest he a habit get
Of living from thee; but be sure thou let
No empty lover in; murmur sometimes,
And at first hurt, reproach him with thy crimes.
Seem jealous, when thou'st been thyself to blame;
'Twill stop his mouth, if thou the first complain.
All thou hast done be ready to forswear:
For lovers' oaths fair Venus has no ear.
Whilst lie is with thee, let some woman bring
Some Indian stuff or foreign precious thing;
Which thou must say thou want'st, and he must buy,
Though for it six months hence in gaol he lie.
Thy mother, sister, brother, and thy nurse,
Must have a pull each at thy lover's purse.
Let him from rivals never be secure,
That hope once gone, love will not long endure;
Show him the presents by those rivals sent,
So shall his bounty thy request prevent.
When he will give no more, ask him to lend:
If he wants money, find a trusting friend.
Get hangings, cabinets, and looking-glass,
Or any thing for which his word will pass.
Practise these rules, thou'lt find the benefit!
I lost my beauty ere I got this wit."
I at that word step'd from behind the door,
And scarce my nails from her thin cheeks forbore.
Her few gray hairs in rage I vow'd to pull,
And thrust her drunken eyes into her skull.
"Poor in a dungeon's bottom may'st thou rot,
Die with a blow with thy beloved pot;
No brandy, and eternal thirst, thy lot."
Poem 9
Elegy IX: Of Love and War. By Henry Cromwell.
Trust me, my Atticus, in love are wars;
And Cupid has his camp, as well as Mars:
The age that's fit for war best suits with love,
The old in both unserviceable prove,
Infirm in war, and impotent in love.
The soldiers which a general does require,
Are such as ladies would in bed desire:
Who but a soldier, and a lover, can
Bear the night's cold, in show'rs of hail and rain?
One in continual watch his station keeps,
Or on the earth in broken slumbers sleeps;
The other takes his still repeated round
By mistress' house then lodges on the ground.
Soldiers, and lovers, with a careful eye,
Observe the motions of the enemy:
One to the walls makes his approach in form,
Pushes the siege, and takes the town by storm:
The other lays his close to Celia's fort,
Presses his point, and gains the wish'd-for port.
As soldiers, when the foe securely lies
In sleep, and wine dissolv'd, the camp surprise;
So when the jealous to their rest remove,
And all is hush'd, the other steals to love.
You then, who think that love's an idle fit,
Know, that it is the exercise of wit.
In flames of love the fierce Achilles burns,
And, quitting arms, absent Briseis mourns:
From the embraces of Andromache
Went Hector arm'd for war, and victory.
As Agamemnon saw Cassandra pass
With hair dishevell'd, and disorder'd dress,
H' admir'd the beauties of the prophetess:
The god of war was caught in th' act of love;
A story know to all the court above.
Once did I pass my hours in sloth and ease,
Cool shades and beds of down could only please;
When a commanding beauty rais'd my mind,
I left all little trifling thoughts behind,
And to her service all my heart resign'd:
Since, like an active soldier, have I spent
My time in toils of war, in beauty's tent:
And for so sweet a pay all dangers underwent.
You see, my Atticus, by what I prove,
Who would not live in idleness-must love.
Poem 10
Poem 10, in which the poet complains that his mistress has asked him for money, is not here translated.
Poem 11
Elegy XI: To Nape, praying her to deliver his letter to her mistress. By Henry Cromwell.
Nape, who know'st so well to set the hair,
And all the fashions of the modish fair,
Like thee no lady's woman in the town
Can forward an intrigue, or pin a gown;
No maid than thee can boast a quicker eye,
Nor sooner the sour husband's coming spy.
Here, Nape, take this billet-doux, and bear
My soul's soft wishes to the absent fair.
If I can guess, thy heart is not of flint,
Nor is there the least vein of iron in't;
I something in thy looks and manners see
Above the rudeness of thy low degree;
A softer turn, to pity more inclined,
Than vulgar souls, a more complacent mind;
Thou feel'st, if I can guess, an equal flame,
And thine and my distemper is the same.
If how I do, she asks, do thou reply,
For the dear night, and night's dear joys, I die.
Tell her the letter will the rest explain,
And does my soul, and all its hopes contain.
But time, while I am speaking, flies: be sure
To give the billet in a leisure hour:
Don't be content with her imperfect view,
But make her, when she has it, read it through.
I charge thee, as she reads, observe her eyes,
Catch, if thou canst, her gentle looks and sighs;
As these are sure presages of my joy,
So frowns and low'rs my flattering hopes destroy.
Pray her, when she has read it, to indite
An answer, and a long epistle write.
I hate a billet, where at once I view
A page all empty, but a line or two.
Let her without a margin fill it up,
And crowd it from the bottom to the top.
But why should I her pretty fingers tire?
A word's enough, and all that I desire.
Ah, Nape, let her only bid me come;
The page is large, which for that word has room.
Her letter, like a conqu'ror's, shall be bound
With bays, for it with conquests shall be crown'd.
Poem 12
Elegy XII: He curses his letter because it was not answered.
Ah, pity me, my friends! the cruel fair
Will neither read my just complaint, nor hear.
The billet-doux I sent her she return'd,
And e'en to ope the tender letter scorn'd
Ill was the omen, for the slave I sent
Trip'd at the sill as out of doors he went.
If e'er you on an errand go for me,
More careful, sirrah! how you stumble, be;
Step soberly, and warily along;
The end's ne'er right if the beginning's wrong.
Sinee thus in vain her pity I implore,
I'll ne'er to tablets trust my passion more;
Nor with my wax for death my warrant seal;
Worse than her scorn, what torture can I feel?
From combs of Cosica the wax was ta'en,
The latent poison was the lover's bane.
Bees there from venom'd flow'rs their honey suck,
And surely to my wax that venom stuck.
Chance on the seal did my misfortune paint,
And show'd my doom by the vermilion teint.
Curse on the instruments of my disgrace !
May you lie rotting in some filthy place;
By carts run o'er may you to bits be torn,
And your mishap revenge Corinna's scorn !
The man that first to smooth your surface toil'd,
The wooden work with hands impure defil'd;
Gibbets and racks should of the wood be made,
And the rough tools of all the murd'ring trade.
Bats roosted in its branches as it grew,
And birds of prey for shelter thither flew:
The vulture, and all kind of rav'nous fowl,
There hatch their young, and there the om'nous owl.
How mad to use such tablets must I be?
Curst and ill fated, as their parent tree!
Were these fit things soft sentiments to bear,
And to a lady tell a lover's care?
Lawyers, on you, might horrid jargon write,
With sound the ear, with sense the soul to flight.
Well might your plain the wicked writings bear
Where the rich miser robs the ruin'd heir.
When I first purchas'd you, I feared no less,
Your numbers even made me doubt success:
May you by worms be in old age devour'd,
And by all mortals as by me abhor'd.
Poem 13
Elegy XIII: To the Morning, not to make haste. By an unknown hand.
Aurora, rising from old Tithon's bed,
Does o'er the eastern skies her roses spread:
Stay, beauteous morn, awhile thy chariot stay,
Awhile with lagging wheels retard the day.
So may young birds, as often as the spring
Renews the year, o'er Memnon's ashes sing.
Now I lie folded in Corinna's arms,
And all her soul is mine, and all her charms;
I now am to her panting bosom press'd,
And now, if ever lover was, am bless'd.
As yet sweet sleep sits heavy on our eyes,
And warbling birds forbid, as yet to rise.
Stay, beauteous morning, for to love-sick maids
And youths, how grateful are these dusky shades!
All stay, and do not, from the blushing east,
With dawning glories break our balmy rest.
When night's black mantle does those glories hide,
The pilot by the stars his ship can guide,
And in mid-sea a certain course pursue,
As safe as when he has the sun in view.
What pleasure in thy light should mortals take?
Thou dost the weary traveller awake;
Though to the down his heavy head reclines,
Up he must lift it for the morning shines.
The soldier braces on his brazen shield,
Quits his warm tent, and fits him for the field:
The lab'ring hind his harrow takes, and now
The peasant yokes his oxen to the plough:
The boy half wak'd, and rubbing still his eyes,
Is loth alike to go to school, or rise;
While o'er his task he does imperfect nod,
He fears the ferula, he dreads the rod.
The bridegroom, starting from his bride's embrace,
Runs to his lawyer to consult his case;
A word is wanting in the dower deed,
And what to save the portion must he plead?
Now hungry serjeants quit their tempting ease,
To haunt the crowded courts and pick up fees.
Thy rise brings labour to the female band,
And puts the spindle in the spinster's hand:
Light are these toils, and little is the pain
To rise to work, and rest at night again;
But who that e'er knew love's transporting joys,
Could from the arms of youth and beauty rise?
Oft have I wish'd that night would keep her ground,
And all her stars be at thy rising found;
Oft have I wish'd the winds would stop thy way,
Repel thy car, or clouds involve the day.
Dost thou in envy lash each lazy steed,
And whirl thy chariot with unwonted speed?
Black was thy son, and in his hue's express'd
The gloomy passions of his parent's breats;
He, born of Cephalus, his ravish'd sire,
Is a known proof of thy adult'rous fire.
Thou, by his colour, wouldst thy crime conceal;
Ah, that to Tithon I the tale could tell!
Search all the records of Heaven's lechers round,
A fouler story cannot there be found.
In Cephalus' embraces when you lay,
And oft by theft renew'd your wanton play;
When Tithon's impotence you made your sport,
Did you not think the joyous moments short?
Lock'd in his arms did you in transports lie,
Ah! would you not, like me, to Phoebus cry,
"Stop, stop thy rapid course? Am I to blame
That Tithon's old, and cannot feel thy flame?
See how the moon does her Endymion keep
In night conceal'd, and drown'd in dewy sleep.
As lovely is the moon, as fair as thou,
Who freely, where she loves, her favours does bestow.
Jove, when he rob'd Amphitryon of his joy,
Did two whole nights in am'rous thefts employ;
Unknown when in Alcmena's arms he lay,
The night he doubles and suspends the day."
The morning heard my railing, and for shame
Blush'd that by force she must disturb my flame;
Bright Phoebus rushing forth, the glorious day
Drove the dear shades, that hid our joys, away.
Poem 14
Elegy XIV: He comforts his mistress for the loss of her hair by the means she took to beautify it. By an unknown hand.
I us'd to warn you, not with so much care,
And waste of ointment, to adorn your hair:
That warning now is useless, you have none,
And with your hair that trouble too is gone.
Where are the silken tresses, which adown
Your shoulders hung? A web was never spun
So fine, but, ah! those flowing curls are gone.
Ah fatal art! ah fatal care, and pains!
That robb'd me of the dearest of my chains.
Nor of a black, nor of a golden hue
They were, but of a dye between the two.
How could you hurt, or poison with perfume,
Those curls that were so easy to the comb?
That to no pains expos'd you, when you set
Their shining tresses for young hearts a net?
That ne'er provok'd you with your maids to war,
For hurting you with your entangled hair?
You ne'er were urg'd to some indecent fray,
Nor in a fury snatch'd the comb away.
The teeth ne'er touch'd you, and her constant care,
Without ill arts, would have preserv'd your hair.
Behind your chair I oft have seen her stand,
And comb and curl it with a gentle hand:
Oft have I seen it on your shoulders play
Uncomb'd, as on your purple bed you lay.
Your artless tresses with more charms appear,
Than when adorn'd with all your cost and care.
When on the grass the Thracian nymphs recline,
Of Bacchus full, and weary of their wine,
Less lovely are their locks, than yours, less fair
The ringlets of their soft dishevell'd hair:
Softer was thine, like fleecy down it felt,
And to the finger did as freely yield,
How didst thou torture it, the curls to turn,
Now with hot irons at thy toilet burn?
This rack, with what obedience did it bear?
"Ah spare," I cried, "thy patient tresses spare!
To hurt them is a sin: this needless toil
Forbear, and do not, what adorns thee, spoil.
'Tis now too late to give your labour o'er,
Those tortur'd ringlets are, alas ! no more.
Ah, cease the cruel thought, and cease to pass
Such irksome minutes at your faithful glass !
In vain thou seek'st thy silken locks to find;
Banish the dear remembrance from thy mind.
No weeds destroy'd them with their pois'nous juice,
Nor canst thou witches' magic charms accuse,
Nor rival's rage, nor dire enchantment blame,
Nor envy's blasting tongue, nor fever's flame.
The mischief by thy own fair hands was wrought;
Nor dost thou suffer for another's fault.
How oft I bade thee, but in vain, beware
The venom'd essence, that destroy'd thy hair?
Now with new arts thou shalt thy pride amuse,
And curls, of German captives borrow'd, use.
Drusus to Rome their vanquish'd nation sends
And the fair slave to thee her tresses lends.
With alien locks thou wilt thy head adorn,
And conquests gain'd by foreign beauties scorn.
How wilt thou blush, with other charms to please,
And cry, "How fairer were my locks than these !"
By heav'ns, to heart she takes her head's disgrace,
She weeps, and covers with her hands her face.
She weeps, as in her lap her locks she views;
What woman would not weep, such locks to lose!
Ah, that they still did on her shoulders flow,
Ah, that they now, where once they grew, did grow!
Take courage, fair Corinna, never fear,
Thou shalt not long these borrow'd tresses wear:
Time for your beauty shall this loss repair
And you again shall charm with native hair.
Poem 15
Poem 15, in which the poet boasts his work will outlive him, is not here translated.
Book 2
Poem 1
Poem 1, in which the poet introduces his second book, is not here translated.
Poem 2
Poem 2, addressed to Bagoe, is not here translated.
Poem 3
Elegy III: To a Eunuch, who had the keeping of his mistress
How hard's my hap, to have my fair consign'd
To one, who is imperfect in his kind;
To one, who ne'er can have the pow'r to prove
As woman, or as man, the mutual joys of love!
Who practis'd first on boys the cutting steel,
Deserv'd himself the fatal wound to feel.
Couldst thou be capable of Cupid's fires,
Or the least sensible of love's desires,
Some pity thou wouldst have on me, and grant
Thy aid, for what thou canst not know I want.
Ill suits thee now, the warrior's lance to wield,
To mount the manag'd horse, or lift the brazen shield:
Arms are for men, and not for such as thee,
Who shouldst from ev'ry manly thought be free.
No banner shouldst thou, but thy lady's bear,
And have no other leader but the fair.
Much it behoves thee then to strive to gain
Her favour, and thou need'st not strive in vain.
Consult her pleasure, and her will obey,
To favour that's the sure, the ready way:
Without it, how unhappy wilt thou be!
Life is without it of no use to thee.
Thou'rt beautiful, and mayst thy prime enjoy,
And well thy beauty and thy youth employ.
Study to serve thy gentle mistress well,
And merit her good graces by thy zeal;
Watch as thou wilt, the trouble thou mayst spare,
She'll easily deceive thy utmost care.
When two fond lovers are agreed to meet,
Canst thou their well-concerted plot defeat?
The ways of kindness thou shouldst rather use;
By being civil thou wilt nothing lose;
And when an opportunity is fail,
For thy own sake be friendly to our pray'r.
A friend be to thy lady, not a guard,
And we, with bounteous hand, thy friendship will reward.
Poem 4
Elegy IV: That he loves all sorts of women.
Vice by my verse I never will defend,
Nor by false arms to fence my own pretend.
Frankly my failings I with shame confess;
To hide my errors would not make them less.
My faults, whate'er I suffer by't, I own,
That others, if they please, those faults may shun
I hate myself, my follies, and would fain
Be, were it in my pow'r, another man.
How difficult it is, ye righteous Gods,
Against our wills to bear such heavy loads.
I have not strength to guard myself from ill,
And, as I wish, to rule my wicked will.
I'm hurry'd on, as by the boistrous sea
The driving bark is swiftly borne away.
No certain form inflames my am'rous breast,
All beauty is alike to me the best;
A hundred causes kindle my desires,
And love ne'er wants a torch to light my fires.
When on the earth the modest virgin looks,
That very modesty of hers provokes;
And if I chance to meet a forward fair,
I'm taken with her frank and easy air:
I figure to myself a thousand charms,
A thousand raptures in her wanton arms.
If, like the damsels of the Sabine race,
She's rude, I look upon it as grimace;
That sullen as she seems at first, 'tis art,
That I the more may prize the conquest or her heart.
New joys, if she's a wit, I hope to find;
And with her body, to possess her mind:
If foolish, I in that can see no harm,
And in her very folly find a charm.
I know a maid so very fond, and dull,
To me she thinks Callimachus a fool.
I soon am pleas'd with one that's pleas'd with me,
Alike we in our taste and wish agree:
But if the fair my verses don't approve,
I bragging tell her, she will like my love;
If with her tongue, or with her heel she's brisk,
Her prattle pleases, and her gamesome frisk;
But if she's heavy, I suppose at night
She'll change, and prove, as I would have her, light,
The fair that sings, enchants me with her voice;
Oh, what a gust it gives a lover's joys!
When her shrill shakes afresh his bosom wound,
And from her lips he kisses off the sound;
When her soft fingers touch the silver strings,
And sweetly to the sounding lute she sings;
Who can resist such strong redoubled charms?
Her music melts me, as her beauty warms
If in the dance the nimble nymph I find,
And view how she her pliant limbs does wind,
How artfully she to the music moves,
I cry, "How happy is the man she loves!"
My humour, in a word, is plainly this,
All objects please, and nothing comes amiss.
To love, and be belov'd my sole employ:
Dispos'd to be enjoy'd, and to enjoy.
This lady for her length I like, her spread
Will swell my arms, and fill the joyous bed;
She's like the lusty heroines of old,
And with a strong embrace her lover will enfold.
This lass, because she's little, I approve;
The least are lightest in the sports of love.
With every size my passion does agree,
And tall and short are both alike to me.
I fancy, when undress'd I find the fair,
'Tis less her want of charms, than want of care.
If with her dishabille, I cry, " I'm pleas'd,"
How beauteous would she be if she were dress'd
And when she does her best apparel wear,
I think her riches in her pride appear.
The fair, the olive, are to me the same,
Alike the swarthy, and the sandy dame.
When her black curls adown her shoulders flow,
Such Leda's were, her skin as white as snow;
And when her golden locks her head adorn,
I straight compare her to the saffron morn.
My love with no complexion disagrees,
But all alike my ready passion please.
The younger by their bloom my heart secure,
The elder win it as they're more mature;
And though the younger may excel in charms,
The elder clasp you with experienc'd arms
What all the city like, is liked by me,
And I with them and all my loves agree.
I'm proud to be the rival of the town,
And to their taste will still conform my own.
Poem 5
Elegy V: To His False Mistress. By Eusden.
Cupid, be gone! I can for beauty sigh,
But not be forc'd to wish each hour to die;
For so I wish whene'er my restless thoughts
Dwell on her falsehoods and repeated faults.
All other plagues know sometimes to be civil,
But woman is a sure, perpetual evil.
No pimp I bribe to prove thy perjur'd vows,
Nor intercepted once thy billet-doux.
0, cou dst thou but my arguments disprove!
A cause so good is here unwish'd in love.
Happy, who dares t' avow his censur'd flame,
And vindicate the secret tripping dame.
Blushless, tho' guilty, with uplifted eyes,
"'Tis false, my life, by yon bright Heaven," she cries.
Himself he fools, and madly feeds his grief,
Who from conviction seeks the sad relief.
Wretched I saw thy wantonness unsought,
By thee in sleep secure and eyeless thought;
With glances on each other how you hung!
How ev'ry nod had more than half a tongue!
How roll'd thy glowing eyes! how lewd they spoke!
E'en from thy artful fingers language broke;
While writing on the board with pens they vied,
And the spilt wine the want of ink supplied.
The silent speech too well I understood,
For to deceive a lover yet who could?
Tho' thou didst write in a laconic hand,
And words for sentences were taught to stand.
Now ended was the treat, and ev'ry guest
Indulg'd his ease, and lay compos'd to rest:
Your close, lascivious kisses then I spied,
And something more than lips to lips applied;
Such from a sister brothers ne'er receive,
But yielding fair ones to warm lovers give.
Not so Diana would to Phoebus press,
But Cytherea so her Mars would bless.
Too far provok'd, at last I cried aloud,
"On whom are pleasures, due to me, bestow'd?
I must not, will not, cannot bear this sight;
'Tis lawful, sure, to seize upon my right.
These raptures to us both in common are,
But whence, ye furies, claims a third his share?"
Enrag'd I spoke, and o'er her cheeks were spread
Swift newborn glories in a sudden red;
Such blushes on the bridal night adorn
The trembling virgin; such the rising morn.
So sweet a hue the lab'ring Cynthia shows,
Or the fair lily damask'd by the rose;
Or iv'ry, which time's yellow taint defies,
When twice enrich'd with proud Assyrian dies:
Such were her looks, and a diviner grace
Had never brighten'd that enchanting face.
She cast her eyes down on the humble ground;
Her eyes, so cast, an unknown sweetness found.
Mournful her looks; her mournful looks became
Shining thro' grief, and beautiful in shame.
I rush'd, resolv'd her golden locks to tear,
And with mad violence disrobe the fair;
But as I viewed her face, th' extended hand
Shrunk back, nor hearken'd to the harsh command.
Others protection seek by dint of arms,
Her only safeguard was -- her wondrous charms.
I, who but late look'd insolently brave,
Fell from my height, and couch'd a suppliant slave:
I rav'd no longer at another's bliss,
But begg'd the transport of as sweet a kiss.
Smiling she said, " How grateful thy request!
If e'er my kisses please thee, take the best."
Oh, with what gust as from her soul they came!
Such might melt Jove, and stop the vengeful flame;
I fear'd my rival too enjoy'd the same.
These, better than from me she learn'd I thought,
Something taught new, alas! I wish'd untaught;
What most gave pleasure, that now stings the most;
Why were our darting tongues entirely lost?
Nor fret I thou in kissing shouldst excel,
And yet 'tis strange to know to kiss so well;
But ah! such lectures only could be read
By youthful tutors, and imbib'd abed.
That sage who'er these large improvements made,
Was by his pupil preciously repay'd.
Poem 6
Elegy VI: On the Death of His Mistress's Parrot. By Creech.
Alas! poor Poll, my Indian talker, dies!
Go, birds, and celebrate his obsequies;
Go, birds, and beat your breasts, your faces tear,
And pluck your gaudy plumes instead of hair;
Let doleful tunes the frighted forest wound,
And your sad notes supply the trumpet's sound.
Why, Philomel, dost mourn the Thracian rage?
It is enough, thy grief at last assuage;
His crimson faults are now grown white with age.
Now mourn this bird; the cause of all thy woe
Was great, 'tis true, but it was long ago.
Mourn, all ye wing'd inhabitants of air,
But you, my turtle, take the greatest share;
You too liv'd constant friends and free from strife
Your kindness was entire, and long as life:
What Pylades to his Orestes vow'd.
To thee, poor Poll, thy friendly turtle show'd,
And kept his love as long as fate allow'd.
But, ah! what did thy faith, thy plumes, and tail,
And what thy pretty speaking art, avail?
And what that thou wert giv'n, and pleas'd my miss,
Since now the bird's unhappy glory dies ?
A lovely verdant green grac'd ev'ry quill,
The deepest vivid red did paint thy bill;
In speaking thou didst ev'ry bird excel,
None prattled, and none lisp'd the words so well.
'Twas envy only sent this fierce disease;
Thou wert averse to war, and liv'dst in peace,
A talking harmless thing, and lov'dst thine ease.
The fighting quails still live 'midst all their strife,
And even that, perhaps, prolongs their life.
Thy meat was little, and thy prattling tongue
Would ne'er permit to make thy dinner long:
Plain fountain water all thy drink allow'd,
And nut and poppy-seed were all thy food.
The preying vultures and the kites remain,
And the unlucky crow still caws for rain;
The chough still lives 'midst fierce Minerva's hate,
And scarce nine hundred years conclude her fate;
But my poor Poll now hangs his sickly head,
My Poll, my present from the east, is dead.
Best things are sooner snatch'd by cov'tous fate,
To worse she freely gives a longer date;
Thersites brave Achilles' fate surviv'd,
And Hector fell, whilst all his brothers liv'd.
Why should I tell what vows Corinna made?
How oft she begg'd thy life, how oft she pray'd ?
The seventh day came, and now the Fates begin
To end the thread, they had no more to spin;
Yet still he talk'd, and when death nearer drew,
His last breath said, "Corinna, now adieu!"
There is a shady cypress grove below,
And thither (if such doubtful things we know)
The ghosts of pious birds departed go;
'Tis water'd well, and verdant all the year,
And birds obscene do never enter there;
There harmless swans securely take their rest,
And there the single Phoenix builds her nest;
Proud peacocks there display their gaudy train,
And billing turtles coo o'er all the plain:
To these dark shades my parrot's soul shall go,
And with his talk divert the birds below;
Whilst here his bones enjoy a noble grave,
A little marble, and an epitaph:-
"In talking I did ev'ry bird excel,
And my tomb proves my mistress lov'd me well."
Poem 7
Elegy VII: He protests that he never had anything to do with the chambermaid. By the same hand.
And must I still be guilty, still untrue,
And when old crimes are purg'd, still charg'd with new?
What tho' at last my cause I clearly gain?
Yet I'm asham'd so oft to strive in vain,
And when the prize will scarce reward the pain.
If at the play I in fop-corner sit,
And with a squinting eye gloat o'er the pit,
Or view the boxes, you begin to fear,
And fancy straight some rival beauty there.
If any looks on me, you think you spy
A private assignation in her eye;
A silent soft discourse in ev'ry grace,
And tongues in all the features of her face.
If I praise any one, you tear your hair,
Show frantic tricks, and rage with wild despair;
If discommend, 0 then 'tis all deceit,
I strive to cloak my passion by the cheat.
If I look well, I then neglect your charms,
Lie dull and lazy in your active arms;
If weak my voice, if pale my looks appear,
0 then I languish for another fair.
Would I did sin, and you with cause complain,
For when we strive to shun, yet strive in vain,
'Tis comfort sure to have deserv'd the pain.
But sure fond fancies now such heats engage,
Your cred'lous peevish humour spoils your rage.
In frequent chidings I no force can see,
You frown too often to prevail with me;
The ass grows dull by stripes; the constant blow
Beats off his briskness, and he moves but slow.
But now I'm lavish of my kind embrace,
And Moll, forsooth, supplies her lady's place!
Kind love, forbid that I should stoop so low;
What! unto mean, ignoble beauties bow ?
A chambermaid ! no faith, my love flies high;
My quarry is a miss of quality.
Fye, who would clasp a slave ? who joy to feel
Her hands of iron and her sides of steel ?
'Twill damp an eager thought, 'twill check my mind,
To feel those knobs the lash hath left behind.
Besides, she dresses well, with lovely grace
She sets thy tow'r, and does adorn thy face;
Thy nat'ral beauty all her hearts improve,
And make me more enamour'd of my love.
Then why should I tempt her, and why betray
Thy useful slave, and have her turn'd away?
I swear by Venus, by love's darts and bow,
(A desp'rate oath, you must believe me now,)
I am not guilty, I've not broke my vow!
Poem 8
Elegy VIII: To Corinna's Chambermaid. By the same hand.
Dear, skilful Betty, who dost far excel
My lady's other maids in dressing well;
Dear Betty, fit to be preferred above
To Juno's chamber, or the queen of love;
Genteel, well-bred, not rustically coy,
Not easy to deny desired joy;
Thro' whose soft eyes still secret wishes shine,
Fit for thy mistress' use, but more for mine;
Who, Betty, did the fatal secret see?
Who told Corinna you were kind to me!
Yet when she chid me for my kind embrace,
Did any guilty blush spread o'er my face!
Did I betray thee, maid, or could she spy
The least confession in my conscious eye !
Not that I think it a disgrace to prove
Stol'n sweets, or make a chambermaid my love;
Achilles wanton'd in Briseis' arms,
Atrides bow'd to fair Cassandra's charms:
Sure I am less than these,-then what can bring
Disgrace to me, that so became a king !
But when she look'd on you, poor harmless maid,
You blush'd, and all the kind intrigue betray'd;
Yet still I vow'd, I made a stout defence,
I swore, and look'd as bold as innocence;
"Damme, -- egad!" all that, and -- "let me die!"'
Kind Venus, do not hear my perjury;
Kind Venus, stop thy ears when lovers lie.
Now, Betty, how will you my oaths requite?
Come, pr'ythee let's compound for more delight;
Faith, I am easy, and but ask a night.
What! start at the proposal? how! deny
Pretend fond fears of a discovery ?
Refuse, lest some sad chance the thing betray ?
Is this your kind, your damn'd obliging way ?
Well, deny on; I'll lie, I'll swear no more;
Corinna now shall know thou art a whore.
I'll tell, since you my fair address forbid,
How often, when, and where, and what we did!
Poem 9
Elegy IX: To Love. By the Earl of Rochester.
O Love! how cold and slow to take my part,
Thou idle wanderer about my heart!
Why thy old faithful soldier wilt thou see
Oppress'd in thy own tents? they murder me;
Thy flames consume, thy arrows pierce thy friends;
Rather on foes pursue more noble ends.
Achilles' sword would certainly bestow
A cure as certain as it gave the blow.
Hunters, who follow flying game, give o'er
When the prey's caught, hope still leads on before;
We, thine own slaves, feel thy tyrannic blows.
While thy tame hand's unmov'd against thy foes.
On men disarm'd, how can you gallant prove ?
And I was long ago disarm'd by love.
Millions of dull men live, and scornful maids;
We'll own love valiant when he these invades.
Rome from each corner of the wide world snatch'd
A laurel, or't had been to this day thatch'd;
But the old soldier has his resting-place,
And the good batter'd horse is turn'd to grass:
The harass'd whore, who liv'd a wretch to please,
Has leave to be a bawd, and take her ease.
For me then, who have truly spent my blood,
Love, in thy service, and so boldly stood
In Celia's trenches, were't not wisely done,
E'en to retire, and live at peace at home ?
No-might I gain a godhead to disclaim
My glorious title to my endless flame,
Divinity with scorn I would forswear,
Such sweet, dear, tempting devils women are.
Whene'er those flames grow faint, I quickly find
A fierce black storm pour down upon my mind;
Headlong I'm hurl'd like horsemen who in vain
Their fury-flaming coursers would restrain.
As ships, just when the harbour they attain,
Are snatch'd by sudden blasts to sea again,
So Love's fantastic storms reduce my heart,
Half rescu'd, and the god resumes his dart.
Strike here, this undefended bosom wound,
And for so brave a conquest be renown'd.
Shafts fly so fast to me from ev'ry part,
You'll scarce discern the quiver from my heart.
What wretch can bear a livelong night's dull rest,
Or think himself in lazy slumbers blest?
Fool-is not sleep the image of pale death?
There's time for rest when fate has stopp'd your breath.
Me may my soft deluding dear deceive,
I'm happy in my hopes, while I believe:
Now let her flatter, then as fondly chide,
Often may I enjoy, oft be denied.
With doubtful steps the god of war does move,
By thy example, in ambiguous love.
Blown to and fro, like down from thy own wing,
Who knows when joy or anguish thou wilt bring?
Yet at thy mother's and thy slave's request,
Fix an eternal empire in my breast;
And let th' inconstant charming sex,
Whose wilful scorn does lovers vex,
Submit their hearts before thy throne;
The vassal world is then thy own.
Poem 10
Elegy X: Ovid tells Graecinus, that he is fallen in love with a couple of ladies. By an unknown hand.
What you affirm'd, my friend, is prov'd untrue,
That none at once could madly dote on two.
Deceiv'd, unarm'd, we Cupid soon o'ercame,
And I glow shameless with a double flame.
They both are fair, both dress'd so nicely well,
That the pre-eminence is hard to tell.
Sometimes for this, sometimes for that I burn,
And each more beauteous sparkles in her turn.
Each claims my passion, and my heart divides
As to and fro the doubtful galliot rides.
Here driven by winds, and there redriven by tides.
Why doubly chain'd ? was not a single fair
Enough to load me with perpetual care?
Why are more leaves brought to the shady wood,
Stars to the sky, or waters to the flood ?
Yet better so than not to love at all;
Still on my foes may such dull blessings fall.
May they, insipidly supine, be spread
Along the middle of a widowed bed;
While I with sprightliness love's vigil's keep,
Stretch'd out for something far more sweet than sleep.
Others from ruin fly, to mine I run,
To be by women pleasingly undone,
Longing for two, since undestroy'd by one.
Still let my slender limbs for love suffice;
I want no nerves, but want the bulky size.
My limbs, tho' lean are not in vain display'd;
From me no female ever rose a maid.
Oft have I, when a luscious night was spent,
Saluted morn, nor cloy'd nor impotent.
Happy, who gasps in love his latest breath;
Give me, ye gods, so softly sweet a death !
Let the rough warriors grapple on the plain,
And with their blood immortal honour gain;
Let the vile miser plough for wealth the deep,
And, shipwrek'd in the unfatbom'd waters, sleep
May Venus grant me but my last desire,
In the full height of rapture to expire.
Perhaps some friend, with kindly dew supplied,
Weeping will say, "As Ovid liv'd, he died."
Poem 11
Poem 11, in which the poet prays that his Mistress will be safe as she travels by sea, is not here translated.
Poem 12
Elegy XII: The Poet rejoices for the favours he has received of his mistress.
Io Triumphe! I have won the prize,
For in my arms the fair Corinna lies.
Nor jealous husband, nor a guardian's care,
Nor door defended with a double bar,
Could fence against a lover's artifice,
For in my arms the fair Corinna lies.
With reason of my victory I boast,
The conquest gain'd, and yet no blood is lost;
I scal'd no walls, I pass'd no ditch profound,
Safe were my wars, and all without a wound.
My only work a charming girl to gain;
The pleasure well rewards the little pain.
Ten years the Greeks did in one siege employ,
But levell'd were, at length, the walls of Troy;
What glory was there by th' Atrides won,
So many chiefs before a single town!
Not thus did I my pleasant toils pursue,
And the whole glory to myself is due;
Myself was horse and foot, myself alone
The captain and the soldier was in one,
And fought beneath no banner but my own.
Whether by strength I combated, or wile,
Fortune did ever on my actions smile;
I only owe my triumph to my care,
And by my patience only won the fair.
Nor was my cause of quarrel new; the same
Set Europe and proud Asia in a flame.
For Helen, ravish'd by the Dardan boy,
Was the war wag'd that sunk the pride of Troy;
The Centaurs double form'd, half man, half beast,
Defil'd with horrid war the nuptial feast;
Inflam'd by wine and woman's magic charms,
They turn'd the jolly face of joy to arms.
'Twas woman urg'd the strife; a second fair
Involv'd the Trojans in a second war.
What wreck, what ruin, did a Woman bring
On peaceful Latium, and its pious king!
When Rome was young and in her infant state
What woes did woman to our sires create!
Into what peril was that city brought,
When Sabine fathers for their daughters fought !
Two lusty bulls I in the meads have view'd
In combat join'd, and by their side there stood
A milk-white heifer, who provok'd the fight,
By each contended, but the conqueror's right;
She gives them courage, her they both regard,
As one that caus'd the war, and must reward.
Compell'd by Cupid in his host to list
(And who that has a heart can love resist ?)
His soldier I have been, without the guilt
Of blood, in any of our battles spilt;
For him I've fought, as many more have done,
And many rivals met, but murder'd none.
Poem 13
Elegy XIII: To Isis. A prayer that the goddess would assist Corinna, and prevent her miscarrying.
With cruel art Corinna would destroy
The ripening fruit of our repeated joy.
While on herself she practises her skill,
She's like the mother, not the child, to kill.
Me she would not acquaint with what she did,
From me a thing, which I abhorr'd, she hid;
Well might I now be angry, but I fear,
Ill as she is, I might endanger her.
By me, I must confess, she did conceive,
The fact is so, or else I so believe;
We've cause to think, what may so likely be,
So is, and then the babe belongs to me
Oh Isis, who delight'st to haunt the fields,
Where fruitful Nile his golden harvest yields,
Where with seven mouths into the sea it falls,
And hast thy walks around Canope's walls,
Who Memphis visit'st, and the Pharian tower,
Assist Corinna with thy friendly powers.
Thee by thy silver Sistra I conjure,
A life so precious by thy aid secure;
So mayst thou with Osiris still find grace:
By Anubis's venerable face,
I pray thee, so may still thy rights divine
Flourish, and serpents round thy offerings twine
May Apis with his horns the pomp attend,
And be to thee, as thou'rt to her, a friend.
Look down, oh Isis! on the teeming fair,
And make at once her life and mine thy care:
Have pity on her pains; the help you give
To her, her lover saves, in her I live.
From thee this favour she deserves; she pays
Her vows to thee on all thy solemn days;
And when the Galli at thy altars wait,
She's present at the feast they celebrate.
And thou, Lucina, who the labouring womb
Dost with compassion view, to her assistance come:
Nor dost thou, when to thee thy votaries pray
For speedy help, thy wanted help delay.
Lucina, listen to Corinna's pray'r;
Thy votary she, and worthy of thy care.
I'll with my off'rings to thy altar come,
With votive myrrh thy sacred fane perfume;
The vows I make that thou my fair mayst bless,
In words inscrib'd, I'll on thy shrine express:-
"Ovid, the servant of Corinna, pray'd
The goddess here, the teeming dame to aid."
Ah, goddess! of my humble suit allow;
Give place to my inscription and my vow.
If frighted as I am, I may presume
Your conduct to direct in time to come,
Corinna, since you've suffer'd thus before,
Ah, try the bold experiment no more!
Poem 14
Elegy XIV: To his Mistress, who endeavoured to make herself miscarry.
What boots it that the fair are free from war,
And what that they're forbid the shield to bear,
Against themselves if they knew arms employ
And madly with new wounds their lives destroy?
The cruel mother who did first contrive
Her babe to butcher ere 'twas scarce alive,
Who thus from nature's tender dictates swerv'd,
To perish by her proper hands deserv'd.
Why do the sex forget their softness? why
Such projects for a foolish fancy try?
The belly must be smooth, no wrinkle there
To shock the lover's wanton glance appear;
His touch as well as sight they fain would please,
And the womb early of its burden ease.
Had woman sooner known this wicked trade,
Among the race of men what havock had they made.
Mankind had been extinct, and lost the seed,
Without a wonder to restore the breed,
As when Deucalion and his Purrha hurl'd
The stones that sow'd with men the delug'd world,
Had Thetis, goddess of the sea, refus'd
To bear the burden, and her fruit abus'd,
Who would have Priam's royal seat destroy'd?
Or had the vestal whom fierce Mars enjoy'd,
Stifled the twins within her pergnant womb,
What founder would have then been born to Rome?
Had Venus, when she with Aeneas teem'd,
To death, ere born, Anchises' son condemn'd,
The world had of the Caesars been depriv'd;
Augustus ne'er had reign'd, nor Julius liv'd.
And thou, whose beauty is the boast of fame,
Hadst perish'd, had thy mother done the same;
Nor had I liv'd love's faithful slave to be,
Had my own mother dealt as ill by me.
Ah, vile invention, ah, accurs'd design,
To rob of rip'ning fruit the loaded vine
Ah, let it grow for nature's use mature,
Ah, let it its full length of time endure;
'Twill of itself, alas! too soon decay,
And quickly fall, like autumn leaves, away
Why barb'rously dost thou thy bowels tear
To kill the human load that quickens there?
On venom'd drugs why venture, to destroy
The pledge of pleasure past, the promis'd boy?
Medea, guilty of her childrens' blood,
The mark of ev'ry age's curse has stood;
And Atys, murder'd by his mothers rage,
Been pitied since by each succeeding age;
Thy cruel parents by false lords abus'd,
Had yet some plea, tho' none their crime excus'd.
What, Jason, did your dire revenge provoke?
What, Tereus, urge you to the fatal stroke?
What rage your reason led so far away,
As furious hands upon yourself to lay?
The tigresses that haunt th' Armenian wood,
Will spare their proper young, though pinch'd for food;
Nor will the Libyan lionesses slay
Their whelps, -- but woman are more fierce than they;
More barb'rous to the tender fruit they bear,
Nor nature's call, tho' loud she cries, will hear.
But righteous vengeance oft their crimes pursues,
And they are lost themselves, who would their
children lose;
The pois'nous drugs with mortal juices fill
Their veins, and, undesign'd, themselves they kill
Themselves upon the bier are breathless borne,
With hair tied up that was in ringlets worn,
Thro' weeping crowds that on their course attend;
Well may they weep for their unhappy end.
Forbid it, heaven, that what I say may prove
Presaging to the fair I blame and love;
Thus let me ne'er, ye pow'rs, her death deplore,
'Twas her first fault, and she'll offend no more;
No pardon she'll deserve a second time,
But, without mercy, punish then her crime.
Poem 15
Elegy XV: The Poet addresses the ring which he has sent a present to his mistress. By an unknown hand.
Go, happy ring, who art about to bind
The fair one's finger; may the fair be kind.
Small is the present, tho' the love be great;
May she swift slip thee on thy taper seat.
As she and I, may thou with her agree,
And not too large, nor yet too little be.
To touch her hand thou wilt the pleasure have;
I now must envy what myself I gave.
O! would a Proteus or a Circe change
Me to thy form, that I like thee might range !
Then would I wish thee with her breasts to play,
And her left hand beneath her robes to stray.
Tho' straight she thought me, I will then appear
Loose and unfix'd, and slip I know not where.
Whene'er she writes some secret lines of love,
Lest the dry gum and wax should sticking prove,
He first she moistens : then sly care I take,
And but, when lines I like, impression make.
Of in her pocket fain she would me hide,
Close will I press her finger, and not slide;
Then cry, "My life, I ne'er shall thee disgrace,
And I am light; give me my proper place.
Still let me stick when in the bath you are;
If I catch damage,'tis not worth your care.
Yea, when the ring thy naked body spies,
It will transform, and I a man arise."
Why do I rave? thou little trifle, go,
And that I die for her let the dear creature know.
Poem 16
Elegy XVI: He invites his mistress into the country.
I'm now at -- where my eyes can view,
Their old delights, but what I want in you:
Here purling streams cut thro' my pleasing bowr's,
Adorn my banks, and raise my drooping flow'rs;
Here trees with bending fruit in order stand,
Invite my eye, and tempt my greedy hand;
But half the pleasure of enjoyment's gone;
Since I must pluck them single and alone;
Why could not nature's kindness first contrive,
That faithful lovers should like spirits live,
Mix'd in one point and yet divided lie,
Enjoying an united liberty?
But since we must thro' distant regions go,
Why was not the same way design'd for two?
One single care determined still for both,
And the kind virgin join'd the loving youth?
Then should I think it pleasant way to go
Oe'r Alpine frost, and trace the hills of snow;
Then should I dare to view the horrid moors,
And walk the deserts of the Libyan shores;
Hear Scylla bark, and see Charybdis rave,
Suck in and vomit out the threat'ning wave;
Fearless through all I'd steer my feeble barge,
Secure, and safe with the celestial charge,
But now, though here my grateful fields afford
Choice fruits to cheer their malancholy lord;
Though here obedient streams the gard'ner leads,
In narrow channels through my flow'ry beds;
The poplars rise, and spread a shady grove,
Where I might lie, my little life improve,
And spend my minutes 'twixt a muse and love:
Yet these contributes little to my ease,
For without you they lose the power to please;
I seem to walk oe'r the fields of naked sand,
Or tread an antic maze in fairy land,
Where frightful specires, and pale shades appear,
And hollow groans invade my troubled ear;
Where ev'ry breeze that through my arbour flies,
First sadly murmurs, and then turns to sighs.
The vines love elms; what elms from vines remove?
Then why should I be parted from my love?
And yet by me you once devoutly swore,
By your own eyes, those stars that I adore,
That all my bus'ness you would make your own,
And never suffer me to be alone:
But faithless woman nat'rally deceives,
Their frequent oaths are like the falling leaves,
Which when a storm has from the branches tore
Are lost by ev'ry blast, and seen no more:
Yet if you will be true, your vows retrieve,
Be kind, and I can easily forgive ;
Prepare your coach, to me direct your course,
Drive fiercely on, and lash the lazy horse;
And while you ride I will prolong the day,
And try the power of verse to smooth your way.
Sink down ye mountains, sink ye lofty hills,
Ye vallies be obedient to her wheels,
Ye streams be dry, ye hindr'ing woods remove,
'Tis love that drives, and all must yield to love !
Poem 17
Elegy XVII: He tells Corinna he will always be her slave
If there's a wretch, who thinks it is a shame,
To serve a lovely and a loving dame:
If such a slave he loads with infamy,
I'm willing he should judge as hard of me;
I'm willing all the world should know my shame
If Venus will abate my raging flame.
Let me a fair and gentle mistress have,
And then proclaim aloud that I'm her slave.
Beauty is apt to swell a maiden's mind,
And thus Corinna is to pride inclin'd:
But as she is above all maiden's fair,
What's pride in them is insolence in her;
Less fair I wish she was, or knew it less;
How learnt she, she is lovely by her face!
Her mirror tells her so, she often tries
Her mirror, and believes her charming eyes.
The looks she then puts on, are still her best,
And she ne'er uses it but when she's dress'd.
Though wide the empire of your beauties spread,
Beauty to draw my am'rous glances made:
Compare your servant's merit with your eyes,
You'll find no cause his service to dispise.
Don't think I press upon your pride too hard.
For little things may be with great compar'd:
We're told Calypso, an immortal pow'r,
Detain'd a mortal in th' Ogygian pow'r,
And when her pray'r to stay he would not grant,
So strong her love, she kept him by constraint.
A Nereid took the Pythian to her arms.
And Numa knew divine Egeria's charms.
Vulcan though lame, and of a form obscene,
Was oft made happy by the Paphian queen;
She matter'd not his limping, but approv'd
His flame, and saw no faults in him she lov'd
My verses are unequal like his feet,
Yet the long kindly with the shorter meet.
As they with them, why shouldst thou not with me
Comply, my life and my divinity !
Myself, when I am in thy arms, I'll own
Thy subject, and the bed shall be thy throne;
Thou there, my lovely queen, shall give me laws,
Nor in my absence, to rejoice have cause,
Nor ever shall my services be blam'd
Nor shalt thou of thy servant be asham'd.
My poetry's my purse, my fortun's there,
I have no other way to win the fair;
Nor is that way the worst; the brightest dames
Would in my verse immortalize their names.
My muse the place of an estate supplies,
And none that know her worth, her wealth despise.
Some tempted by Corinna's spreading fame,
In envy rob her, and usurp her name;
What would they give, d'ye think, to be the same ?
But neither could Eurotas, nor the Po,
With poplar shaded, in one channel flew;
By diff'rent, and by distant banks they glide,
Are rivers both, but various in their tide.
There are more beauties, but there's none like thine,
There are more versed, but thou hast only mine;
No other charms can e'er inspire my muse,
And other themes I with disdain refuse.
Poem 18
Elegy XVIII: To Macer, blaming him for not writing of love as he did.
While, Macer, you Achilles' choler sing,
And Greece before the walls of Ilium bring;
While feats of arms in Phrygian fields you tell,
And how old Tory by Grecion vengeance fell;
I my soft hours in softer songs employ,
And all my leisure give to love and joy.
When to high acts, my voice I strive to raise,
Love laughs at my attempt, and mocks my lays;
"Begone!" I often to my mistress cry,
But have not courage, yet, myself to fly.
Whene'er she sees me in this sullen fit,
She fondles me, and, on my knee will sit:
"Enough of this (say I), for shame give o'er,
Enough of love, we'll play the fool no more."
" Ah, is it then a shame to love?" she cries,
And chides, and melts me with her weeping eyes.
Around my neck her snowy arms she throws,
And to my lips with stifling kisses grows.
How can I all this tenderness refuse ?
At once my wisdom, and my will I lose;
I'm conquer'd, and renounce the glorious train
Of arms, and war, to sing of love again:
My themes are acts, which I myself have done,
And my muse sings no battles but my own.
Once I confess I did the drama try,
And ventur'd with success on tragedy;
My genius with a moving scene agrees,
And if I ventured further I might please:
But love my heroics makes a jest,
And laughs to see me in my buskins drest.
Asham'd, and weary of this tragic whim,
For tender thoughts I quitted the sublime.
My mind my mistress bends another way,
Her must my muse in all her songs obey;
Though oft I do not what I write approve,
Like, or not like it, I must sing of love.
Whether for Ithaca's illustrious dame,
To great Ulysses I a letter frame,
Or for Oenone tender things indite,
Or soft complaints for injur'd Phillis write;
Whether fair Canace's incestuous care
I sooth, or flatter Dido's fierce despair;
Whether I fan Medea's raging fire,
Or for sweet Sappho touch the Lesbian lyre;
Whether I Phaedra's lawless love relate,
Or Theseus' flight and Ariadne's fate:
Oh, that Sabinus, my departed friend,
Could from all quarters now his answers send!
Ulysses' hand should to his queen be known,
And wretched Phaedra hear from Theseus' son;
Dido Aeneas' answer should receive,
And Phillis Demophoon's, if alive;
Jason should to Hypsipyle return
A sad reply, and Sappho cease to mourn:
Nor him whom she can ne'er possess, desire,
But give to Phoebus fane her votive lyre.
As much as you in lofty epics deal,
You, Macer, show that you love's passion feel,
And sensible of beauty's powerful charm,
You hear their call amid the noise of arms.
A place for Paris in your verse we find,
And Helen's to the young adult'rer kind;
There lovely Laodamia mourns her lord,
The first that fell by Hector's fatal sword.
If well I know you, and your mind can tell,
The theme's as grateful, and you like as well
To tune your lyre for Cupid as for Mars,
And Thracian combats change for Paphian wars;
If well I know you, and your works design
Your will, you often quit your camp for mine.
Poem 19
Elegy XIX: By Dryden.
If for thyself thou wilt not watch thy whore,
Watch her for me that I may love her more.
What comes with ease we nauseously receive,
Who but a sot would scorn to love with leave?
With hopes and fears my flames are blown up higher;
Make me despair, and then I can desire.
Give me a jilt to tease my jealous mind;
Deceits are virtues in the female kind.
Corinna my fantastic humour knew,
Play'd trick for trick, and kept herself still new;
She, that next night I might the sharper come,
Fell out with me, and sent me fasting home.
Or some pretence to lie alone would take ;
Whene'er she pleas'd her head and teeth would ache:
Till having won me to the highest strain,
She took occasion to be sweet again.
With what a gust, ye gods, we then embrac'd!
How ev'ry kiss was dearer than the last!
Thou whom I now adore, be edified,
Take care that I may often be denied;
Forget the promis'd hour, or feign some fright,
Make me lie rough on bulks each other night.
These are the arts that best secure thy reign,
And this the food that must my fires maintain.
Gross easy love does, like gross diet, pall;
In squeasy stomachs honey turns to gall.
Had Danae not been kept in brazen tow'rs,
Jove had not thought her worth his golden show'rs:
When Juno to a cow turn'd Io's shape,
The watchman help'd her to a second leap.
Let him who loves an easy whetstone whore,
Pluck leaves from trees, and drink the common shore.
The jilting harlot strikes the surest blow,
A truth which I by sad experience know;
The kind, poor, constant creature we despise,
Man but pursues the quarry while it flies.
But thou dull husband of a wife too fair,
Stand on thy guard, and watch the precious ware;
If creaking doors, or barking dogs, thou hear,
Or windows scratch'd, suspect a rival there.
An orange wench would tempt thy wife abroad;
Kick her, for she's a letter-bearing bawd.
In short, be jealous as the devil in hell,
And set my wit on work to cheat thee well.
The sneaking city-cuckold is my foe;
I scorn to strike but when he wards the blow.
Look to thy hits and leave off thy conniving,
I'll be no drudge to any wittol living;
I have been patient, and forborne thee long,
In hope thou wouldst not pocket up thy wrong:
If no affront can rouse thee, understand
I'll take no more indulgence at thy hand.
What, ne'er to be forbid thy house and wife
Damn him who loves to lead so ill a life.
Now I can neither sigh, nor whine, nor pray;
All those occasions thou hast ta'en away.
Why art thou so incorrigibly civil ?
Do somewhat I may wish thee at the devil
For shame, be no accomplice in my treason;
A pimping husband is too much in reason.
Once more wear horns, before I quite forsake her
In hopes whereof, I rest thy cuckold-maker.
Book 3
Poem 1
Elegy I: The Poet deliberates with himself whether he should continue writing elegies, or attempt tragedy.
Unhurt by steel, arose an ancient wood,
A mansion fit for some retiring god;
With craggy stones a secret grot was hung,
And in the midst a sacred fountain sprung;
The courting birds repeating songs of love,
With soft complainings sweetly fill'd the grove:
Here wand'ring thoughtful, and intent to choose
Some theme unsung, to please the busy muse;
Fair elegy came on with gentle pace,
Unforc'd her air and easy was her grace.
Her flaxen hair, in curious tresses wreath'd,
Ambrosial sweets and heav'nly odours breath'd;
A simple dress the careless charmer bore,
And loving looks, and smiles unartful wore.
Next came the goddess of the tragic scene,
With stately tread, and proud majestic mien
Her front severe, with hanging curls was drown'd,
Her length of robe was full, and swept the ground:
Her hand held out, a regal sceptre grac'd,
And Lydian buskins half her legs embrac'd.
She first; "Must love for ever tune thy voice,
Fond idle bard, and trifling in thy choice
Thy wanton songs employ the drunkard's tongue,
In ev'ry street thy ribald lays are sung;
The finger marks thee in thy passing by,
'Behold, where goes the slave of love,' they cry.
Thy lewd exploits, thou profligate, are grown
The public theme, and talk of all the town;
Whilst unconcern'd, and lost to sense of shame,
Thou still runn'st on nor mind'st thy ruin'd fame.
Enough thou'st told the plaints of fond desire,
Now let a nobler inspiration fire;
Thy matter cramps thy genius, learn to find
A manly subject, and exert thy mind.
In songs for girls, fond toys, and idle play,
Thy muse has wanton'd all her hours away.
But youth at length has fill'd its measure up;
My friend, 'tis time to taste of t'other cup.
Now in my service let thy force be shown,
Assert my honour, and retrieve thy own;
Thy sprightly fancy, and inventive wit,
The lofty style of tragic scenes will fit."
She said; and proudly rising in her gait,
Thrice shook her tresses, and display'd her state.
With open look (nor was my sight beguil'd)
And joyous eyes her rival sweetly smil'd;
Sustain'd her hand a myrtle branch upright?
Or did my fancy form the charming sight?
"Still so severe, 0, tragedy ! (she cried);
And canst thou ne'er forego thy sullen pride?
I not compare my lowly lays to thine;
Too weak materials for the vast design.
The style unlabour'd, negligent the dress,
My verse is humbler, and my matter less.
Gay, wanton, soft, my business is to move,
With melting strains, the playful god of love.
Bereft of me, fair Venus wants her charms,
I help the goddess, and prepare her arms.
My luring art, and soothing lays prevail,
Where lofty port, and tragic buskins fail.
I more deserve, by making that my care,
Thy rigid pride allows not thee to bear:
By me, Corinna first was taught to try
Tobreak from prison, and deceive the spy;
I first induc'd the fearful fair to slide
With tremb'ling caution from her husband's side;
When to thy arms, all loose, and disarray'd,
Prepar'd for pleasure, flew the melting maid.
Fix'd on her door, how oft I've hung on high,
Expos'd, and patient of each gazing eye !
How oft, in secret, while the keeper stay'd,
Within her woman's panting bosom laid !
Once sent a birthday gift, the cruel dame
In pieces tore, and gave me to the flame.
I taught thee first to cultivate thy mind;
Thy fancy brightened, and thy wit refin'd;
Thou to my care those merits must allow,
For which my rival would seduce thee now;"
They spoke. I answer'd, "Let me both conjure
To spare a mind with terrors unsecure;
Nor to my charge, when once pronounc'd, be laid
As crimes, the words my trembling tongue has said.
To gain me glory, thy decrees ordain
The regal sceptre and the tragic strain;
With painful labour need I toil for fame,
When easier tasks already raise my name?
Thou mak'st my love immortal; thee I choose:
Be thou my queen, and still command my muse.
Majestic pow'r, forgive my simple choice,
Thy gentle rival has obtain'd my voice.
Short is the time in which her palm is won;
Ere thine is gain'd, the poet's life is done."
I lowly said: she gracious gave assent,
And diff'rent ways the parting rivals went.
Ye gentle loves, complete the work assign'd,
A greater labour seems to press behind.
Poem 2
Elegy II: To his Mistress at the horse-race. By Henry Cromwell.
Not in the Circus do I sit to view
The running horses, but to gaze on you;
Near you I choose an advantageous place,
And whilst your eyes are fix'd upon the race,
Mine are on you -- Thus do we feast our sight,
Each alike pleas'd with objects of delight;
In softer whispers I my passion move,
You of the rider talk, but I of love.
When, to please you, I straight my subject quit
And change my wishes to your favourite;
Oh. might I ride, and be so much your care,
I'd start with courage from the barrier,
And with a swift short compass brush the goal --
Unless the sight of you my course restrains,
And makes my hands forego the loosen'd reins;
As Pelops gaz'd on Hippodamia's face,
Till he had almost lost th' important race;
Yet he his mistress by her favour won;
So may our prize assist us when we run.
"What mean these starts? you must not, can't remove:
This kind auspicious place was fram d for love.
I fear you're crowded,- Gentlemen, forbear,
Pray let your arms and knees the lady spare;
Madam, your gown hangs down-nay, pray let me --
Oh heav'ns ! what fine, what curious legs I see!
Sure, who Diana in a forest drew,
Copied in this the graceful'st parts from you;
Such Atalant discovering as she ran,
What rapt'rous wishes seiz'd Menalion
I burn'd and rag'd before -- what then are these,
But flames on flames, and waters to the seas?
By these a thousand other charms are guess'd,
Which are so advantageously suppress'd.
Oh for some air! this scorching heat remove,
Your fan would do't, but 'tis the heat of love."
But now the pomp appears, the sacred throng
Command applauses from the heart and tongue;
First victory with expanded wings does move,
Be near, O Goddess ! to assist my love;
To Mars let warriors acclamations raise,
The merchants' tongues resound with Neptune's praise;
Whilst I, whom neither seas nor arms invite,
In love alone, the fruit of peace, delight;
To their Apollo let the prophets pray,
And hunters to Diana homage pay.
Let the mechanics to Minerva vow,
Rustics to Ceres, and to Bacchus bow;
Whilst I devote myself to thee alone,
Kind Venus, and the pow'rful god thy son;
0 be propitious to my enterprize,
Inform with all thy softness these fair eyes,
And to love's cause her gentle breast incline;
She grants, and has contriv'd it with a sign;
Do you assure it too, you who're to me
(With Venus' leave) the mightier deity,
By all these heavenly witnesses' to you
Will I be ever faithful, ever true.
Now ib the open cirque the game's begun,
The praetor gives the signal, now they run;
I see which way your wishes are inclin'd,
To him a certain conquest is design'd;
For e'en the horses seem to know your mind.
He takes too large a compass to come in,
And lets his adversary get between;
Recall him, Romans, for a second heat,
And clear the course --
Now see your ground you better do maintain,
This lady's favour, and your fame regain;
The prize is his.-As yours successful prove,
So let my wishes, which are all for love;
I'm yet to conquer, and your heart's the prize;
Something she promis'd with her sparkling eyes,
And smil'd ;-" Enough," did I transported cry,
"The rest I leave to opportunity."
Poem 3
Elegy III: Of His Perjured Mistress. By Henry Cromwell.
Can there be gods ?-has she not falsely swore?
Yet is the beauty that she was before!
The curious tresses of her dangling hair,
As long, and graceful still as e'er they were;
That same inimitable white and red,
Which o'er her face was so distinctly spread,
The roses, and the lilies keep their place,
And ev'ry feature still as justly grace;
Her sparkling eyes their lustre still retain,
That form, that perfect shape does still remain,
As if she ne'er had sinn'd ; and heav'n, ('tis plain)
Suff'ring the fairer sex to break their vows,
To the superior pow'r of beauty bows.
T' inforce my credit to her perjuries,
Oft would she swear by those persuasive eyes;
As if that charm had been too weak to move,
Sh'as added mine;-tell me, ye pow'rs above,
Why all this pain ? why are these guiltless eyes
For her offence th' atoning sacrifice ?
Was't not enough Andromeda has died,
An expiation for her mother's pride ?
Is't not enough, that unconcern'd you see
(Vain witnesses for truth, for faith, for me,)
Such an affront put on divinity,
Yet no revenge the daring crime pursue,
But the deceiv'd must be her victim too?
Either the gods are empty notions, crept
Into the minds of sleepers as they slept,
In vain are fear'd, are but the tricks of law,
To keep the foolish cred'lous world in awe;
Or, if there be a god, he loves the fair,
And all things at their sole disposal are.
For us are all the instruments of war
Design'd, the sword of Mars, and Pallas' spear;
'Gainst us alone Apollo's bows are bent,
And at our hands Jove's brandish'd thunder sent.
Yet of the ladies, oh ! how fond are they !
Dare not the inj'ries they receive, repay,
But those who ought to fear them they obey.
Jove to his votaries is most severe;
Temples nor altars does his lightning spare.
Obliging Semele in flames expires,
But those who merit, can escape the fires.
Is this the justice of your pow'rs divine?
Who then will offer incense at a shrine ?
Why do we thus reproach the deities ?
Have they not hearts ?-and surely they have eyes,
Nay, had I been a god, I had believ'd
The lovely criminals, and been deceiv'd;
Had wav'd the judgments to their perj'ries due,
And sworn myself that all they spoke was true.
Since then the gods such ample gifts bestow,
As make you absolute o'er men below;
Pray let me find some mercy in your reign,
Or spare at least your lover's eyes from pain.
Poem 4
Elegy IV: To a man that locked up his wife. By Sir Charles Sedley
Vex not thyself and her, vain man, since all
By their own vice or virtue stand or fall.
She's truly chaste, and worthy of that name,
Who hates the ill, as well as fears the shame;
And that vile woman whom restraint keeps in,
Tho' she forbear the act, has done the sin.
Spies, locks, and bolts may keep her brutal part,
But thou'rt an odious cuckold in her heart.
They that have freedom use it least, and so
The power of ill does the design overthrow.
Provoke not vice by a too harsh restraint;
Sick men long most to drink, who know they mayn't.
The fiery courser, whom no art can stay,
Or rugged force, does oft fair means obey;
And he that did the rudest arm disdain,
Submits with quiet to the looser rein.
A hundred eyes had Argus, yet the while
One silly maid did all those eyes beguile;
Danae, tho' shut within a brazen tow'r,
Felt the male virtue of the golden show'r;
But chaste Penelope, left to her own will
And free disposal, never thought of ill;
She to her absent lord preserv'd her truth,
For all th' addresses of the smoother youth,
What's rarely seen, our fancy magnifies;
Permitted pleasure who does not despise ?
Thy care provokes beyond her face, and more
Men strive to make tho cuckold than the whore.
They're wondrous charms we think, and long to know
That in a wife enchants a husband so:
Rage, swear, and curse, no matter, she alone
Pleases, who sighs, and cries, " I am undone."
But could thy spies say, " We have kept her chaste,"
Good servants then, but an ill wife thou hast;
Who fears to be a cuckold is a clown,
Not worthy to partake of this lewd town,
Where it is monstrous to be fair and chaste,
And not one inch of either sex lies waste.
Wouldst thou be happy ? with her ways comply,
And in her case lay points of honour by:
The friendship she begins, wisely improve,
And a fair wife gets one a world of love:
So shalt thou welcome be to ev'ry treat,
Live high, not pay, and never run in debt.
Poem 5
Elegy V: The Dream. By Henry Cromwell.
'Twas in the midst and silent dead of night,
When heavy sleep oppos'd my weary sight,
This vision did my troubled mind affright:-
To Sol expos'd there stood a rising ground,
Which cast beneath a spacious shade around;
A gloomy grove of spreading oaks below,
And various birds were perch'd on ev'ry bough;
Just on the margin of a verdant mead,
Where murm'ring brooks refreshing waters spread
To shun the heat I sought this cool recess,
But in this shade I felt my heat no less;
When browzing o'er the flow'ry grass appear'd
A lovely cow, the fairest of the herd.
By spotless white distinguished from the rest,
Whiter than milk from her own udder press'd;
Whiter than falling, or the driven snow,
Before descending mists can make it flow.
She, with a lusty bull, her happy mate,
Delighted, on the tender herbage sat;
There, as he crops the flow'rs, and chews the cud,
Feasting a second time upon his food,
His limbs with sudden heaviness oppress'd,
He bends his head, and sinks to pleasing rest.
A noisy crow, cleaving the liquid air,
Thrice with lewd bill pick'd off the heifer's hair;
The glossy white imbib'd a spreading blot,
But on her breast appear'd a livid spot.
The cow rose slowly from her consort's side,
But when afar the grazing bull she spied,
Frisk'd to the herd, with an impetuous haste,
And pleas'd, in new luxuriant soil, her taste.
Oh, learn'd diviner!
What may this visionary dream portend,
If dreams in any future truth can end ?
The prophet nicely weighs what I relate,
And thus denounces in the voice of fate:-
"That heat you tried to shun i' th' shady grove,
But shunn'd in vain, was the fierce heat of love.
The cow denotes the nymph, your only care,
(For white's th' expressive image of the fair,)
And you the bull, abandon'd to despair.
The picking crow some busy bawd implies,
Who with base arts will soon seduce your prim.
You saw the cow to fresher pasture range,
So will your nymph for richer lovers change;
As mixing with the herd you saw her rove,
So will the fair pursue promiscuous love;
Soon will you find a foul incestuous blot,
As on the cow you view'd the livid spot."
At this my blood retired, with dismal fright,
And left me pale as death ; my fainting sight
Was quite o'ercast in dusky shades of night.
Poem 6
Elegy VI: To a River, as he was going to his mistress. By Rhymer.
Thy course, thy noble course a while forbear,
I am in haste now going to my dear!
Thy banks how rich, thy stream how worthy praise
Alas, my haste ! sweet river, let me pass.
No bridges here, no ferry, not an oar,
Or rope to haul me to the farther shore !
I have remember'd thee a little one,
Who now with all this flood com'st blund'ring down.
Did I refuse my sleep, my wine, my friend,
To spur along, and must I here attend ?
No art to help me to my journey's end!
Ye Lapland powers, make me so far a witch,
I may astride get over on a switch.
Or, for some griffin, or that flying horse,
Or any monster to assist my course;
I wish his art that mounted to the moon,
In shorter journey would my job be done.
Why rave I for what crack-brain'd bards devise,
Or name their lewd unconscionable lies ?
Good river, let me find thy courtesy,
Keep within bounds, and mayst thou ne'er be dry.
Thou canst not think it such a mighty boast,
A torrent has a gentle lover cross'd.
Rivers should rather take the lover's side,
Rivers themselves love's wondrous power have tried.
'Twas on this score Inachus, pale and wan,
Sickly and green, into the ocean ran ;
Long before Troy the ten-years siege did fear,
Thou, Xanthus, thou Neaera's chains didst wear;
Ask Achelous who his horns did drub,
Straight he complains of Hercules's club.
For Calydon, for all Aetolia
Was then contested such outrageous fray!
It neither was for gold, nor yet for fee;
Dejanira, it was all for thee.
E'en Nile so rich, that rolls thro' sev'n wide doors,
And uppish over all his country scours,
For Asop's daughter did such flame contract,
As not by all that stock of water slack'd.
I might a hundred goodly rivers name,
But must not pass by thee, immortal Thame;
Ere thou couldst Isis to thy bosom take.
How didst thou wind and wander for her sake!
The lusty ---- with broad Humber strove;
Was it for fame ? I say it was for love.
What makes the noble Ouse up from the main
With hideous roar come bristling back again ?
He thinks his dearest Dervent left behind,
Or fears her false, in new embraces joined.
Thee also some small girl has warm'd, we guess,
Tho' woods and forests now hide thy soft place.
Whilst this I speak, it swells and broader grows,
And o'er the highest banks impetuous flows.
Dog-flood, what art to me ? or why dost check
Our mutual joys ? and, churl, my journey break ?
What wouldst, if thee indeed some noble race,
Or high descent, and glorious name did grace ?
When of no ancient house or certain seat,
(Nor, known before this time, untimely, great)
Rais'd by some sudden thaw thus high and proud,
No holding thee, ill-manner'd upstart flood ;
Not my love-tales can make thee stay thy course,
Thou--zounds, thou art a -- river for a horse.
Thou hadst no fountain, but from bears wert pist,
From snows, and thaws, or Scotch unsav'ry mist.
Thou crawl'st along, in winter foul and poor,
In summer puddled like a common-shore.
In all thy days when didst a courtesy ?
Dry traveller ne'er laid a lip to thee.
The bane to cattle, to the meadows worse,
For something all, I for my sufferings curse.
To such unworthy wretch, how am I sham'd,
That I the gen'rous am'rous river nam'd!
When Nile and Achelous I display'd,
And Thame and Ouse, what worm was in my head
For thy reward, discourteous river, I
Wish, be the summers hot, the winters dry.
Poem 7
Elegy VII: Ovid laments his imperfect enjoyments. By an unknown hand.
Was she not heavenly fair, and rich attir'd ?
Was she not that which all my soul desir'd ?
Yet were these arms around her idly spread,
And with an useless load I press'd the bed.
E'en to my wishes was the power denied,
When with my wishes the kind nymph complied
I lay without life's animated spring,
A dull, enervate, worthless, lumpish thing.
My neck she folded with a soft embrace,
Now kissed my eyes, now wanton'd o'er my face,
Now lov'd to dart her humid tongue to mine,
Now would her pliant limbs around me twine,
And sooth, by thousand ways, the sweet design.
The moving blandishments of sound she tried,
And, " My dear life, my soul, my all," she cried.
In vain, alas ! the nerves are slacken'd still,
And I prov'd only potent in my will;
A poor inactive sign of man I made,
And might as well for use have been a shade.
If old I live, how shall I old prevail,
When in my youth I thus inglorious fail?
The bloom of years becomes my shameful moan,
Now in full growth the ripen'd man is shown,
But not the strength of man to her was known.
Untouched by brothers, sisters thus retire,
Or vestals rise to watch th' eternal fire;
Yet many a nymph whom I forbear to name,
Rave kindly yielded, and indulg'd my flame
Nor could the vigour of their 0vid blame.
Corinna knows when numb'ring the delight,
Not less than nine full transports crown'd the night.
Is verse or herbs the source of present harms ?
Am I a captive to Thessalian charms ?
Has some enchantress this confusion brought,
And in soft wax my tortur'd image wrought
Deep in the liver is the needle fix'd ?
Plagues she by numbers, or by juices mix'd?
By numbers sudden the ripe harvest die,
And fruitful urns no more their streams supply;
Oaks shed, unshook, their acorns at the call,
And the vine wonders why her clusters fall.
Why may not magic act on me the same,
Unstring the nerves, and quite untune the frame!
Gall'd at the heart, and longing to perform,
I rais'd indeed, but rais'd an empty storm;
Most disappointed when the most propense,
And shame was second cause of impotence.
What limbs I touch'd ! and only touch'd ! oh, fie!
Where was the blissful touch ? her shift can vie
In feasts like these, and touch as well as I.
Yet to touch her e'en Nestor might grow young,
And centuries, like twenty-one, be strung.
Such was the maid; the parallel had ran
Graceful, if I could add, such was the man.
Some envious deity with vengeance glow'd,
So sweet a gift had been so ill bestow'd.
I burn to clasp her naked in my arms,
Did she not freely open all her charms ?
What boots good fortune, if we want the pow'r
To snatch the pleasures of the favour'd hour?
I, like a miser, only could behold,
And brooded o'er an useless mine of gold;
So Tantalus with fruit untouch'd is curst,
And dies amid the gliding stream of thirst;
So rises early from th' untasted fair,
The grave old prelate, and kneels down to pray'r,
Were yet her melting kisses misenploy'd?
Did she strive vainly to be well enjoy'd ?
Sure she has beauties might deaf rocks enchant,
Bend the proud oak, and soften adamant;
She would have mov'd a man tho' almost dead,
But with my manhood the whole life was fled.
If none should lend an ear, why is the song,
Or painted nymphs shown to a blinded throng !
Ye gods ! what joys did not my fancy raise !
I curl'd in folds of love a thousand ways.
Strong were my thoughts, but ah ! my body lay
Languid as roses pluck'd off yesterday.
Now all the blood the circling spirits fire,
And the lost field impertinent require;
Begone untimely nerves! I trust no more,
Such was the promise of your strength before.
Could you the fair one balk of her delight,
Disgrace your master by so base a fright,
And want the courage for so sweet a fight?
Did she not kindly too your stay demand,
And tempt it softly with a soothing hand ?
But when solicitings no life could gain,
And inspirations, tho' from her, were vain;
"Who bade thee thus thyself to me to bring !
Go for a silly unperforming thing:
Art thou a wretch by some curs'd spell destroy'd,
Or here com'st fribbling with past pleasure cloy'd?"
She spoke, and springing from the bed she flew,
And secret beauties so disclos'd to view;
Yet to conceal the joyless night's digrace,
She called for water with a smiling face,
And wash'd a nameless unpolluted place.
Poem 8
Elegy VIII: He complains that his mistress did not give him a favourable reception.
What coxcomb will in future times think fit
To build in love his fortune on his wit ?
Wealth now is worth, whatever 'twas of old,
And merit valu'd by its weight in gold.
With male and female, this is now the rule,
And he that's poor, of course must be a fool.
The dame to read my am'rous verse delights,
My writings likes, but scorns the man that writes;
They freely on her privacy presume,
And find admittance where I must not come;
Me when she does her haunted house exclude,
To them she's civil, as to me she's rude.
Me she exposes to a thousand harms,
To walk the streets, while they are in her arms.
For whom does she my passion disregard ?
And who has intercepted my reward ?
Why is the beau with so much joy embrac'd ?
His pockets full, it seems, his coat is lac'd:
He won her with his military air
Which cheats as often as it charms the fair.
Could she her longing eyes forbear to fix
On his fine feather, and his coach and six!
Enrich'd by plunder, he could never miss
The favour, who would buy the venal bliss.
No matter how he got his wealth, by war,
And blood: she cares not, if she has her share.
The upstart forward was, 'tis said, in fight,
And in the field of battle made a knight:
But had his honour come without his gold,
His, sure, had been like my reception, cold.
To men of merit how could she be coy,
Yet to a murd'rer prostitute the joy?
That head which lolls upon your panting breast,
Was lately cover'd with a plumy crest.
Can you the bully to your bed admit ?
Are his hard limbs for ladies' dalliance fit ?
His hands in your embrace you'll find embru'd
With clotted, and perhaps with guiltless blood;
How awkward must it be for you to feel,
Near yours, his thigh that late was cas'd with steel
That ring, the token of his pride and state,
Was with a heavy gauntlet hid of late:
Canst thou have commerce with a thing so foul!
Where's now the boasted niceness of thy soul?
What pleasure canst thou in his roughness find?
Thou that wert once the softest of thy kind!
Behold what marks of brutal rage he bears,
And how he's mangled with dishonest scars.
Yet to these scars, dishonest as they are,
His wealth he owes, his fortunes with the fair.
No doubt, he makes a merit of his guilt,
And brags what blood he has in battle spilt.
Fine courtship this, to win a gentle dame;
Thou shar'st his money, and must share his shame.
Me, not the meanest of Apollo's train,
She hates, and I repeat my verse in vain;
I sing before her gate; her gate I find
Is less obdurate than her harden'd mind.
Forbear your songs, Apollo's sons, forbear,
And bend your future thoughts to arms and war.
Instead of inspirations, get commands;
To murder, and to rapine use your hands,
And you with ease reduce the female bands.
Had Homer in the Grecian army serv'd,
We ne'er had heard that he had begg'd, or starv'd.
Of gold the thund'rer show'd the mighty pow'r,
Descending softly thro' the brazen tow'r,
And clasping Danae in a golden show'r.
A thousand bars the virgin fair did hold,
But what are iron bars to bribes of gold?
Against this foe her father could not guard;
Watchmen, and women kept a fruitless ward.
The damsel, who herself before was coy,
Melts at the sight, and meets the dazzling joy.
When peaceful Saturn did heav'n's sceptre sway,
Deep in earth's womb the fatal metal lay;
None then their teeming mother's bowels tore,
In quest of hidden wealth, in various ore;
Fed with the fruits which bounteous nature yields,
In painted gardens, and in golden fields,
From her rich soil are reap'd spontaneous crops,
And from the forest oak sweet honey drops.
No hinds as yet did toil their time away,
Nor with keen clusters wound the parent clay:
As yet no landmark was by lab'rers set,
And none had learned to plough the sea as yet
None as yet knew the use of sails and oars,
Nor ventur'd voyages beyond their shores.
The wit of men the race of men destroys,
And all its pow'rs against itself employs.
How subtle's human nature to contrive
Its proper ruin, and itself deceive!
Why didst thou cities with high walls surround,
Why arms invent thy jarring sons to wound ?
What quarrel hast thou with the sea, and why
Didst thou at first the pathless ocean try ?
Cannot the land content thy restless pride ?
Didst thou with Saturn's sons the whole divide,
Thou wouldst not with three worlds be satisfied.
'Tis strange thy vast ambition did not fly
O'er earth, and sea, and air, and scale the sky;
That man did not aspire to be a god,
And tread the paths by Indian Bacchus trod,
To give his name to some distinguish'd star,
And be what Hercules and Caesar are.
Instead of yellow harvests, now we seek
For solid gold, and thro' earth's entrails break;
The wealth we thus acquire's the soldier's prey,
And dearly for the blood he spills we pay.
The courts deny admittance to the poor,
In vain the needy clients crowd the door;
The judges to the rich decree the cause,
And money only gives their force to laws.
'Tis money makes the judge with looks severe
Insult the poor, and give the rich his ear;
'Tis money buys the title, makes the knight,
And dignifies with quality the cit:
Let money do all this, and more; the bar
Let money govern, and direct the war.
Let peace, as money sets the terms, be made,
But let it not the rights of love invade.
Let us enjoy this privilege at least,
That if we must be poor, we may with love be bless'd:
For now-a-days there's not a dame in town
So coy, but if you've money she's your own.
What tho' her keeper may an Argus be ?
Blind him with money, and he'll nothing see.
What though her husband should by chance be by?
He'll leave the house, let you your money fly.
If there's a god above, to whom belongs
The cause of love, and slighted lovers wrongs,
Revenge the false one's mercenary scorn,
And let ill-gotten pelf to dirt return.
Poem 9
Elegy IX: Upon the Death of Tibullus. By Stepney.
If Memnon's fate bewail'd with constant dew,
Does, with the day, his mother's grief renew,
If her son's death mov'd tender Thetis' mind
To swell with tears the waves, with sighs the wind;
Sad Cupid now despairs of conqu'ring hearts,
Throws by his empty quiver, breaks his darts:
Eases his useless bows from idle strings;
Nor flies, but humbly creeps with flagging wings.
He wants, of which he robb'd fond lovers, rest;
And wounds with furious hands his pensive breast.
Those graceful curls which wantonly did flow,
The whiter rivals of the falling snow,
Forget their beauty, and in discord lie,
Drunk with the fountain from his melting eye.
Nor Phoebus, nor the muses' queen, could give
Their son, their own prerogative, to live.
Orpheus, the heir of both his parents' skill,
Tam'd wond'ring beasts, not death's more cruel will.
Linus' sad strings on the dumb lute do lie.
In silence forc'd to let their master die.
His mother weeping does his eyelids close,
And on his urn, tears, her last gift, bestows.
His sister too, with hair dishevell'd, bears
Part of her mother's nature, and her tears.
With those, two fair, two mournful rivals come,
And add a greater triumph to his tomb:
Both hug his urn, both his lov'd ashes kiss,
And both contend which reap'd the greater bliss.
Thus Delia spoke (when sighs no more could last)
Renewing by remembrance pleasures past;
"When youth with vigour did for joy combine,
I was Tibullus' life, Tibullus mine;
1 entertained his hot, his first desire,
And kept alive, till age, his active fire."
To her then Nemesis (when groans gave leave)
"As I alone was lov'd, alone I'll grieve;
Spare your vain tears, Tibullus' heart was mine,
About my neck his dying arms did twine:
I snatch'd his soul, which true to me did prove;
Age ended yours, death only stopp'd my love."
If any poor remains survive the flames,
Except thin shadows, and more empty names;
Free in Elysium shall Tibullus rove,
Nor fear a second death should cross his love.
There shall Catullus, crown'd with bays, impart
To his far dearer friend his open heart.
There Gallus (if fame's hundred tongues all lie)
Shall, free from censure, no more rashly die.
Such shall our poet's bless'd companions be,
And in their deaths, as in their lives, agree.
But thou, rich urn, obey my strict commands,
Guard thy great charge from sacrilegious hands.
Thou, earth, Tibullus' ashes gently use,
And be as soft and easy as his muse.
Poem 10
Elegy X.
Now Ceres' feast is come, the trees are blown,
And my Corinna now must lie alone.
And why, good Ceres, must thy feast destroy
Man's chief delight, and why disturb his joy ?
The world esteems you bountiful and good,
You led us from the field and from the wood,
And gave us fruitful corn, and wholesome food.
Till then poor wretched man on acorns fed;
Oaks gave him meat, and flow'ry fields a bed.
First Ceres made our wheat and barley grow,
And taught us how to plough, and how to mow;
Who then can think that she designs to prove
Our piety, by coldness in our love ?
Or make poor lovers sigh, lament, and groan,
Or charge her votaries to lie alone ?
For Ceres, though she loves the fruitful fields,
Yet sometimes feels the force of love, and yields:
This Crete can witness, (Crete not always lies)
Crete that nurs'd Jove, and heard his infant cries,
There he was suckled who now rules the skies.
That Jove his education there receiv'd,
Will raise her fame, and make her be believ'd;
Nay she herself will never strive to hide
Her love, 'tis too well known to be denied:
She saw young Jasius in the Cretan grove
Pursue the deer, she saw, and fell in love.
She then perceived when first she felt the fire,
On this side modesty, on that desire;
Desire prevail'd, and then the field grew dry,
The farmer lost his crop and knew not why;
When he had toil'd, manur'd his grounds, and plough' d,
Harrow'd his fields, and broke his clods, and sow'd,
No corn appear'd, none to reward his pain,
His labour and his wishes were in vain.
For Ceres wand'red in the woods and groves,
And often heard, and often told her loves:
Then Crete alone a fruitful summer knew,
Where'er the goddess came a harvest grew.
Ida was grey with corn, the furious boar
Grew fat with wheat, and wonder'd at the store:
The Cretans wish'd that such all years would prove,
They wish'd that Ceres would be long in love.
Well then, since then 'twas hard for you to lie
All night alone, why at your feast must I ?
Why must I mourn, when you rejoice to know
Your daughter safe, and queen of all below?
'Tis holy-day, and calls for wine and love;
Come, let's the height of mirth and humor prove,
These gifts will please our master pow'rs above.
Poem 11
Elegy XI: To his Mistress, that he cannot help loving her.
So much I've suffer'd, and so long, no more
I'll bear the wrongs which I have borne before.
Begone, vile Cupid, I'll no more endure
Thy slavish labors, and fatigues impure;
From hence, I'll put an end to all the pains
Thou'st cost me, and from hence shake off thy chains.
I hate the liv'ry I with pleasure wore,
And blush at bonds, which once with pride I bore:
But this, methinks, should have been done before.
To leave my wicked courses I begin,
As years deprive me of the gust of sin.
On Cupid's neck I should have trod when young,
And vanquish'd him when my desires were strong.
In that there had been virtue; now there's none,
The world will say so; let the world say on.
Much opposition I shall meet; perhaps,
The lewd will laugh, and threaten a relapse.
To bear reproaches I must be prepar'd,
Easy's the end, when the beginning's hard;
Content let me the present pain endure,
For the sharp medicine is the patient's cure.
How oft you have expos'd me to the cold,
While in your arms you did my rival hold!
How like a slave have I been forc'd to wait
All weathers, and how oft have watched the gate!
As if your house was trusted to my care
And I, your sentinel, did duty there.
Oft have I seen your sated lover come
With looks, as if he long'd to be at home.
But what most grated on my jealous mind,
Was that he there the waiting fool should find.
That aggravated most the cruel curse;
I would not wish my greatest foe a worse.
How oft have I attended you abroad,
Or in the city, cirque, or on the road ?
They took me for your husband by my care,
Or that your guardian or your slave I were.
I by the people's glances, and your own,
Observ'd you were acquainted with the town;
That of your love if I possess'd a part,
'Twas plain I shared with many more your heart.
What need I of your perjuries bring proof,
Suppose the common talk was not enough!
What do your ogles and your gestures mean,
Your carriage at th' assembly and the scene ?
There's scarce a fop you meet with in your way,
To whom you have not something soft to say;
Some token which you either understand
By mystic words or motion of the hand.
They tell me you are sick; I run to see,
And find, as ill as you pretend to be,
It is not for my rival, but for me.
I seldom told you of your faults, but strove
To cover all your failings with my love;
Of this I might remind you, and much more,
But what avails it now; th' affair is o'er:
A fond you found me, and a patient man,
And get you such another if you can.
I fear not now your frowns; my bark defies
The storm of words, and tempest of your eyes;
No coaxing now, your hardest phrases use,
Your looks, your language, all their terrors lose;
I am not such a fool as I have been,
To dread your spirit, and to sooth your spleen.
But, ah! by diff'rent passions I'm oppress'd,
Fierce love and hate contend within my breast;
My soul they thus divide, but love, I fear,
Will prove too strong, and get the mast'ry there;
I'll strive to hate her, but if that should prove
A fruitless strife, in spite of me I'll love.
The bull does not affect the yoke, but still
He bears the thing he hates against his will
I hate, I fly the faithless fair in vain,
Her beauty ever brings me back again;
She always in my heart will have a place,
I hate her humour, but I love her face;
No rest I to my tortur'd soul can give,
Nor with her nor without her can I live.
Oh ! that thy mind we in thy face did view,
Less lovely that thou wert, or else more true.
How diffrent are thy manners and thy sight!
Thy deeds forbid us and thy eyes invite.
Thy actions shock us, and thy beauty moves,
And he who hates thy faults, thy person loves.
Happy, ah ! ever happy should I be,
If I no charms or no defects could see.
Thee I conjure by all our past delights,
Our cheerful days and our transporting nights,
By all the imprecated gods above,
To whom thou art forsworn, but most by Love,
By thy fair face, which I as much adore
As all those gods, and own as much its pow'r,
Forgive me this offence, and I'll offend no more.
Be what thou wilt, thy humour good or ill,
I'll love thee, thou shalt be my mistress still
Ah, let my passion ever favour find,
Or be it with, or be't against my mind,
But rather let me sail before the wind.
Ah, let thy wishes with my will agree,
Since surely I thy slave must ever be;
In thee since I have centred all my joys,
Oh Venus ! let my love be still my choice.
Poem 12
Elegy XII: He complains that the praises he has bestowed on his mistress in his verses, have occasioned him many rivals.
Ill-omen'd birds, how luckless was the day,
When o'er my love you did your wings display!
What wayward orb, what inauspicious star
Did then rule heav'n ? what gods against me war?
She who so much my fatal passion wrongs,
Was known and first made famous by my songs.
I lov'd her first, and lov'd her then alone,
But now, I fear, I share her with the town.
Am I deceiv'd or can she be the same,
Who only to my verses owes her fame
My verse a price upon her beauty laid,
And by my praises she her market made;
Whom but myself can I with reason blame?
Without me she had never had a name.
Did I do this, who knew her soul so well?
Dearly to me she did her favours sell;
And when the wares were to the public known,
Why should I think she'd sell to me alone ?
'Twas I proclaim'd to all the town her charms,
And tempted cullies to her venal arms;
I made their way, I show'd them where to come,
And there is hardly now a rake in Rome
But knows her rates, and thanks my babbling muse:
Her house is now as common as the stews;
For this I'm to the muse oblig'd, and more
For all the mischiefs envy has in store.
This comes of gallantry, while some employ
Their talents on the fate of Thebes and Troy,
While others Caesar's godlike acts rehearse,
Corinna is the subject of my verse.
Oh, that I ne'er had known the art to please,
But written without genius and success.
Why did the town so readily believe
My verse, and why to songs such credit give ?
Sure poetry s the same it ever was,
And poets ne'er for oracles did pass.
Why is such stress upon my writings laid?
Why such regard to what by me is said ?
I wish the tales I've of Corinna told,
Had been receiv'd as fables were of old;
Of furious Scylla's horrid shape we read,
And how she scalp'd her hoary father's lead:
Of her fair face, and downward how she takes
The wolf's fierce form, the dog's, or curling snake's;
Serpents for hair, in ancient song we meet,
And man and horse with wings instead of feet.
Huge Tityon from the skies the poets flung,
Encelladus's wars with Jove they sung;
How by her spells, and by her voice, to beasts,
The doubtful virgin chang'd her wretched guests;
How Eolus did for Ulysses keep
The winds in bottles while he plough'd the deep:
How Cerberus, three headed, guarded hell;
And from his car the son of Phoebus fell:
How thirsty Tantalus attempts to sip
The stream in vain, that flies his greedy lip:
How Niobe in marble drops a tear,
And a bright nymph was turn'd into a bear:
How Progne, now a swallow, does bemoan
Her sister nightingale, and pheasant son.
In Leda, Danae, and Europa's rapes,
They sing the king of gods in various shapes;
A swan he lies on ravish'd Leda's breast,
And Danae by a golden show'r compress'd;
A bull does o'er the waves Europa bear,
And Proteus any form he pleases wear.
How oft do we the Theban wonders read,
Of serpent's teeth transform'd to human seed!
Of dancing woods, and moving rocks, that throng
To hear sweet Orpheus, and Amphion's song ?
How oft do the Heliades bemoan,
In tears of gum, the fall of Phaeton!
The sun from Atreus' table frightened flies,
And backward drives his chariot in the skies.
Those now are nymphs that lately were a fleet;
Poetic license ever was so great.
But none did credit to these fictions give,
Or for true history such tales receive,
And though Corinna in my songs is fair,
Let none conclude she's like her picture there.
The fable she with hasty faith receiv'd,
And what, so very well she lik'd, believ'd.
But since so ill she does the poet use,
'Tis time her vanity to disabuse.
Poem 13
Elegy XIII: Of Juno's Feast.
My wife, a native of Phaliscan plains,
Where the rich soils enrich the lab'ring swains,
Where purple grapes and golden apples grow,
A conquest we to great Camillus owe.
When once to Juno's feast she thither went,
My mind to know the secret rites was bent:
The pious priests the solemn sports prepare,
And purify the fane with holy care.
A heifer of the place they sacrifice,
But ne'er to men expose their mysteries,
I mark'd the hidden way my consort went,
And follow'd down the deep and dark descent.
To an old wood at last I came, whose shade
Impress'd a horror on the gloom it made,
And ev'ry step with trembling feet I trod,
Profan'd, I thought, the dwelling of a god.
An altar there was rais'd by hands divine,
And fragrant incense flam'd around the shrine.
Chaste matrons there their vow'd oblations pay,
And celebrate with joyful hymns the day.
Soon as the fife the signal gives, they move
In long procession through the sacred grove
Branches and flow'rs are with devotion spread
O'er all the way, and priestly vestments laid.
Next after these, through loud acclaims, they lead
A cow milk white, and of Phaliscan breed;
Then a young steer, whose forehead ne'er had borne
The crooked honours of the butting horn.
The least of all the victims was a swine,
And then a ram whose horns around his temples twine.
A goat, whom most the goddess hates, comes last;
The present feels her vengeance for the past.
When in a wood to hide herself she tried,
She by the bleating of a goat was spied;
For this the beast is by the boys pursu'd;
For this she's ever greedy of its blood,
And he, who first the letcher wounds in play,
Claims by her law, and hears the prize away.
The tender youth, and tim'rous virgin strow
With robes the ground the goddess is to go.
The virgins' locks with golden fillets bound,
And sparkling diamonds glitt'ring all around;
Buskins embroider'd on their feet they wear,
And spreading trains with pride uneasy bear.
Here, as in Greece the custom was of old,
The image of the goddess we behold
Borne on the heads of maidens, and behind
The priestesses in beauteous rank you find.
An awful silence reigns : the goddess last
Approaches, and with her the pomp is past.
The dress was Greek, and such Halesus wore,
When in a fright he fled the Grecian shore;
His father kill'd, an Argive ship he fraught,
And to this coast the royal treasure brought.
Much peril had he past, much labour known,
O'er lands and seas, before he reach'd our own,
And landing built, with happy hand, the town,
Where first he did this festival revive,
And its Greek rules to the Phaliscans give;
The rites and sacrifices first he show'd,
As practis'd now within this ancient wood.
Ah, may these rites to all propitious be,
No more to those that serv'd them than to me.
Poem 14
Elegy XIV: He desires his mistress, if she does cuckold him, not to let him know it.
I do not ask you would to me prove true,
Since you're a woman, and a fair one too.
Act what you please, yet study to disguise
The wanton scenes from my deluded eyes.
A stiff denial would attenuate
That crime which your confession would make great.
And 'twere unwise to trust the tell-tale light,
With the dark secrets of the silent night.
Tho' bought to be enjoy'd, a common whore
Ere she begins will shut the chamber door:
And will you turn debauch'd, then vainly own
How lewd you are, to this malicious town?
At least seem virtuous, and tho' false you be,
Say you are honest, and I'll credit thee.
Conceal your actions, and while I am by,
Let modest words your looser thoughts belie;
When to your private chamber you retire,
Unmask your lust, and vent each warm desire;
Throw off affected coyness, and remove
The bold intruder between thee and love:
Talk not of honour, lay that toy aside,
In men 'tis folly, and in women pride;
There without blushes you may naked lie,
Clasping his body with your tender thigh;
Shoot your moist dart into his mouth, to show
The sense you have of what he acts below;
Try all the ways, your pliant bodies twine,
In folds more strange than those of Aretine:
With melting looks fierce joys you may excite,
And with thick dying accents urge delight.
But when you're dress'd, then look as innocent
As if you knew not what such matters meant;
Cozen the prying town, and put a cheat
On it and me, I'll favour the deceit.
False as thou art, why must I daily see
Th' intriguing billet-doux he sends to thee ?
The wanton sonnet, or soft elegy ?
Why does your bed all tumbled seem to say,
See what they've done, see where the lovers lay!
Why do your locks and rumpled head-clothes show
'Tis more than usual sleep that made 'em so?
Why are the kisses which he gave, betray'd
By the impression which his teeth had made ?
Yet say you're chaste, and I'll be still deceived;
What much is wish'd for, is with ease believ'd.
But when you own what a lewd wretch thou art,
My blood grows cold and freezes at my heart,
Then do I curse thee, and thy crimes reprove,
But curse in vain, for still I find I love;
"Since she is false," oft to myself I cry,
"Would I were dead,"-yet 'tis with thee I'd die
I will not see your maid, to let me know
Who visits you, where, and with whom you go;
Nor by your lodging send my boy to scout,
And bring me word who passes in and out.
Enjoy the pleasure of the present times,
But let not me be knowing of your crimes.
Do you forswear't, tho' in the act you're caught,
I'll trust the oath, and think my eyes in fault.
Poem 15
Elegy XV: To Venus, that he may have done writing elegies.
To Virgil Mantua owes immortal fame,
Catullus to Verona gives a name;
Why mayn't, if I attempt some great design,
Peligne be as much oblig'd to mine ?
Why mayn't my muse a glorious toil pursue,
And as much honour to my country do ?
A people, who, when Rome has been alarm'd
By foreign foes, in her defence have arm'd;
Beneath your golden banners I have fought
So long, your discipline so much have taught,
'Tis time to give me a discharge, to prove
Some other, some more glorious theme than love
See Bacchus beckons me my voice to raise,
Of lofty deeds to sings, in lofty lays;
To mount my muse on some more generous horse,
And try her courage in some daring course.
Adieu, my sighing elegies, adieu!
I'll be no more concern'd with love or you;
But what I write my being shall survive,
And in his verse the poet ever live.
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