[OVID, EPISTOLARUM] DE PONTO, LIB. IV. EPIST. III.
TO HIS INCONSTANT FRIEND, TRANSLATED FOR THE USE OF ALL THE JUDASES OF THIS TOUCHSTONE-AGE.
Shall I complain, or not? or shall I mask
Thy hateful name, and in this bitter task
Master my just impatience, and write down
Thy crime alone, and leave the rest unknown?
Or wilt thou the succeeding years should see
And teach thy person to posterity?
No, hope it not; for know, most wretched man,
'Tis not thy base and weak detraction can
Buy thee a poem, nor move me to give
Thy name the honour in my verse to live.
Whilst yet my ship did with no storms dispute,
And temp'rate winds fed with a calm salute
My prosp'rous sails, thou wert the only man
That with me then an equal fortune ran;
But now since angry heav'n with clouds and night
Stifled those sunbeams, thou hast ta'en thy flight;
Thou know'st I want thee, and art merely gone
To shun that rescue I reli'd upon;
Nay, thou dissemblest too, and dost disclaim
Not only my acquaintance, but my name.
Yet know—though deaf to this—that I am he
Whose years and love had the same infancy
With thine, thy deep familiar that did share
Souls with thee, and partake thy joys or care;
Whom the same roof lodg'd, and my Muse those nights
So solemnly endear'd to her delights.
But now, perfidious traitor, I am grown
The abject of thy breast, not to be known
In that false closet more; nay, thou wilt not
So much as let me know I am forgot.
If thou wilt say thou didst not love me, then
Thou didst dissemble: or if love again,
Why now inconstant? Came the crime from me
That wrought this change? Sure, if no justice be
Of my side, thine must have it. Why dost hide
Thy reasons then? For me, I did so guide
Myself and actions, that I cannot see
What could offend thee, but my misery.
'Las! if thou wouldst not from thy store allow
Some rescue to my wants, at least I know
Thou couldst have writ, and with a line or two
Reliev'd my famish'd eye, and eas'd me so.
I know not what to think! and yet I hear,
Not pleas'd with this, th'art witty, and dost jeer.
Bad man! thou hast in this those tears kept back
I could have shed for thee, shouldst thou but lack.
Know'st not that Fortune on a globe doth stand,
Whose upper slipp'ry part without command
Turns lowest still? the sportive leaves and wind
Are but dull emblems of her fickle mind.
In the whole world there's nothing I can see
Will throughly parallel her ways but thee.
All that we hold hangs on a slender twine,
And our best states by sudden chance decline.
Who hath not heard of Crœsus' proverb'd gold,
Yet knows his foe did him a pris'ner hold?
He that once aw'd Sicilia's proud extent
By a poor art could famine scarce prevent;
And mighty Pompey, ere he made an end,
Was glad to beg his slave to be his friend.
Nay, he that had so oft Rome's consul been,
And forc'd Jugurtha and the Cimbrians in,
Great Marius! with much want and more disgrace,
In a foul marsh was glad to hide his face.
A Divine hand sways all mankind, and we
Of one short hour have not the certainty.
Hadst thou one day told me the time should be
When the Getes' bows, and th' Euxine I should see,
I should have check'd thy madness, and have thought
Th' hadst need of all Anticyra in a draught.
And yet 'tis come to pass! nor, though I might
Some things foresee, could I procure a sight
Of my whole destiny, and free my state
From those eternal, higher ties of fate.
Leave then thy pride, and though now brave and high,
Think thou mayst be as poor and low as I.
[OVID,] TRISTIUM, LIB. III. ELEG. III.
TO HIS WIFE AT ROME, WHEN HE WAS SICK.
Dearest! if you those fair eyes—wond'ring—stick
On this strange character, know I am sick;
Sick in the skirts of the lost world, where I
Breathe hopeless of all comforts, but to die.
What heart—think'st thou?—have I in this sad seat,
Tormented 'twixt the Sauromate and Gete?
Nor air nor water please: their very sky
Looks strange and unaccustom'd to my eye;
I scarce dare breathe it, and, I know not how,
The earth that bears me shows unpleasant now.
Nor diet here's, nor lodging for my ease,
Nor any one that studies a disease;
No friend to comfort me, none to defray
With smooth discourse the charges of the day.
All tir'd alone I lie, and—thus—whate'er
Is absent, and at Rome, I fancy here.
But when thou com'st, I blot the airy scroll,
And give thee full possession of my soul.
Thee—absent—I embrace, thee only voice.
And night and day belie a husband's joys.
Nay, of thy name so oft I mention make
That I am thought distracted for thy sake.
When my tir'd spirits fail, and my sick heart
Draws in that fire which actuates each part,
If any say, th'art come! I force my pain,
And hope to see thee gives me life again.
Thus I for thee, whilst thou—perhaps—more blest,
Careless of me dost breathe all peace and rest,
Which yet I think not, for—dear soul!—too well
Know I thy grief, since my first woes befell.
But if strict Heav'n my stock of days hath spun,
And with my life my error will be gone,
How easy then—O Cæsar!—were't for thee
To pardon one, that now doth cease to be?
That I might yield my native air this breath,
And banish not my ashes after death.
Would thou hadst either spar'd me until dead,
Or with my blood redeem'd my absent head!
Thou shouldst have had both freely, but O! thou
Wouldst have me live to die an exile now.
And must I then from Rome so far meet death,
And double by the place my loss of breath?
Nor in my last of hours on my own bed
—In the sad conflict—rest my dying head?
Nor my soul's whispers—the last pledge of life,—
Mix with the tears and kisses of a wife?
My last words none must treasure, none will rise
And—with a tear—seal up my vanquish'd eyes;
Without these rites I die, distress'd in all
The splendid sorrows of a funeral;
Unpitied, and unmourn'd for, my sad head
In a strange land goes friendless to the dead.
When thou hear'st this, O! how thy faithful soul
Will sink, whilst grief doth ev'ry part control!
How often wilt thou look this way, and cry,
O! where is't yonder that my love doth lie?
Yet spare these tears, and mourn not thou for me,
Long since—dear heart!—have I been dead to thee.
Think then I died, when thee and Rome I lost,
That death to me more grief than this hath cost.
Now, if thou canst—but thou canst not—best wife,
Rejoice, my cares are ended with my life.
At least, yield not to sorrows, frequent use
Should make these miseries to thee no news.
And here I wish my soul died with my breath,
And that no part of me were free from death;
For, if it be immortal, and outlives
The body, as Pythagoras believes,
Betwixt these Sarmates' ghosts, a Roman I
Shall wander, vex'd to all eternity.
But thou—for after death I shall be free—
Fetch home these bones, and what is left of me;
A few flow'rs give them, with some balm, and lay
Them in some suburb grave, hard by the way;
And to inform posterity, who's there,
This sad inscription let my marble wear;
"Here lies the soft-soul'd lecturer of love,
Whose envi'd wit did his own ruin prove.
But thou,—whoe'er thou be'st, that, passing by,
Lend'st to this sudden stone a hasty eye,
If e'er thou knew'st of love the sweet disease,
Grudge not to say, May Ovid rest in peace!"
This for my tomb: but in my books they'll see
More strong and lasting monuments of me,
Which I believe—though fatal—will afford
An endless name unto their ruin'd lord.
And now thus gone, it rests, for love of me,
Thou show'st some sorrow to my memory;
Thy funeral off'rings to my ashes bear,
With wreaths of cypress bath'd in many a tear.
Though nothing there but dust of me remain,
Yet shall that dust perceive thy pious pain.
But I have done, and my tir'd, sickly head,
Though I would fain write more, desires the bed;
Take then this word—perhaps my last—to tell,
Which though I want, I wish it thee, farewell!