Book III


                        Contents

 

Book III Elegy I: Elegy versus Tragedy. 1

Book III Elegy II: At the Races. 4

Book III Elegy III: She’s Faithless. 7

Book III Elegy IV: Adultery. 9

Book III Elegy V: The Dream.. 11

Book III Elegy VI: The Flooded River 13

Book III Elegy VII: A Problem! 16

Book III Elegy VIII: The Curse of Money. 19

Book III Elegy IX: Elegy for the Dead Tibullus. 21

Book III Elegy X: No Sex- It’s the Festival of Ceres. 23

Book III Elegy XIa: That’s Enough! 25

Book III Elegy XIb:  The Conflict of Emotions. 26

Book III Elegy XII: It Serves Me Right! 27

Book III Elegy XIII: The Festival of Juno. 29

Book III Elegy XIV: Discretion Please! 31

Book III Elegy XV: His Fame to Come. 33

 

 

 

Book III Elegy I: Elegy versus Tragedy

 

There’s an old wood untouched for many years:

you’d believe a god lives in the place.

There’s a sacred spring at its centre and a cave

of overhanging rock, and birds sing sweetly all around.

While I was walking there privately in the wooded shade –

wondering what project my Muse might be engendering –

Elegy arrived, her perfumed hair in a knot,

and with one foot, I think, shorter than the other.

Her form was lovely, her dress refined, her looks loving,

and even the defect of her foot was a source of charm.

And stormy Tragedy appeared with giant strides:

forehead wild with hair, robe trailing the ground:

her left hand waving a royal sceptre about,

high-soled Lydian boots fastened to her feet.

And she spoke first, saying: ‘O sluggish poet,

will you ever stop taking love as your subject?

They talk of your worthlessness at drunken banquets,

they talk of it passing the crossroads on every street.

Often someone points out the poet as well,

and says: “That’s him, the one wild Love inflames!”

You’re the common talk of the whole city, and don’t see it,

while you tell of your doings, with their past shame.

It’s time you waved your wand to a weightier beat:

you’ve lazed about long enough – start a mightier work!

Your content cramps your genius. Sing the deeds of heroes.

“This gives me scope for my spirit!” is what you’ll say.

Your Muse was playing, singing tender girls,

and the first acts of youth in your verses.

Then I’ll be famous for Roman Tragedy through you!

Your spirit will itself discharge my principles.’

At that, balancing on her ornate shoes,

she nodded her head with its weight of hair.

Then Elegy laughed with sidelong eyes, if I recall it –

and was that a myrtle wand in her right hand?

‘Why crush me with your weighty words, proud Tragedy?’

she said, ‘and why is it you can never take a lighter tone?

All the same you’ve deigned to speak unequal lines:

you’ve used my own metre to attack me.

I’d not compare my things with your high song:

your Imperial palace overshadows my little threshold.

I’m light, and my dear Cupid shares my lightness:

I’m no mightier than my theme itself.

The mother of impudent Amor would be innocent

without me, I appear as her companion and go-between.

What your heavy shoes can’t break down

is an open door to my blandishments:

indeed I’ve earned more than you have by suffering

many things your arrogance would not stand.

Corinna learnt from me how to cheat her guard,

and seduce the loyalty that locks the door,

to slip from her bed clothed in a loose dress

and move in the night with noiseless step.

The times I’ve been left hanging at a hard doorpost,

not afraid to be read aloud by passers-by!

Why I remember hiding between a maid’s breasts,

poor me, until the savage porter left.

And when you sent birthday greetings by me,

and she tore me, wild girl, and drenched me with water.

I inspired the first fruits of your mind:

if she’s after you now, you’ve me to thank.’

She finished. I began: ‘I ask indulgence of you both,

fearful my words will escape your ears.

One honours me with the sceptre and platform shoes:

just now high song rose to the lips at her touch.

The other gives my love eternal fame –

come then, and add the short lines to the long!

Tragedy grant the poet a breathing space!

Your work is endless: what she wants is brief.’

With a gesture she gave permission – while there’s time,

quick, tender Amores: a greater work’s pushing on behind!


                 Book III Elegy II: At the Races

 

I’m not sitting here studying the horses’ form:

though I still pray that the one you fancy wins.

I come to speak to you, and sit with you,

lest you don’t notice how my love’s on fire.

You watch the course, and I watch you: we’ll both

see what delights us, and both feast our eyes.

Happy the charioteer that you fancy!

What’s he got, to make him dear to you?

Let it be me, hurled from the starting gate,

I’d be the brave rider pressing the horses onward,

now I’d give rein, now touch their backs with the whip,

now scrape the turning post with my nearside wheel.

If I caught sight of you as I rushed by, I’d falter,

and the slack reins would fall from my hands.

As when the Pisan’s spear nearly killed Pelops,

when he glanced at your face, Hippodamia!

Of course he still won because of his girl’s favour.

May each of us win through the favour of his lady!

Why edge away, in vain? The rows force us together.

The circus grants something useful from its rules –

you on the right though, whoever you are, be careful

of my girl: the poking of your elbow’s hurting her.

You too, sitting behind us, if you’ve any shame,

draw your legs up, don’t press with your bony knees!

But your dress is trailing on the ground too much.

Gather it up – or I’ll lift it with my fingers!

You’re a jealous dress to hide such lovely legs:

the more you look – you are a jealous dress!

Just like the legs of swift-footed Atalanta,

that Milanion longed to hold in his hands.

Just like the legs of Diana, her dress tucked-up,

chasing the wild beasts, wilder still herself.

I blazed when I couldn’t see them: what shall I do now?

you add fire to the fire, water to the sea.

I suspect from these that the rest might please,

what’s well hidden, concealed by your thin dress.

Would you like a quick breeze stirred while you wait?

One I can make with the programme in my hand.

Or is the heat more in my mind than in the air,

my captive heart scorched by love of a girl?

While I spoke, a speck of dust settled on your white dress.

Vile dust, away from her snowy body!

But now the procession comes – silence minds and tongues!

Time for applause – the golden procession comes.

Victory’s in the lead, with outstretched wings –

approach Goddess, and make my love conquer!

Cheer for Neptune, you who trust the waves too much!

No sea for me: my country captivates me.

Soldiers, cheer for Mars! I hate all warfare:

I delight in peace, and to find love in its midst.

Phoebus for the augurs, Phoebe the huntsmen!

Let craftsmen turn their hands to you, Minerva!

Let farmers honour Ceres and tender Bacchus!

Boxers please Pollux: horsemen please Castor!

I cheer for you, charming Venus, and the boy

with the powerful bow: Goddess help this venture

and change my new girl’s mind! Let her agree to be loved!

She nodded, and gave me a favourable sign.

What the goddess promised, I ask you to promise:

don’t talk of Venus, you’ll be a greater goddess.

I swear to you, by the crowd and the gods’ procession,

I want you to be my girl for all time!

But your legs are dangling. Perhaps it would help

to stick your toes on the rail in front.

Now the track is clear for the main event,

the praetor’s started the four-horse chariots.

I can see yours. Let the one you fancy, win.

The horses themselves seem to know what you want.

Oh dear, he’s taking the turning post too wide!

What are you doing? The next chariot’s overtaking.

What are you doing, fool? You’ll lose the girl’s best hopes.

Curses, pull hard on the left rein with your hand!

We’ve backed a nobody – call them back, Citizens,

everyone give the signal by waving their togas!

Yes, they’re recalled! – But don’t let those togas

ruin your hair, hide deep in my cloak, that’s fine.

Now the starting gates are open again:

the horses fly out, a multi-coloured throng.

Now take the lead, and fly into empty space!

Make my hopes, and my girl’s, a sure bet!

My girl’s hopes are certain, mine are unsure.

He wins the palm: my palm’s still to win.

She smiled, and promised something with those bright eyes.

That’s enough now, pay me the rest elsewhere!’


Book III Elegy III: She’s Faithless

 

Gods exist, go on, believe it – she broke the promise

she made and is still as lovely as she was before!

The long hair she had when she wasn’t a liar,

is just as long after she’s offended the gods.

Her radiance was whiteness tinged with a rosy blush

before – the blush shines on amongst the snow.

Her feet were slender – her feet are delicately formed.

She was tall and graceful – tall and graceful she remains.

Bright-eyes she had – they are radiant as stars,

with which she so often deceived me with her lies.

No doubt the eternal gods allow girls to swear

falsely too, and beauty has divinity.

I remember she swore by her eyes the other day,

and by mine: look, it is mine that felt the pain!

Tell me, gods, if she cheated you with impunity

why did I deserve punishment instead?

But didn’t innocent virgin Andromeda die by your order,

for her mother’s crime of boastful beauty?

Not enough for you, that I find you worthless witnesses,

but she laughs at me, and you, playful gods, unpunished?

By my punishment do I redeem her lying:

shall I be victim, deceived by the deceiver?

Either a god’s a thing of no account, an idle fear,

stirring the crowd through their foolish credulity:

or if there’s a true god, he loves tender girls,

and allows them all excessive liberties.

For us Mars straps on his deadly sword:

for us the hand of Pallas lifts the unfailing spear.

For us the pliant bow of Apollo’s bent:

for us Jove’s lofty right hand holds the fire.

The gods, offended, are scared to offend these beauties

and, besides, they fear those who don’t fear them.

And who should bother to burn incense on their altars?

We men it’s true need to show more spirit!

Jupiter blasts his own groves and hills with fire,

and neglects to hurl his bolts at perjured girls.

So many deserved it – but poor Semele was burned!

Her punishment was of her own making:

but if she’d withdrawn from her lover’s coming,

no father would have played mother to Bacchus.

Why complain and abuse all of heaven?

The gods too have eyes: the gods have hearts!

If I were a god, I’d let girls with lying lips

deceive my divinity without punishment:

I’d swear, myself, the girls were swearing truly

and I’d not be a god who spoke sourly.

Still, girl, you should use their gift in moderation –

or at least spare these eyes of mine!


Book III Elegy IV: Adultery

 

Harsh man, it’s no use guarding a tender girl:

your best protection lies in her disposition.

She who’s chaste without dread, is truly chaste:

she who’s not allowed to do it, she does it!

Though you guard the body well: the mind’s adulterous:

you can’t set a guard on what she desires, at all.

Nor can you guard her body, though all doors are barred:

though everyone’s shut out, the adulteress is within.

Who allows the crime, lessens the crime: opportunity

makes the seeds of naughtiness less potent.

Leave off, believe me, denial sparks the sin:

your indulgence is more likely to win her over.

I saw just recently a tight-reined mare,

fighting the bit, bolt away like lightning:

as soon as she felt the reins slacken she halted,

and they lay quiet on her flowing mane!

We always strive for what’s forbidden: want what’s denied:

so the sick man longs for the water he’s refused.

Argus had a hundred eyes, at front and back –

but Love alone often deceived them:

Danae in her room of eternal iron and stone,

was imprisoned, a virgin, yet became a mother:

While, however much she lacked guards, Penelope

remained untouched among the young princes.

What’s guarded we want the more, precautions

themselves lure the thief: few love what another allows.

It’s not her beauty pleases, but her husband’s love:

they believe there’s something there that captivates you.

She isn’t made good, whom a husband guards: adultery’s  made costly: fear more than form makes the prize greater.

Like it or not, forbidden passion delights us:

she only pleases if she can say: ‘I’m afraid!’.

Nor is it right to lock up a freeborn girl –

that fear fills the bodies of foreign peoples!

No doubt you want her guard to be able to say: ‘I did it.’

her chastity will be to your slave’s glory?

He’s so provincial who’s hurt by his wife’s adultery,

and he’s not observed the ways of Rome enough,

where Romulus and Remus were born illegitimate,

Ilia’s bastard twins begotten by Mars.

Why have beauty, if only chastity pleases you?

There’s no way they can go together.

If you’re wise, indulge the girl: forgo harsh frowns,

and don’t enforce the rights of an inflexible man,

and cultivate the friends your wife will bring you –

she’ll bring a lot. So great gifts come with little labour:

and you’ll always be able to join the youngsters’ revels,

and see lots of gifts, you didn’t give her, at home.


Book III Elegy V: The Dream

 

‘It was night, and sleep drowned my weary eyes:

such a dream it was terrified my mind:

a dense grove of holm-oaks under a sunlit hill,

and many birds hidden among the branches.

a wide lush green space beneath it, grassy meadow,

wet with the sounds of gently dripping water.

I escaped the heat under the leafy trees –

under a leafy tree but it was still burning hot –

Behold! A white heifer appeared in front of my eyes,

searching for grasses among the scattered flowers,

whiter than snow, when it has just fallen,

that lingers, not yet turned to running water,

whiter than milk, that just now was hissing foam,

and in a moment will leave the ewe drained.

A bull was her companion there, her fortunate mate,

and lay beside his bride on the soft earth.

While he lay and slowly chewed the grassy cud

and ate again the food he’d already eaten,

I saw sleep come and steal away his powers,

bowing his horned head to the ground.

Then a light-winged crow slid from the air

and settled cawing on the green turf,

and three times poked the snowy heifer’s front

with impudent beak, tearing away a tuft of white hair.

Lingering a long time, she abandoned bull, and meadow –

but carrying on her chest a black bruise:

and seeing bulls grazing the pasture far away –

bulls do graze rich pastures far away –

she hurried to them, and joined their herd,

and looked for earth with greener grass.

Say now, interpreter of midnight dreams, whoever,

what does this dream mean, if dreams have truth.’

So I spoke: so the interpreter of midnight dreams replied,

pondering over each word in his mind:

‘When you sought shelter under the fickle leaves,

but sheltered uselessly, that was love’s heat.

The heifer is your girl – a fitting colour for your girl:

you were her mate, a bull matched to a heifer.

The crow with sharp beak that pecked her breast,

an old procuress that addled your mistress’s wits.

That your heifer lingered a while then left the bull,

means that you’ll be left cold in your bed.

The bruise and the black blemish on her breast

says that her heart’s not free of adultery’s stain.’

His interpretation done, blood fled from my cold cheeks, and deepest night stood there before my eyes.


Book III Elegy VI: The Flooded River

 

Stop, you reed-filled river with muddy shores,

I’m hurrying to my girl – wait for a little, waters!

You’ve neither a bridge, nor a roped ferryboat,

to carry me across, without a stroke of the oar.

I remember you as little, and didn’t fear to ford you,

and the tops of your waves barely touched my ankles.

Now you rush by, full of melted snow from the mountain,

and your swollen waters roll on, in murky flood.

What use was my haste, the scant hours given to rest,

that merged the night with daylight,

if I still wait here, if there’s no art on offer

to allow me to set foot on the other bank?

Now I need the winged sandals Perseus had,

when he carried the dreadful head wreathed with snakes,

now I want the chariot in which Ceres’s seeds

were first sent to reach the untilled ground.

All marvellous untruths told by ancient poets:

things that never existed and never will.

I’d rather you, flooding river with roomy shores –

may you be such forever -  flowed within your bounds!

Believe me you’ll not be able to endure the hatred,

if it’s said, torrent, you by chance barred a lover’s way.

Rivers should help young people in love:

rivers themselves have known what love is.

Inachus ran pale for Melie the Bithynian

they say, and his icy waves grew warm.

The ten-year war at Troy was not yet done,

when Neaera dazzled your eyes, Xanthe.

Why? Wasn’t it true love for the Arcadian virgin

that drove Alpheus to flow to alien shores?

You too Peneus, spirited away Creusa,

to Phthian country, she betrothed to Xutho.

Why should I recall Asopus, whom Mars’s daughter Thebe

captivated, Thebe the future mother of five daughters?

If I ask you, Achelous, where your horns are now,

you’ll complain that Hercules broke them off in anger.

Calydon was not worth it, nor all Aetolia,

Deinara alone was worth it, all the same.

Rich Nile that flows through seven mouths,

who hides so well the source of all his waters,

could not conquer the flame Evanthe kindled, they say,

with his swirling flood, she the daughter of Asopus.

Enipeus ordered his waters to abate, to embrace Salmonis,

on dry land: he commanded and the waters receded.

And don’t forget Anio, rolling in his stony bed,

bringing water to the orchards of Tibur,

he was charmed by Ilia, though she was so dishevelled,

hair torn by her nails, cheeks marked by them.

She mourned her uncle’s crime and Mars’s wrongdoing,

wandering barefoot through the wilderness.

Anio saw her from his swift-flowing waters

and lifted himself from the waves, calling loudly:

‘Why wear away my banks so anxiously,

Ilia, child of Laomedon’s Troy?

Why so dishevelled? Why wandering alone,

with no white ribbon to tie back your hair?

Why do you weep, reddening your wet eyes with tears,

and why do you beat your naked breasts in frenzy?

He who can look with indifference at the tears

on your sweet face, has a heart of iron and flint.

Ilia, have no fears! My palace waits for you,

my waves will cherish you. Ilia, have no fears!

You’ll rule over more than a hundred nymphs:

for more than a hundred nymphs live in my waves.

Don’t spurn me so, I beg you, child of Troy:

you’ll have gifts greater than these I promised.’

He spoke. She cast her modest gaze on the ground

and sprinkled a shower of tears on her tender breast.

Three times she tried to run, three times stood rooted,

by those deep waters, fear robbing her of strength to flee.

Then, at last, tearing her hair with angry fingers,

with trembling mouth, she spoke these words of shame:

‘O I wish my bones had been gathered while I was virgin,

and preserved on a bier in my father’s tomb!

Why, am I offered marriage, a Vestal, now

disgraced, and denied by Ilium’s sacred flame?

Why linger, be pointed out as an adulteress by the crowd?

Let the face of infamy die, that carries the mark of shame!’

With that she held her dress against her swollen eyes,

and threw herself, lost, into the swift flood.

They say the river placed his slippery hands on her breast,

and gave her command over his marriage bed.

I believe you also were warmed by some girl:

but woods and groves hide your crime.

Even as I speak your swelling waves spread wider,

your deep bed can’t hold your surging waters.

Why rage at me? Why delay shared delights?

Why rudely interrupt the road I started on?

Why? If you were a true river, if you were a noble stream,

if you were widely known throughout the world –

you’re unknown, a gathering of fallen waters,

neither your source nor your springs are certain!

For springs you have the inflow of rain and melting snow,

the riches that slow winter supplies you with:

if it’s the days of solstice your course flows muddy,

if it’s the arid days you’re pressed into dusty earth.

What thirsty passer-by could drink from you?

What grateful voice, say: ‘Live for ever’?

Your flow’s harmful to herds, more so to farmland.

Perhaps that worries others: I’m worried by my own woes.

Alas for me then! Madly telling the loves of rivers!

A shame to let fall such names disgracefully.

Letting an unknown flood consider Achelous, Inachus,

and, Nile, I’ve even recalled your name!

For your services, I wish you, unclear torrents,

devouring suns, and ever thirsty winters!


Book III Elegy VII: A Problem!

 

Not that I think she isn’t lovely, and so cultured,

not that I haven’t often wished for her in my dreams!

Yet I held her, all in vain, completely slack,

lay there a limp reproach, a burden to the bed:

though I really wanted it, and the girl wanted it too,

I could get no more from my exhausted parts.

She threw her ivory arms around my neck,

arms whiter than the Scythian snows,

struggling, she mingled tongues in eager kisses,

and slipped a wanton thigh beneath my thigh,

and spoke coaxing words, called me her master,

and all those usual words that might help.

Yet my member, as if touched by cold hemlock,

was sluggish and denied my every effort:

I lay an inert body, a sham, a useless weight,

unsure whether I was a body or a ghost.

What old age will come, to me, if it does come,

when youth itself fails me in this way?
Ah, I’m ashamed of my years: why youth and strength

if my girl can’t feel my youth or strength?

She rose like a holy priestess going to the eternal flame,

like an elder sister leaving a beloved brother.

Yet I lately had golden Chlide twice, Pitho

the beautiful and Libas, three times without stopping:

I remember Corinna, in one short night, demanded

I keep it up for her nine times together.

Has some Thessalian poison weakened my cursed body?

Do charms and herbs hurt my poor self now,

some witch transfixes my name in scarlet wax

and sticks fine needles right into my liver?

Charms turn the stricken wheat to barren grasses,

charms stop the stricken waters at their source,

through incantations oaks drop acorns, vines their grapes,

and the apples fall down without being shaken.

Why shouldn’t I be stopped, and my vigour numbed

by magic arts, my body by that made unable to endure?

Add shame to it: the shame itself, of it, hurt me:

that was the secondary cause of my failure.

But what a girl, whom I only saw and touched!

Just as her slip itself touches her.

At her touch Nestor might be made young again,

and Tithonus stronger in old age.

I held her, but she did not hold a man.

What can I think of now to beg for in prayer?