Book III
Contents
Book III Elegy I: Elegy versus Tragedy
Book III Elegy
II: At the Races
Book III Elegy
III: She’s Faithless
Book III Elegy
VI: The Flooded River
Book III Elegy
VII: A Problem!
Book III Elegy
VIII: The Curse of Money
Book III Elegy
IX: Elegy for the Dead Tibullus.
Book III Elegy X:
No Sex- It’s the Festival of Ceres
Book III Elegy
XIa: That’s Enough!
Book III Elegy
XIb: The Conflict of Emotions
Book III Elegy
XII: It Serves Me Right!
Book III Elegy
XIII: The Festival of Juno
Book III Elegy
XIV: Discretion Please!
Book III Elegy
XV: His Fame to Come
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!
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!’
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!
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.
‘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.
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!
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?
I think the great gods were
sorry they gave the gift
that I’ve made use of so
shamefully.
I wanted to be welcomed – I
was truly welcome:
to kiss – I kissed: to be
near her – I was.
What was such good luck
worth? Why have and not enjoy?
Why eager for wealth and not
possess its power?
I’m parched like Tantalus,
silent now, in the midst
of fruit and water, he who
can never touch it.
Has anyone ever risen early
from his girl
so he can go straight to the
gods and pray?
No, she’s seductive:
squandered so many kisses on me:
urged me on with every one
of her powers!
She could have moved heavy
oak-trees,
stirred hard adamant, or the
deafest stones.
She’d have moved all men,
all living things for sure:
but I was neither man nor
living, as once before.
What joy can deaf ears have
when Phemis sings?
What joy can blind Thamyras
have in painted things?
But what silent delights my
mind invented!
What did I not imagine, all
the various ways!
But still my sex lay there
prematurely dead,
shamefully, limper than a
rose picked yesterday –
Look, now, he’s lively at
the wrong time, able,
now he’s demanding work and
service.
Why can’t you lie down
modestly, worst part of me?
You’ve caught me like this
with your promises before.
You failed your master: I
was left weaponless, through you,
enduring sad hurt and great
embarrassment.
Not even this did my girl
disdain to try,
to rouse me with her gently
moving hand:
but when she couldn’t make
me rise, with her art,
and saw it sink down there,
ignoring her,
‘Why toy with me, why, if
you’re sick,’ she said,
‘did you invite your
unwilling body to my bed?
Either some Circean
sorceress has bewitched you,
or you come here wearied by
another lover.’
With that, she leapt up,
veiled by her loose slip –
and how her fleeing naked
feet became her! –
And lest her servants
thought that all was chaste,
I scattered water there, to
cover the disgrace.
Does anyone admire the noble
arts these days,
or think that talent’s
displayed in tender verse?
Once genius was rated more
than gold:
but now to have nothing
shows plain stupidity.
Though my lovely girl’s
delighted with my books,
where the books can go, I
can’t go myself:
While she praised them, her
door closed as she praised.
Shamefully, clever, I go
here and there.
Look, some newly-rich
blood-drenched knight
made wealthy by his wounds
grazes my pastures!
Can you hug him in your
lovely arms, my sweet life?
Life of mine, can you lie
there in his embrace?
If you don’t know, that head
once wore a helmet:
there was a sword bound to
that thigh that serves you:
that left hand, that new-won
gold suits so badly,
held a shield: touch his
right – it was stained with blood!
Can you touch that right
hand by which others perished?
ah, where is that
tender-heartedness of yours?
See the scars, the marks of
former battles –
whatever he has, he earned with
his body.
Perhaps he’ll tell you how
many men he’s murdered!
Avaricious girl, can you
touch those revealing hands?
Am I, the pure priest of
Apollo and the Muses,
to sing idle songs at
unyielding doors?
If you’re wise, learn, not
what we sluggards know,
but the dangers of battle
and the rough camp,
forming lines of spears
instead of good verses!
Homer, the night can be
yours, if you wage war.
Jupiter, realising nothing’s
more powerful than gold,
turned himself to coinage to
seduce a virgin.
Without that wealth, father
was harsh, she severe,
the doors were bronze, and
the tower was iron.
But when the adulterer
knowingly came as cash,
she offered love herself and
saying ‘give’, she gave.
Yet when ancient Saturn
ruled the heavens,
Earth covered all her wealth
in deep darkness.
She stored the copper and
silver, gold and heavy iron,
among the shades, there were
no ingots then.
She gave better things –
crops without curved ploughs,
and fruits, and honey found
in the hollow oaks.
No one scarred the earth
with a strong blade,
no measurer of the ground
marked out limits.
no dipping oars swept the
churning waves:
then the longest human
journey ended at the shore.
Human nature, you’ve been
skilful, against yourself,
and ingenious, in excess, to
your own harm.
What use to you are towns
encircled with turreted walls?
What use to you to add the
discord of arms, at hand?
When was the sea yours –
land should have contented you!
Why not seek out a third
region then in the sky?
Though you honour the sky
too – Romulus,
Bacchus, Hercules, Caesar
now have temples.
We dig the earth for solid
gold not food.
Soldiers possess the wealth
they get by blood.
The Senate’s shut to the
poor – money buys honours:
here a grave judge, there a sober knight!
Let them have it all: let
arena and forum serve them,
let them conduct merciless
war or manage peace.
So long as they don’t bid
greedily for our lovers,
and – it’ll do – if
something’s left for the poor!
Now, though she may be as
sour as a Sabine,
he, who can give much, rules
her like a slave.
The porter shuts me out: for
me, she fears her husband:
but if I gave, those two
would quit the house!
O if only some god, avenger
of neglected lovers,
would turn their ill-gotten
wealth to dust!
If his mother grieved for
Memnon: his mother for Achilles,
and sad fate thus can touch
the great goddesses,
weep, Elegy, and loose your
tight-bound hair!
ah, only too truly from this
was your name taken! –
Tibullus, your own poet,
your own glory,
burns, a worthless corpse,
on the tall pyre.
Look, Venus’s boy carries an
upturned quiver,
his bow is broken, his torch
without its flame:
see, how he goes sadly with
drooping wings,
and how he beats his naked
breast with fierce hand!
His tears are caught in the
hair scattered about his neck,
and break in resounding sobs
from his mouth.
So he looked, they say, at
his brother Aeneas’s funeral,
when it left your palace,
glorious Iulus:
and Venus is no less grieved
by Tibullus’s death,
than when the wild boar
gashed Adonis’s thigh.
And poets are called sacred,
and beloved of the gods:
there are also those who
grant us divine inspiration.
Yet greedy death profanes
all sacred things:
of all things his shadowy
hands take possession!
What help were his divine
parents to Thracian Orpheus,
or his songs that overcame
the astonished creatures?
And Apollo, father of Linus
also, in the deep woods,
cried ‘aelinon!’ they say,
as he struck the reluctant lyre.
And Homer, by whom poet’s
mouths are moistened
as if by an eternal stream
from the Muse’s fountains –
he also at day’s end sank
down to dark Avernus.
Poetry alone escapes the
greedy pyre:
The poets works survive, the
tale of Troy’s sufferings
and the nocturnal guile that
un-wove the tardy web.
So Nemesis, and Delia, will
have a name forever,
the last your recent
worship, the other your former love.
What use are your rituals?
What use the Egyptian
sistrum? What use those
nights sleeping in an empty bed?
When evil fate drags down
the good – forgive my words! –
it incites me to believe
there are no gods.
Live piously – you die: obey
the rites piously, obeying
death drags you from the
temple’s echo to the hollow tomb:
Place your faith in poetry’s
truth – look, there, Tibullus lies:
of all there hardly remains
what might fill a little urn!
Did the funeral fires
consume you, sacred poet,
that had no fear of feeding
on your heart?
Flames that could commit
such wickedness
would burn the golden
shrines of the sacred gods!
Venus, who holds the heights
of Eryx turned away her face:
some say she could not hold
back her tears.
But still it is better so,
than that Corfu’s earth
had covered you, unknown,
with common soil.
Here, your mother closed
your wet eyes in death
and paid the last rites to
your ashes:
Here your sister, with torn
and unkempt hair,
came to share her sorrowing
mother’s grief,
Your Delia said: ‘I am
lucky, to have been loved by you,’
stepping from the pyre: ‘you
lived when I was your flame.’
while Nemesis said: ‘Why is
my hurt your grief?
His failing hand held me as
he died.’
Yet if anything is left of
us but a shadow and a name
Tibullus lives in some
valley of Elysium.
You come to meet him, ivy
wreathing your young brows,
learned Catullus, with your
Calvus:
and you, also, Gallus, too
free with your blood and life,
if that charge is false of
violating Caesar’s friendship.
Your spirit will accompany
them: if the body ends as spirit,
gracious Tibullus, added to
the numbers of the blessed.
I pray that your bones rest,
at peace, in their protecting urn,
and that the earth lies
lightly on your grave!
Here comes the annual
festival of Ceres:
my girl lies alone in an
empty bed.
Golden Ceres, fine hair
wreathed with ears of wheat,
why must your rituals spoil
our pleasure?
All peoples, wherever, speak
of your bounty, Goddess,
no other begrudges good to
humanity less.
Before you, the bearded
farmers parched no corn,
the word threshing-floor was
unknown on the Earth,
but oak-trees, the first
oracles, carried acorns:
these and tender herbs in
the grass were our food.
Ceres first taught the seeds
to swell in the fields,
and first with sickles cut
the ripened sheaves:
first bowed the necks of
oxen under the yoke,
and scarred the ancient
earth with curved blade.
Can anyone believe she
delights in lovers’ tears
that right worship lies in
torment and lonely beds?
Still, though she loves
fertile fields, she’s no rustic,
nor does she have a heart
bereft of love.
The Cretans are witness –
Cretans’ don’t always lie.
Crete was proud to nurse the
infant Jove.
There, he who steers the
world’s starry courses,
sucked milk, with tender
mouth as a little child.
Proof from a mighty witness:
witnessed by his praise.
I think Ceres might confess
to the charge I make.
She saw Iasus on the slopes
of Cretan Mount Ida,
slaughtering the game with
unerring hand.
She saw him, and flames
pierced her to the marrow,
from there, love, partly
drove out her shame.
Shame quelled by love: you
could see parched furrows
and the sowing itself gave
the least of returns.
Though the fields were
struck with well-aimed mattocks,
and the soil was broken with
the curving plough,
and the seed scattered
evenly over wide acres,
the farmers were cheated of
their useless prayers.
Deep in the woods the
goddess of fertility lingered:
the garland of wheat-ears
slipping from her long hair.
Only Crete was enriched by a
fruitful year:
Wherever the goddess showed
herself, there was harvest:
Ida itself, home of forests,
was white with crops,
and the wild boars reaped
corn in the woods.
Minos the law-giver prayed
for more such years:
he should have wished for
Ceres’s love to last forever.
Because you were sad on
lonely nights, golden goddess,
why should I be forced now
to endure your rites?
Why should I be sad, when
your daughter’s found again,
her fate to rule a kingdom
second only to Juno’s?
This festive day calls for
loving, and poetry, and wine:
these are the gifts it’s
right to carry to the gods.
I’ve endured too much, too
long: my patience is defeated
by her offences: heart dead
with weariness, vile love!
There’s no doubt I’m free
now and have slipped my chain,
and what I wasn’t ashamed to
bear, I’m ashamed I bore.
I’ve won and love is tamed,
trampled under my feet:
at last true horns have
appeared on my head.
Endure it and stand firm!
This pain in the end will help you:
often bitter medicine brings
strength to the weary.
So why did I endure it, so
often shut out from your gate,
laying my delicate body on
the hard floor?
So why did I keep watch, for
him you held in your arms,
like a slave outside your
closed door?
I saw, when your lover
appeared weary, at your door,
found wanting, and his body
all exhausted:
but it’s still worse that I
was seen by him –
let that shame happen to my
enemies!
When did I not cling
patiently to your side,
your true guardian, your
lover, friend?
And of course you pleased
people through my friendship:
my love was the reason for
your many lovers.
What, shall I say now, of
your vile lies, your idle tongue,
and the gods perjured to
harm me?
What of the silent nods of
youths at parties,
and the deceptive words of
secret messages?
They told me she’s ill – I
ran, in a hurry, a madman:
I arrived, and she wasn’t
too ill for my rival!
I’m hardened by this: by
things unsaid I’ve often suffered:
find someone instead of me,
who can endure it.
Now my vessel’s crowned with
votive wreaths
calmly braving the ocean’s
swelling waves.
Leave off your flatteries
and your once powerful words,
forget them – now I’m not
the fool I used to be!
I struggle, and my fickle
heart is pulled both ways,
now by love, now hate, but I
think love wins.
I’ll hate if I can do: if
not, I love unwillingly.
No ox loves the yoke: yet he
still suffers what he hates.
I flee your wickedness –
your beauty draws me back:
I loathe your guilty ways –
I love your body.
So I can’t live with you or
without you,
and don’t seem to know my
own mind.
I wish you were less
beautiful or less wanton:
such a lovely form doesn’t
go with such bad ways.
Actions worthy of hatred, a
face that begs for love –
ah me, she’s worth so much
more than her vices!
Oh, spare me, by the shared
promises of our bed,
by all those gods who so
often let you cheat them,
by your face that to me
approaches the divine,
by those eyes of yours that
ravished mine!
Be what you will, you will
be mine for ever:
you choose then, shall I
love freely too or be constrained!
Let me spread sail and enjoy
the flowing breezes,
or, if I may not, to want
what I’m forced to love.
What day was it, dark bird,
when you sounded
your omen for this eternally
melancholy lover?
What star should I believe
has opposed my destiny,
what god should I complain
of, warring against me?
She who was once spoken of
as mine, whom I loved,
first, alone, I fear, along
with many others, I consider mine.
Am I mistaken, or have my
books made her famous?
so it shall be – she’ll be
advertised by my art.
And it serves me right! For
didn’t I trumpet her beauty?
It’s my fault if the girl’s
been rendered marketable.
It pleased me to be
go-between, guide to lovers I attracted,
the entrance was thrown open
by my hand.
And I doubt the use of verse
that’s always harmed me:
it made men envious of my
success.
Despite Thebes, and Troy,
and Caesar’s actions,
only Corinna inspired my
genius.
I wish a hostile Muse had
struck my verse,
that Apollo had forsaken my
works’ beginnings!
Yet it’s not the custom to
listen to poets as witnesses:
I’d rather less weight was
given to my words.
Through us Scylla stole her
father’s precious lock of hair,
and set rabid dogs at her
thighs and groin:
we granted feet wings, and
hair snakes:
and Perseus, the hero, a
winged horse.
Tityus too we stretched out
over vast spaces,
and made the snaky Cerberus
three-headed:
we made thousand handed
Enceladus throw spears,
captured heroes with the
songs of bird-footed virgins.
We shut the winds of Aeolus
in Ulysses’s bag:
showed Tantalus parched in
the midst of water.
Made a bear of a girl, a
rock out of Niobe.
A bird, once Thracian Philomela,
sang for Itys:
Jupiter transformed himself
to bird or gold,
or cut the waves, as a bull,
with a girl on his back.
Shall I speak of Proteus,
the teeth the Theban sowed:
bulls there were breathing
flames from their mouths:
Charioteer, your sisters with eyes weeping amber:
what were once ships, now
sea goddesses:
the sun turning away from
Atreus’s vile feast,
and solid stones following
the sounding lyre?
The poet’s creative licence
embraces everything,
nor are his words obliged to
be true to history.
and you ought to have seen
that my praise of the woman
was fiction: now your
credulity has hurt me.
My wife and I came to
fruitful Falerii, where she was born,
the town you conquered once,
Camillus.
Priests were preparing
Juno’s chaste festival,
the celebrated games, and
sacrifice of a local heifer:
despite the difficult
mountain ways this road offers
to witness the rites was
worth the delay.
There stood the ancient
gloomy grove dense with trees:
look at it – and you’ll
agree there’s a goddess in the place.
The altar receives prayers
and votive incense from the pious
an altar made by ancient
hands, without high art.
Here the annual procession
passes through garlanded ways,
where the flute sounds out,
with solemn chants:
white heifers are led by, to
the crowd’s applause,
that browse Falerian grass
in their own fields,
and horned bullocks, whose
foreheads don’t threaten yet,
and lesser victims, pigs
from humble sties,
and rams, with curving horns
on their solid brows.
Only the she-goat’s hateful
to the great goddess:
They say one came upon her
in the deep woods,
and betrayed her, aborting
her incipient flight.
Now the informer’s attacked
by boys with spears,
and she’s given as a prize
to the one who wounds her.
When the goddess comes,
youths and timid girls
go before her, with robes
that sweep along the streets.
The girls’ hair is burdened
with gold and jewels,
and noble gowns brush their
gilded feet:
Veiled in white clothes in
the ancient Greek fashion
they carry the sacred
vessels on their heads.
The crowd is hushed when she
comes with golden pomp,
drawn along behind her
priestesses.
The style of the procession
is from Argos: Halaesus fled
from sin, and his father’s
wealth, at Agamemnon’s murder,
then wandering in exile,
over land and sea,
he founded these high walls,
with fortunate hand.
He taught the rites of Juno
to his Falerians.
Let her always be a friend
to her people, and to me!
I don’t say ‘don’t sin’,
since you’re beautiful,
but there’s no need for me,
poor fool, to know:
and no censure of mine
demands that you’re chaste,
it only asks that you try
and conceal it.
She didn’t sin, if she can
deny she sinned,
only confession makes crimes
notorious.
What madness to expose, by day,
what midnight hides:
why make what’s secret into
a well-known fact?
Some whore who couples with
a nameless citizen
moves away from the crowd
before it’s too late.
Will you prostitute your
sins for worthless fame
and talk about what you’ve
done to fuel opinion?
Improve your ways: at least
pretend you’re chaste,
and I can approve, thinking
you what you’re not.
What you do, keep doing it:
just deny it,
and don’t be ashamed to
speak modestly in public!
If there’s a place demands
naughtiness: then fill it
with all delights, let shame
be far away!
Likewise when you leave off,
straightaway forget
all lasciviousness: leave
the sin there, in your bed.
There, don’t let your slip
make you over-shy,
or not allow your thigh to
press against a thigh:
there, let my tongue be
buried between your rosy lips,
and let desire shape a
thousand ways to love:
there, don’t let your words
and sounds of delight cease,
let the naughty bed tremble
at your agility!
Then, with your dress, put
on the face that fears sin,
and let shame disown the
works of obscenity:
Tell me, tell people
anything: let me err without knowing,
and let me enjoy a fool’s
credulity!
Why do I see so many notes
received and given?
Why are the pillow and the
sheet wrinkled?
Why do I have to see such obvious love-bites on your neck,
and your hair disturbed by
more than sleep?
Horned Bacchus rebukes me
with his weightier rod:
there’s a greater space
beaten by greater steeds.
Unwarlike elegies, joyful
Muse, farewell,
this work that will still
stand forever, when I’m dead.
End of The Amores