with these And he that did commend to after fame His love disguised by Metellus name And he that sailed for the Fleece of gold His secret thefts of love doth oft unfold Hortensius too and Servius writ as bad who 'd thinke my fault so great examples had Sisenna Aristides workes translates And oft in wanton jests expatiates For praising Lycoris none doth Gallus blame If that hls tongue in wine he could containe Tibullus writes that womens oathes are wind Who can with outward shewes their husbands blind Teaching them how their keepers to beguile While he himselfe is cosen'd by that wile That he would take occasion for to try Her ring that he might touch her hand thereby By private tokens he would talke sometime And on the table draw a wanton signe Teaching what oyles that blewnesse shall expell Which by much kissing on their lips doth dwell And unto husbands does strickt rules commend If they be honest wives will not offend And when the dog doth barke to know before That 't is their Lover that stands at the doore And many notes of love-thefts he doth leave And teacheth wives their husbands to deceave Yet is Tibullus read and famous growne And unto thee great Caesar he was knowne And though Propertius did like precepts give Yet his cleere fame doth still unstained live To these did I succeede for I le suppresse Than where he brings him to Queene Dido's bed Yet in his youth he did commend faire Phillis And sports himselfe in praising Amorillis And though I formerly in that same vaine Offended yet I now do beare the blame I had writ verses when before thee I Amongst the other horsemen passed by And now my age doth even beare the blame Of those things which my younger yeeres did frame My faulty bookes are now reveng'd at last And I am punisht for a fault that 's past Yet all my workes are not so light and vaine Sometimes I lanch'd into the deeper maine And in six bookes Romes Holydayes have shew'd Where with the Month each Volumne doth conclude And to thy sacred name did dedicate That worke though left unperfect by my fate Besides I stately Tragedies have writ And with high words the Tragicke stile did fit Besides of changed shapes my Muse did chant Though they my last life-giving hand did want And would thy anger were but so appeas'd As that to reade my verse thou wouldst be pleas'd My verse where from the infant birth of things My Muse her worke unto thy owne time brings Thou shouldst behold the strength of every line Wherein I strive to praise both thee and thine Nor are my verses mingled so with gall As that my lines should be Satyricall Amongst the vulgar people none yet found Themselves once toucht my Muse my selfe doth wound Therefore each generous mind I do beleeve Will not rejoyce but at my ill fate grieve Noâ— yet will triumph o're my wretched state Who ne're was proud even in my better fate O therefore let these reasons change thy minde That in distresse I may thy favour finde Not to returne though that perhaps may be When thou in time at last maist pardon me But I intreat thee to remove me hence To safer exile fitting my offence LIB III. The Booke doth to the Reader shew That he is loath to come to view And tells how he was entertaind By some while others him disdaind I Am that Booke who fearefully doe come Even from a banisht man to visit Rome And comming weary from a forraigne land Good Reader let me rest within thy hand Doe not thou feare or be asham'd of me Since no love verses in this paper be My master now by fortune is opprest It is no time for him to write in jest Though in his youth he had a wanton vaine Yet now he doth condemne that worke againe Behold here 's nothing but sad mourning lines So that my verse agreeth with his times And that my second verse is lame in strength Short feet do cause it or the journeys length Nor are my rough leaves cover'd o're with yellow For I my Authors fortune meane to follow In Swan-like Tunes he doth deplore His exile and knocks at the dore Of Death desiring hasty fate His wretched life would terminate ELEGIE II. WAs it my fate that I should Scythia see And the land whose Zenith is the Axeltree And would not you sweet Muses nor Apollo Helpe me who did your holy rites still follow Could not my harmelesse verses me excuse And life more serious than my jesting Muse But that I must when I the seas had past Vnto the Ponticke land be brought at last And I that still my selfe from care withdrew Loving soft ease and no rough labour knew Having past great dangers both by sea and land Here worst of miseries is by me sustain'd Yet I endure these evils for I find My body doth receive strength from my mind And in my passage to my sad exile I with my study did my cares beguise But when I did my journeys end attaine And that unto the hated shore I came Then from mine eyes a showre of teares did flow Like water running from the melted snow And then my house and Rome comes in my mind And every thing that I had left behind A â—â—tle that I should knocke still at the Grave To be let in yet can no entrance have Why have I still escaped from the sword Could not the Sea to me a death afford You gods who constant are in your just ire And doe with Caesar in revenge conspire I do beseech you hasten on my fate And bid death open unto me the gate He lets his wife here understand Of his sicknesse in a forraine land Then writes his Epitaph with intent To make his bookes his monument ELEGIE III. THat this my Letter by a strangers hand Is writ the cause my sicknesse understand For in the worlds farthest part I lye Sicke and uncertaine of recovery What comfort can within that climate shine On which the Getes and Sauramats confine My nature does not with the soyle agree The ayre and water do seeme strange to me My shelter poore my dyet here is bad No health-restoring Physicke can be had No friend to comfort me who will assay With some discourse to passe the time away But here upon my bed of sicknesse cast I thinke of many things which now are past And thou my dearest wife above the rest Dost hold the chiefest place within my brest Thy absent name is mentioned still by me And every day and night I thinke on thee Sometimes I speake things without sence or wit That I may name thee in my franticke fit If I should swound and that no heating wine Could give life to this faultring tongue of mine To heare of thy approach would make me live Thy very presence would new vigor give Thus I most doubtfull of my life am growne But thou perhaps livst merrily at home No I dare say that
witnesse of their minde For were not we in love joyn'd each to other By length of time and living both together My businesse and my sports were knowne to thee And so were thy affaires well knowne to mee Did not I know thee well at Rome of late Whom I for mirth-sake did associate Are these things vanisht into empty winde Drown'd in the Lethe of a faithlesse minde I do not thinke that thou wert borne at Rome Whither alasse I never more shall come But on some Rocke here in the Pontick land Or Scythian Mountaines that so wildly stand And veines of flint are every where disperst In slender branches through thy Iron brest And suâ—e thy Nurse some cruell Tiger was Who gave thee sucke as shee along did passe In that thy vertues have such publication Would I had kept in darkenesse out of sight My studies which I wish had ne're knowne light For as thy fame from eloquence doth grow So from my Verse my ruine first did flow Thou knowst my life and how I did abstaine From those same Arts of love which I did frame Thou knowst I writ it in my younger dayes In jesting manner not to merrit praise Though I dare nothing urge in my defence I thinke I may excuse my late offence Excuse me then nor ' ere forsake thy friend But as thou hast begun so also end Ovid here his ship doth praise That carried him through many Seas ELEGIE IX YEllow Minerva doth my ship maintaine Which of her painted Helmet beares the name For with the least winde shee will nimbly sayle And go with Oares when as the wind doth faile She will out-saile her company outright And fetch up any ship that is in sight She can endure the waves which on her beate Yet will she never open any leake I boarded her in the Corinthian bay From whence she stoutly brought me on my way By Pallas helpe by whom she was protected Through many dangerous seas she was directed And may she now cut through the Pontick strand And bring me safely to the Getick Land Who when that she had carried me at last Through the Ionian seas when we had past Along those coasts we stood to the left hand And so we came unto the Imbrian land Then with a gentle winde she sailed on And toucht at Samos as she went along Vpon the other side there stands a wood Thus farre my ship did bring me through the flood Through the Bistonians fields on foote I went And then from Hellespont her course she bent For to Dardania she her course intended And Lampsace which Priapus defended So to the walles of Cyricon she came Which the Maeonian people first did frame Thence to Constantinople was her way Where as two seas do meete within one bay Now may my other ship with a strong gale Passe by the moving Iles while she doth sayle By the Thymian bay while her course doth fall To come hard by Anchiolus high wall Then to Messembria Odesson and the Tower Which is defended by god Bacchus power And to Megara which did first receave Alcathous who did his Countrey leave So to Miletus which is the place assign'd To which by Caesars wrath I am confin'd Where for an offering of a greater price A Lambe to Pallas I will sacrifice And you two brothers that are stellify'd I pray that you my ship may gently guide One ship to Cyanean Iles is bound The other goes to the Bistouian ground And therefore grant the winde may fitly stand To bring them safely to a diverse land LIB II. Vnto Caesar he excuses Himselfe and condemnes his Muses And many Poets doth recite Who in their times did loosely write Yet in that age were never sent Though like in fault to banishment WHat have I to doe with you my unhappy book On whoÌ„ as on my ruine I must look Why doe I returne unto my Muse againe 〈◊〉 not enough one punishment to obtaine It was my verse that first did overthrow me And made both men and women wish to know me It was my verse that made great Caesar deeme My life to be such as my verse did seeme Amongst my chiefest faults I must rehearse My love of studdy and my looser verse In which while I my fruitlesse labour spent I gained nothing but sad banishment Those learned Sisters I should therefore hate Who their adorers still doe ruinate Yet such my madnesse is that folly armes me To strike my foore against that store that harmes me Even as some beaten fencer after tries To regaine honour by a second prize Or as some torne ship that newly came To shoare yet after stands to Sea againe Perhaps as Telephus was healed by a sword So that which hurt me shall like helpe affoord And that my Verse his mov'd wrath may appease Since verses have great power the gods to please Caesar hath bidden each Italian Dame To sing some verses to great Opis name And unto Phoebus when he set forth playes To him once seene within an age of dayes So may my verse great Caesars now obtaine By examples to appease thy wrath againe Iust is thy wrath which I will ne're deny Such shamefull words from my mouth do not fly And this offence makes me for pardon cry Since faults are objects of thy clemency Iove would be soone disarm'd if he should send His thunderbolts as oft as men offend Now though his thunders make the world to feare It breakes the Clouds and makes the ayre more cleare Whom therefore father of the gods we name Than Iove none greater doth the world containe Thou Pater patriae too art call'd then be Like to those gods in name and clemencie And so thou art for no more moderate hand Could hold the raines of Empire and command Thy enemy once overcome in field Thou pardonst which he victor would not yeeld And some thou didst with honours dignifie That have attempted gainst thy Majestie Thy warres on one day did begin and cease While both sides brought their offerings unto peace That as the Victor in the vanquisht Foe The vanquisht in the Victor gloried so My case is better since I ne're did joyne With those who did in armes gainst thee combine Yet now this house which by my Muse was rais'd Is by one fault of mine againe disgrac'd Yet fallen so as it it selfe may reare If Caesars wrath would once more mild appeare Whose mercy in my sentence was exprest â—aâ—â—e short of that my feare did first suggest Whose anger reacht not to this life of ours But with great mildnesse us'd thy Princely powers And thou my forfeit goods to me didst give And with my life didst grant me meanes to live Nor by the Senates sentence was I sent Or private judgement into banishment But didst thy selfe pronounce those heavy words Whose execution full revenge affords Besides thy edict forcing my exile â—id with great favour my late fault enstile Whereby I am not banisht but confind And misery is in
The Explanation of the Frontispice AVgustus Caesar in the front doth stand Who banisht Ovid to the Ponticke land One side shewes Rome the other doth present The Shippe which carried him to Banishment A happy Pyramid it selfe doth raise Built on those Bookes from whence he got his praise The sable Pyramid doth likewise show That his ruine from the Art of Love did grow Beneath poore Ovid rests his weary head Vpon his Coffin when all hope was fled And thereupon his wreath of Bayes doth lie To shew he did in Pontus banisht die But yet his Muse new life to him doth give And by his lines sweete Ovid still doth live Vade Liber mundo Dominus fuit exul inde Disce pati a Domino fer mala vade Liber Augustus Caesar Hence grew my fame Hence my ruine came In Pontus I Did bannisht dye OVIDS TRISTIA Containinge fiue Bookes of mournfull Elegies which hee sweetly composed in the midst of his aduersitie while hee liu'd in Tomos a Cittie of Pontus where hee dyed after seauen yeares Banishment from Rome Translated into English by W. S. Veâ—iam prâ— laude petâ— London Printed for Fra Groue and are to bee sould at his shopp on Snowe hill neere the Sarazens head 1633. to your protection this translation of Ovids Elegies who I thinke was even rockt in his cradle by the Muses and fed with Sugar and Helliconian water which made him have so sweet a veine of Poetry So that the name of Ovid is a sufficient commendation for any worke of his if my English can but like the Eccho send backe the soft Musicke of his lines And indeede if he write best of love that hath beene in love and that there is a certaine 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 or efficacie in his words that feeles the affection I doubt not but my owne sorrow hath learnt me how to translate Ovids sorrow For I confesse I was never in Fortunes Books and therefore am not much indebted to her neyther doe I care for her frownes but I am greeved for one who is my brother in misfortune who is exul in patria being enforced to let that skill and experience which he hath gotten abroad in marine affaires and which hath beene approved of both by the English and Dutch nations in severall long voyages lye dead in him for want of imployment which is the life of practicall knowledge and though he must be compelled by his present fates to accept of the imployment of forraine nations yet if a way might be opened unto him he is more willing as he is bound by dutie to serve his native King and Countrey which desire of his I know your generous disposition cannot but cherish and approve of my love towards him This Booke Ovid sent to the Citty of Rome as appeares by the first verse Parve nec invideo c. and I am now to send it forth into a Citty abounding with Critticks and therefore it desires your worthy patronage and defence for which if Ovid lived he would make his fluent Muse expresse his thankefulnesse But I for any favour which you shall shew unto this translation must acknowledge my selfe bound unto your vertue which I wish may shine forth in prosperous actions untill your fame be equall to Caesars who banisht Ovid. The Servant of your Vertues W. SALTONSTALL To the Reader IT is now growne a common custome to seeke thy good will by an Epistle and therein to move thy affection to be favourable to the present worke wherein I neede not bestow any great paines for this is a translation of Ovids last booke which he writ in banishment and therefore if you would set before your eyes the present estate wherein he then lived it would exceedingly move your pitty towards him Imagine that you saw Ovid in the Land of Pontus where he whose companie was so much desired was now banisht from all companie he that was once the Darling of the Muses now made the subject of miserie he that dranke choise wines now drinks spring water he that wore a wreath of Bayes now weares a wreath of Cypresse and to conclude he that was once so famous was now Angelus Politianus his Epigram on the banishment and death of Ovid. THe Romane Poet lies in the Euxine shore And barbarous earth the Poet covers o're Him that did write of love that land doth hide Through which the Isters colder streame doth glide And wert not asham'd to be O Rome More cruell than the Getes to such a sonne Oh Muses while he sicke in Scythia lay Who was there that his sicknesse could allay Or keepe his cold limbes in the bed by force Or passe away the day with some discourse Or that could feele his pulse when it did beate Or apply to him warme things to cherish heate Or close his eyes even swimming round with death And in his mouth receive his latest breath There were none for his ancient friends then were In thee O Rome from Pontus distant farre His Wife and Nephewes were farre off together His daughter went not with her banisht father The Bâ—ssi and Coralli were in these partes And the skin-wearing Getes wirh stony hearts The Sarmatian riding on his horse was there To comfort him with lookes that dreadfull were Yet when he was dead the Bessi wept the Gete And stout Sarmatians did their faces beate Woods mountaines beasts a mourning day did keepe And Isters pearly streame they say did weepe Some say that frozen Pontus did begin To melt with teares of Sea-nymphes shed for him Light Cupids with their mother Venus ranne And vvith torches set the funerall pile on flame And while his body did consume and burne They put his ashes in a closed Vrne And on his Tombe-stone these words graven were He that did teach the Art of love lyes here Then Venus with her white hand did bedew His grave while she sweet Nectar on him threw The Muses brought their Poet many a verse Which I am farre unworthy to rehearse Iulius Scaligers Verses on Ovid wherein he maketh Ovid speake to Augustus I Would thy cruelty had in me begunne Nor by murders steps to ruine me hadst come If my wanton youth did move thy discontent Thou mayst condemne thy selfe to banishment For such foule deeds thy private roomes do staine That men condemned ne're did act the same Could not my wit nor gentlenesse thee restraine Nor sweete tongue second to Apollo's vaine My straine hath made the ancient Poets soft And to the new the waight of things hath tought I then did lye when as I praysed thee For this my banishment was deserv'd by mee Nor shame those blots which on thy face appeares For some may thinke they were made with my teares Goe booke salute the Citie in my name For on thy feete I will goe backe againe And if by chance among the common crew Some mindefull of me aske thee how I doe Returne this answer tell them that I live And that my god this
visite me and to my house then came And in thy fresh acquaintance thou didst show More love than all my ancient friends would doe I saw thy amazed countnance at that time Thy face be dewed with teares more pale than mine And seeing teares to fall at each word my eares Did drinke thy words my mouth did drinke thy teares Thou didst embrace my necke and then betwixt Some loving kisses with thy sighes were mixt Now absent thou defendest mo againe Thou knowest that Carus is a fained name And many tokens of thy love appeare Which I in memory will ever beare The gods still make thee able to defend Thy friends unto a farre more happy end To know how I doe live if thou require As it is likely that thou dost desire I have some hope which do not take from me That those offended powers will pleased be Which being vaine or if it may befall Do thou allow my hope though it be small Bestow thy eloquence upon that theame To shew it may fall out as I do meane The greatest men are placeable in wrath A generous mind a gentle anger hath When Beasts unto the Lyon prostrate lye He ends the combat with his enemy But Wolves and Beares their yeelding foes do kill And the inferior beasts are cruell still Who like Achilles yet even he appeares To be much mov'd with Dardanus sad teares Emathions clemency is best declar'd Even by those funerall rites which he prepar'd And that I may not mans calm'd anger show Even Iuno's sonne in law was once her foe Lastly I needs must hope since at this time I am not punisht for a haynous cryme I did not plot against great Caesars life To ruine him by sowing civill strife I never yet did rayle against the time Or spake against him in my cups of wine But am punisht for beholding of a fault Which I through ignorance beheld unsought Yet all my fault I cannot well defend Though in part thereof I did no ill intend So that I hope that he will pleased be To grant an easier banishment to me I wish the morning starre that brings the day Would bring this newes and quickly post away His friends fidelity he doth praise And to excuse himselfe assayes Desiring if he have any grace At Rome to use it in his case ELEGIE VI. O 〈…〉 of friendship thou wilt not conceale Or if thou wouldst it would it selfe reveale For while we might none was more deare to me And I do know I was belov'd of thee And this our love was to the people knowne So that our love more than our selves was knowne The candor of thy minde is easily seene Of him who for thy friend thou dost esteeme Thou nothing from my knowledge didst conceale And I my secrets did to thee reveale For all my heart and secrets thou didst know Except that which wrought my overthrow Which hadst thou knowne thou wouldst have counseld me So well that I should never banisht be But 't was my fate drew on my punishment And crossed me in any good intent Yet whether that I might this evill shunne And reason cannot fortune overcome Yet thou to me my old acquaintance art And of my love thou holdst the greatest part Be mindfull then and if thou gracious be At Court then try what thou canst do for me That Caesar being unto mildnesse bent May change the place of my sad punishment Even as I did no wickednesse devise Since that my fault from error did arise It would be tedious nor safe to unfold By what chance these eyes did that act behold Such shamefull deeds as do the eare affright Should be concealed in eternall night I must confesse therefore my former fault Yet no reward by my offence I sought And for my fault I may my folly blame If to my fault thou wilt give a true name If this be false then further banish me These places like unto Romes Suburbs be The Letter here he doth command To fly unto Perhillas hand And sheweth that the Muses give Immortall fame which still shall live ELEGIE VIII GOe thou my letter being writ so fast And to salute Perhilla make thou hast To sit hard by her mother shee still uses Or else to be amongst her bookes and Muses What ere shee does when shee knowes thou art come Shee le aske thee how I doe that am undone Tell her I live but wish I did not so Since length of time can never ease my woe Yet to my Muse I now returned am Making my words in verse to flow againe And aske her why shee doth her minde apply To common studdies not sweet Poesy Since nature first did make thee chaste and faire Giving thee wit with other things most rare I first to thee the Muses spring did show Least that sweet water should at waste stil flow For in thy virgin yeares thy wit I spy'd And was as 't were thy father and thy guide Then if those fires still in thy brest doe dwell There 's none but Lesbia that can thee excell But I doe feare that since I am orethrowne That now thy brest is dull and heavy growne For while we might we both did reade our lines I was thy judge and master oftentimes And to thy verse I an eare would lend And make thee blush when thou didst make an end And yet perhaps it may be thou dost shunne All bookes because my ruine thence did come Feare not Perhilla but all feare remove So that thy writings doe not teach to love Then learned maide no cause of sloath still frame But to thy sacred art returne againe That comely face will soone be spoild with yeares While aged wrinckles in thy brow appeares Old age will lay hold on thy outward grace Which commeth on still with a silent pace To have beene faire it will a griefe then be And thou wilt thinke thy glasse doth flatter thee Thy wealth is small though thou deservest more But yet suppose thou hadst of wealth great store Yet fortune when shee lists doth give and take And of rich Craesus she can Iâ—us make All things are subject to mortality Except the minde and ingenuity For though I want my countrey friends and home And all things tooke from me that could be gon Yet still my Muses doe with me remaine And Caesar cannot take away my vaine Who though he should me of my life deprive Yet shall my fame when I am dead survive While Rome on seven hills doth stand in sight My workes shall still be read with much delight Then of thy studdie make this happie use To shunne the power of death even by thy muse His countrey he desires to see If Caesar would so pleased be Then mournfully be doth complaine And shewes what griefe he doth sustaine ELEGIE VIII I Wish I could Triptoleusus waine ascend Who first did seede unto the earth commend Or guide Medea's Dragons through the ayre With which the once from Corinth did repaire I wish that I had