now That may be stucke round with the cypresse bough Now incense to the gods were cast away While in my depth of griefe I cannot pray Yet one request upon this day I le name That to this place thou ne're returne againe Whilst in the farthest Ponticke shoare I live Which falsely some the name of Euxine give Here he writes unto his friend That he would his bookes defend ELEGIE XIIII THou chiefe of learned men what maketh thee A friend unto my idle veine to be When I was safe then thou my lynes didst praise And being absent thou my fame dost raise And all my verses thou dost entertaine Except the Art of love which I did frame Since then thou lovest the new Poets straine Within the City still keepe up my name For I and not my bookes am banisht thence Which they could not deserve by my offence The father of 't is banished we see While as his children in the Citty be My verses now are like to Pallas borne Without a mother and being so forlorne I send them unto thee for they bereft Of father now unto thy charge are left Three sonnes of mine by me destroyed were But of the rest see that thou have a care And fifteene bookes of changed shapes there lyes Being ravisht from their masters obsequies That worke I had unto perfection brought If that I had not my owne ruine wrought Which uncorrected now the people have If any thing of mine the people crave Let this among my other bookes now stand Being sent unto thee from a forraigne land Which who so reades let him but waigh againe The time and place wherein I did it frame He will pardon me when he shall understand That I was banisht in a barbarous land And will admire that in my adverse time With a sad hand I could draw forth a line Misfortunes have depriv'd me of my straine Although before I ne're had a rich vaine Yet whatsoere it was even now it lyes Dryed up for want of any exercise Here are no bookes to feede me with delight But in stead of bookes the bowes doe me affright Heere 's none to whom I may my lines reherse That can both heare and understand my verse I have no place where I may walke alone But with the Getes shut up in walls of stone Sometimes I aske for such a places name But there is none can answer me againe And when I faine would speake I must confesse I want fit words my minde for to expresse The Scythian language doth my eare affright So that the Geticke tongue I sure could write I feare least you within this booke should see That Ponticke words with Latine mingled be Yet reade it and thereto a pardon give When thou considerst in what state I live LIB IIII. To excuse his bookes he doth begin And shewes how his Muse did comfort him ELEGIE I. IF any faults are in these bookes of mine Have them excused Reader by their time I sought no fame but onely some releefe That so my mind might not thinke on her griefe Even as the Ditcher bound with fetters strong Will lighten heavy labour with a song And he will sing that with a bended side Doth draw the slow boate up against the tide And he that at the Oare doth tug with paine Doth sing while he puts backe his oare againe The weary Shepheard sitting on a hill Doth please his sheepe with piping on his quill And every maid within the Contrey bred Will sing while she is drawing forth her thred Achilles being sad for Brisis losse The Haemonian harpe did soften that same crosse While Orpheus for his wife much griefe did shew With his sweet tunes the woods and stones he drew So did my Muse delight me as I went And bore me company in my banishment She feard no trechery nor the Souldiers hand Nor yet the wind or sea or barbarous land She knew what error first my ruine brought And that there was no wickednesse in my fault And since from her my fault did first proceed She is made guilty with me of that deed Yet still the feare of harme me so affrights I scarse dare touch the Muses holy rites But now a sudden fury doth me move And being hurt by verse yet verse I love Even as Vlysses tooke delight to taste The Lote tree which did hurt him at the last The Lover feeles his losse yet does delight In it and seekes to feede his appetite So Bookes delight me which did me confound Loving the Dart which gave me this same wound Perhaps this study may a fury seeme And yet to many it hath usefull beene It makes the mind that it cannot retaine Her griefe in sight but doth forget the same As she ne're felt the wound which Bacchus gave But wildly on the Idean hils did rave So when a sacred fire my brest doth warme My higher fancy doth all sorrow scorne It feeles no banishment or Ponticke shore Nor thinkes the gods are angrie any more And as if I should drinke dull Lethes water I have no sence of any sorrow after Needs must those goddesses then honour'd be Who from their Helicon did come with me And for to follow me they still did please Either by foote by shipping or by seas And may they gracious unto me abide Since that the gods are all on Caesars side While those griefes which they heape on me are more Than fish in seas or sands upon the shoare The flowers in spring-time thou mayst sooner tell Or Autumns apples or the snow that fell Than all my griefes being tossed too and fro While I unto the Euxine shore do go Where come I found no change of miserie As if ill fortune still did follow me My thred of life in one course heere doth runne Of blacke and dismall wooll this thred is spunne Though I omit my dangers and my griefe I have seene such miseries as are past beleefe Amongst the barbarous Getes how can he live To whom the people once such praise did give How grievous is it to be lockt within A walled Towne and yet scarce safe therein For in my youth all warre I did detest And never handled weapons but in jest Now in my hands a sword and shield I beare And on my gray haires I a helmet weare For when the watchman standing in his place Doth give some signe then all do arme apace The enemie with his poyson'd shafts and bow On their proud Steeds about the walles do go And as the Wolfe doth beare a sheepe away Into the woods which from the fold did stray So those that once are strayd beyond the gate The fâ—e comes on them and doth take them straight Then like a captive they his necke do chaine Or else with poyson'd arrowes he is slaine In this place I a dweller am become A lasse my time of life too slow doth runne Yet to my verse I do returne againe My friendly Muse doth me in griefe sustaine Yet there is none
gentle words assignd For there 's no punishment though ne're so strickt Can more than thy displeasure me afflict Yet sometimes angry gods appeased are And when the clouds are gon the day is faire I have seene the Ealme loaden with Vines againe That had before beene strooken by Ioves flame Therefore I le hope since thou canst not deny To grant me this even in my misery Thy mercy makes me hope till I reflect Vpon my fault which doth all hope reject And as the rage of seas by winds incens'd Is not with equall fury still commenc'd But that sometimes a quiet calme it hath And seemes to have laid by his former wrath Even so my various thoughts doe make me fare Now calm'd by hope then troubled with despaire By those same gods that grant thee long to raigne That thou mayst still maintaine the Romanâ— name And by thy Countrey happy in thy fate Where I a subject were of thine of late May so the City render thee due love For thy great acts which do thy mind approve So may thy Livia live here many yeares Who onely worthy of thy love appeares Whom nature kept for thee else there had beene None worthy to have beene thy Royall Queene So may thy Sonne grow up and with his Father Rule this same Empire happily together And by his acts and thine which time can't hide May both your ofsprings so be stellified May victory so accustom'd to thy Tent Come to his colours and herselfe present And fly about him with displayed wings While she a Lawrell wreath to crowne him brings To whom thou dost thy warres command resigne And givest him that fortune that was thine While thou thy selfe at home in peace dost raigne Thy other selfe doth forraine warres maintaine May he returne a victor o're his foe And on his plumed horse in tryumph goe Oh spare me therefore and do now lay by Thy thunder which hath bred my misery Spare me thou Pater patriae let that name Give me some hope to please thee once againe I sue not to repeale my banishment Though unto greater sutes the gods assent For if thou wouldst some milder place assigne Of exile it would ease this griefe of minde For here I suffer even the worst of woes While I do live amongst the barbarous foes Being sent unto Danubius sevenfold streame Of vices knowledge she may learne the skill Let her the Annales take though most severe The fault of Ilia will thereby appeare And in the Aeneads reade as in the other How wanton Venus was Aeneas mother And I will shew beneath in every kind That there 's no verse but may corrupt the mind Yet every booke is not for this to blame Since nothing profits but may hurt againe Than fire what better yet he that doth desire To burne a house doth arme himselfe with fire Health giving physicke health doth oft empaire Some hearbs are wholesome and some poyson are The theefe and traveller swords weare to the end Th' one may assault the other may defend Though eloquence should pleade the honest cause It may defend the guilty by the lawes So if my verse be read with a good mind Thou shalt be sure in it no hurt to finde He therefore erres who led by selfe conceit Doth misinterpret what so e're I write Why are there Cloisters wherein maids do walke That with their Lovers they may meete and talke The Temple though most sacred let her shunne That with an evill mind doth thither come For in Ioves temple her thoughts will suggest How many maids by Iove have beene opprest And thinke in Iunoe's temples when she 's praying How Iuno injur'd was by Ioves oft straying And Pallas seene she thinkes some faulty birth Made her to hide Ericthon borne of earth If she come to Marses temple o're the gate There standeth Venus with her cunning Mate In Isis temple she revolveth how Poore Io was transform'd into a Cow And something then her wandring fancy moves To thinke of Venus and Anchises loves Iasus and Ceres next her thoughts encite And pale Endimion the Moones favorite For though these statues were for prayer assign'd Yet every thing corrupts an evill mind And my first leafe bids them not to reade that Art Which I to Harlots onely did impart And since in maydens it is thought a crime For to presse farther than the Priests assigne Is she not faulty then who not forbeares To reade my verses prohibited chast eares Matrons to view those pictures are content Which various shapes of venery present And Vestall Virgins do peruse the same For which the Author doth receive no blame Yet why did I that wanton veine approve Why doth my Booke perswade them unto love It was my fault which I do here confesse My wit and judgement did therein transgresse Why did not I of Troyes sad ruine tell That vexed theame which by the Graecians fell Or Thebes seven Gates which severally kept Where by mutuall wounds those brothers dye and slept An ample subject warlike Rome afforded Whose acts I might have piously recorded And though great Caesars deeds abroad are knowne Yet by my verse some part I might have showne For as the Sunnes bright rayes do draw the sight So might thy acts my willing Muse encite Yet 't was no fault to plough a little field Knowing that theame doth fertile matter yeeld For though the Cock-boate through the Lake do rowe Whose treacherous Hostesse sought his life in vaine What of Hermione or the Arcadian maid Phoebe whose course the Latmian Lover staid Or what of Danae by Iove a mother growne And Hercules got in two nights joynd in one To these adde Iole Pyrrhus and that boy Sweete Hylas with Paris firebrand unto Troy And should I here recite loves tragicke flames My booke would scarce containe their very names Thus Tragedies to wanton laughter bend And many shamefull words in them they blend Some blamelesse have Achilles acts defac't And by soft measures have his deeds disgrac't Though Aristides his owne faults compil'd Yet Aristides was not straight exil'd Eubius did write an impure history And does describe unwholesome venerie Nor he that Sybarin luxuries composed Nor he that his owne sinfull acts disclosed These in the libraries by some bounteous hand To publike use doe there devoted stand By strangers pens I neede not seeke defence Our owne bookes with such liberty dispence For though grave Ennius of warres tumults writ Whose artlesse workes doe shew an able wit The cause of fire Lucretius doth explaine And how three causes did this world frame Wanton Catullus yet his Muse did taske To praise his mistris whom he then did maske Vnder the name of Lesbia and so strove In verse to publish his owne wanton love And with like licence Calvus too assaies For to set forth his pleasure divers wayes Why should I mention Memnâ—as wanton vaine Who to each filthy act doth give a name And Cinna striving by his verse to please Cornificus may be well rankt
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
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