Book 1

Let another heap up riches for himself in tawny gold and hold many acres of well-tilled soil, let ceaseless toil terrify him with the enemy near, the blare of the war-trumpet driving sleep from him: let my own poverty lead me through a quiet life, so long as my hearth shines with a steady fire. With my own hand I would set the tender vines in their due season, a countryman, and the tall fruit-trees with practised ease; nor let Hope fail me, but always grant me heaps of grain and rich new wine in a brimming vat. For I pay my reverence, whether a lonely stump in the fields or an old stone at the crossroads bears a garland of flowers, and whatever fruit the new year ripens for me is set, an offering, before the farmer's god. Golden Ceres, for you let there be a crown of grain-ears from our farm, to hang before the temple doors, and let a red guardian be set in the orchard plots, that Priapus may scare the birds with his fierce sickle. You too, Lares, guardians of a field once happy, now poor, receive your offerings. Then a slain heifer purified the countless herds, now a lamb is the small victim of a meagre plot. A lamb shall fall for you, around which the country youth shall shout, "Hail! grant us harvests and good wine." Now, only now, may I live content with little, nor be forever given over to the long road, but shun the rising of the summer Dog-star beneath the shade of a tree, by the streams of running water. Yet at times let me not be ashamed to have held the hoe or to have urged on the lagging oxen with the goad, nor let it irk me to carry home in my arms a lamb or a kid abandoned by its forgetful mother. But you, thieves and wolves, spare my little flock: your spoil must be sought from the great herd. Here it is my custom each year to purify my shepherd and to sprinkle gentle Pales with milk. Be present, gods, and do not scorn the gifts from a poor table nor those from clean earthenware. Of earthenware the ancient countryman first made his cups for himself, and shaped them from pliant clay. I do not long for the riches of my fathers, nor the harvest-yields that the stored grain brought to my forefather of old: a small crop is enough, enough to rest upon a bed if I may, and to ease my limbs upon the accustomed couch. How pleasant, lying there, to hear the wild winds and to hold one's mistress in a tender embrace, or, when the wintry South Wind has poured down its icy waters, to follow sleep untroubled, with the fire to help. Let this be my lot. Let him be rich by right who can endure the fury of the sea and the cheerless rains. O let all the gold and the emeralds in the world perish rather than that any girl should weep over my journeys. It befits you, Messalla, to wage war by land and sea, that your house may display the spoils of the enemy; me the chains of a lovely girl hold bound, and I sit, a doorkeeper, before her unyielding doors. I do not care to be praised, my Delia; so long as I am with you, I ask to be called sluggish and idle. Let me look upon you when my last hour comes, let me hold you, dying, with my failing hand. You will weep, Delia, when I am laid on the bed about to burn, and you will give me kisses mingled with sorrowful tears. You will weep: your heart is not bound with hard iron, nor is there flint within your tender breast. From that funeral no youth, no maiden will be able to bring home eyes that are dry. Do not wound my spirit, Delia, but spare your loosened hair, and spare your tender cheeks. Meanwhile, while the fates allow, let us join our loves: soon Death will come, her head veiled in darkness, soon sluggish age will steal upon us, nor will it be fitting to love or to speak sweet nothings with a grey head. Now must light Venus be courted, while it is no shame to break down doors, and a delight to have started quarrels. Here I am a good general and soldier: you, standards and trumpets, go far away, carry wounds to greedy men, carry them wealth too: I, untroubled, with my store laid up, will look down on riches and look down on hunger.

Pour out more wine, and with the wine subdue these fresh sorrows, that sleep may seize the conquered eyes of a weary man, and let no one wake him whose temples are struck deep with much Bacchus, while his unhappy love finds rest. For a cruel watch has been set upon my girl, and the unyielding door is barred fast with a hard bolt. Door of a difficult master, may the rain lash you, may the thunderbolts sent at Jove's command seek you out. Door, now open to me alone, conquered by my complaints, and do not, swinging stealthily on your hinge, give a sound. And if my madness has uttered any curse against you, forgive it: I pray those words may fall on my own head. It is right you should remember the many things I uttered with suppliant voice, when I laid flowery garlands upon your post. You too, Delia, do not timidly cheat your guards, one must be daring: Venus herself helps the brave. She favours whether some youth essays an unfamiliar threshold or a girl unbars the doors with the key set in the lock; she teaches how to creep stealthily from a soft bed, she teaches how to set the foot down without a sound, she teaches how, before the husband's very face, to exchange speaking nods and to hide coaxing words in agreed-upon signs. Nor does she teach this to all, but to those whom no sloth holds back nor any fear forbids to rise in the dark of night. Look, while I wander anxious through the whole city in the dark, . . . she does not let anyone meet me who would wound my body with the sword, or seek plunder by stripping off my cloak. Whoever is held by love, let him go safe and sacred wherever he will: it does not befit him to fear ambush. The sluggish cold of a winter's night does not harm me, nor does the rain when it falls in floods of water. This hardship does not hurt me, if only Delia unbars her door and silently calls me with the snap of her finger. Spare your eyes, whether man or woman comes to meet me: Venus wishes her thefts to be concealed. Do not frighten me with the noise of your feet, nor ask my name, nor bring gleaming torches near. And if anyone has caught sight of us unawares, let him hide it and by all the gods deny that he remembers: for whoever has been a babbler shall learn that Venus was born of blood and sprung from the raging sea. Yet not even him will your husband believe, as the truthful witch promised me by her magic ministry. I have seen her draw down the stars from the sky, she turns the course of a rushing river with her spell, she splits the ground with her chant and calls up the Shades from their tombs and summons the bones from the warm pyre; now she holds the infernal hosts fast with her magic shriek, now bids them, sprinkled with milk, draw back their step. When she pleases, she drives the clouds from a gloomy sky, when she pleases, she calls up snows in a summer world. She alone is said to possess the evil herbs of Medea, she alone to have tamed the fierce hounds of Hecate. She has composed for me chants by which you may deceive him: sing them three times, and after the chant spit three times. He will be able to believe nothing about us from anyone, not even his own eyes, should he see us himself upon the soft couch. Yet you must keep from others: for all else he will perceive, but of me alone he himself will perceive nothing. What then, am I to believe? This same woman said she could loose my love with her chants or her herbs, and she purified me with torches, and on a clear night a dark victim fell before the magic gods. I prayed not that my love should wholly depart, but that it be returned, nor would I wish to be able to do without you. He was a man of iron who, when he might have had you, preferred, fool, to follow plunder and arms. Let him drive the conquered hosts of the Cilicians before him, let him pitch his martial camp on captured ground, all wound about with silver, all with gold, let him sit, a sight to behold, upon his swift horse, if only with you, my Delia, I might yoke my oxen and pasture my flock upon the accustomed hill, and hold you, while it is allowed, in my tender arms, then soft would be my sleep on the unploughed ground. What good is it to lie upon a Tyrian couch without love returned, when night must be passed awake in weeping? For then neither feathers nor embroidered coverlets nor the sound of gentle water could bring on sleep. Have I violated the power of great Venus with a word, and does my impious tongue now pay the penalty? Am I charged with having approached the seats of the gods, unclean, and torn the garlands from the holy hearths? If I have deserved it, I would not hesitate to fall before the temples and to give kisses to the hallowed thresholds, I would not hesitate to crawl on my knees, a suppliant, over the ground and to beat my wretched head against the sacred post. But you who laugh gladly at my misfortunes, take care for yourself soon: the god will not rage against one man forever. I have seen one who had mocked the wretched loves of the young in old age bow his neck beneath the chains of Venus and frame coaxing words for himself in a trembling voice and try to arrange his white hair with his hands, nor was he ashamed to stand before the doors of his dear girl or to detain her maid in the middle of the forum. Him the boy, him the youth crowds about in a packed throng, and each one spits into his own soft bosom. But spare me, Venus: my mind serves you, always devoted: why, harsh one, do you burn your own harvests?

You will go, Messalla, over the Aegean waves without me, O may you and your company remember me. Phaeacia holds me sick in an unknown land, only hold back your greedy hands, black Death, I pray. Hold back, dark Death, I beg: here I have no mother to gather my burnt bones into her mournful bosom, no sister to give Assyrian perfumes to my ashes and weep before the tomb with loosened hair, Delia is nowhere; she, when she sent me from the city, is said to have first consulted all the gods. Three times she drew the sacred lots of the boy: three times the boy brought her back sure omens from the three. All foretold my return: yet she was never frightened from weeping and looking back upon my journey. I myself, her comforter, though I had already given my last commands, kept anxiously seeking out the slow delays. Either I made excuse of the birds or of dire omens, or that the sacred day of Saturn had detained me. O how often, having begun my journey, did I say my stumbling foot had given evil signs at the gate! Let no one dare to depart against Love's will, or let him know that he set out with a god forbidding it. What now does your Isis profit me, Delia, what profit me those bronze rattles so often shaken by your hand, or that, while you piously tended the rites, you bathed in purity and—I remember—slept apart upon an unstained bed? Now, goddess, now come to my aid—for that you can heal many a painted tablet upon your temple walls declares— that my Delia, paying the vows she promised, may sit before the sacred doors, robed in linen, and twice a day, her hair loosened, be bound to sing your praises, conspicuous in the Pharian throng. But let it be my lot to honour my fathers' household gods and to render the monthly incense to the ancient Lar. How well men lived when Saturn was king, before the earth was opened up into long roads! Not yet had the pine despised the dark-blue waves, nor offered its swelling sail to the winds, nor had the wandering sailor, seeking gain in unknown lands, loaded his ship with foreign merchandise. In that age no strong bull bent to the yoke, no horse champed the bit with its broken-in mouth, no house had doors, no stone was fixed in the fields to mark out the boundaries of the land with certain limits. The oaks themselves gave honey, and of their own accord the ewes brought their udders of milk to meet the carefree folk. There was no battle-line, no anger, no wars, nor had the savage smith forged the sword with his pitiless craft. Now, under Jove as master, there is slaughter and wounds forever, now the sea, now a thousand sudden roads to death. Spare me, father. No perjuries make me, the timid one, afraid, no impious words spoken against the holy gods. But if I have now completed my appointed years, let a stone stand above my bones with these words inscribed: "Here lies Tibullus, consumed by pitiless death, while he followed Messalla over land and sea." But me, because I have always been pliant to tender Love, Venus herself will lead to the Elysian fields. There dances and songs flourish, and roaming far and wide the birds sweetly sound their slender-throated song, the untilled field bears cassia, and over all the meadows the kindly earth blooms with fragrant roses; and a band of youths mingled with tender girls plays, and Love forever joins the fray. There is every lover to whom rapacious death has come, and he wears garlands of myrtle in his marked-out hair. But the place of the wicked lies hidden in deep night, buried, around which the black rivers roar: and Tisiphone, with savage snakes for unkempt hair, rages, and the impious throng flees here and there. Then at the gate black Cerberus, with serpents on his mouth, hisses and keeps watch before the brazen doors. There the guilty limbs of Ixion, who dared to assault Juno, are whirled upon the swift wheel, and Tityos, stretched over nine acres of ground, feeds the unwearying birds with his black entrails. Tantalus is there, and pools around him, but the water deserts his keen thirst just as he is about to drink, and the daughters of Danaus, because they offended the powers of Venus, carry the waters of Lethe into hollow jars. There let him be, whoever has violated my loves and wished long campaigns upon me. But you, I pray, remain chaste, and let a guardian crone sit ever watchful, a keeper of your holy modesty. Let her tell you tales, and by the set lamp draw out the long threads from her full distaff, while around her the girl, bent over her heavy task of wool, little by little, weary, gives over her work to sleep. Then let me come suddenly, with no one to announce me first, but let me seem to come to you, sent from heaven. Then, just as you are, your long hair in disarray, run barefoot, Delia, to meet me. This I pray: may radiant Dawn bring us that shining morning star upon her rosy steeds.

"So may shady shelter be yours, Priapus, that neither suns nor snows may harm your head: what skill of yours has captured the handsome boys? Surely no beard gleams on you, nor is your hair well-tended, naked you endure the cold of the wintry frost, naked the dry season of the summer Dog-star." So I; then the rustic son of Bacchus answered, the god armed with his curved sickle, thus to me: "O flee from trusting yourself to the tender throng of boys, for they always have cause to justify love. This one pleases because he reins his horse with a tight bridle, this one because he cleaves the calm water with his snowy breast, this one has captured you because bold daring is his; but on that one maidenly modesty sits before his tender cheeks. But do not let weariness seize you, if at first by chance he refuses: little by little he will give his neck beneath the yoke. Long time has taught man to make lions obey, long time has worn away the rocks with soft water; the year ripens the grapes on the sunny hillsides, the year drives round the bright stars in their fixed turn. And do not fear to swear: the winds carry off the perjuries of Venus, making them void, across the lands and the surface of the seas. Great thanks to Jove: the father himself forbade that any oath should hold good which foolish love had sworn in its eagerness, and Dictynna lets you affirm by her arrows unpunished, and Minerva by her hair. But if you are slow, you will go astray: youth passes. How quickly the unwearying day stands still and returns, how quickly the earth loses its bright colours, how quickly the tall poplar loses its lovely leaves! How low he lies, when the fates of feeble age have come, the horse that was first sent from the Elean barrier! I have seen a young man, when his later years pressed upon him, lamenting that he had let his foolish days slip by. Cruel gods! the serpent, renewed, sloughs off its years, but the fates have granted no respite to beauty. For Bacchus and Phoebus alone is youth eternal, for unshorn hair befits both gods. You, in whatever your boy may wish to attempt, give way: love conquers most by yielding. And do not refuse to go as his companion, though the road be long and the Dog-star scorch the fields with parching thirst, though the rain-bringing rainbow, fringing the sky with painted purple, foretell the coming downpour. Or if he wishes to go over the dark-blue waves by ship, yourself drive the light vessel through the waters with the oar. And do not regret having taken up hard labours or having chafed your unaccustomed hands with toil, nor, if he wishes to ring the deep valleys with snares, let your shoulders, so you may please him, refuse to bear the nets. If he wants weapons, you will try to play with a light hand: often you will leave your side bare, that he may win. Then he will be gentle to you, then you may snatch dear kisses: he will resist, but yet will give them as he should. First he will give them snatched, then he himself will bring them when you ask, later he may even wish to twine himself about your neck. Alas, how badly this age now handles its wretched arts: now the tender boy has grown used to wanting gifts. But you who first taught how to sell love, whoever you are, may a heavy stone press upon your bones. Love the Muses, boys, and the learned poets, nor let golden gifts surpass the Muses. By song the purple lock of Nisus lives: were there no songs, the ivory would not have gleamed upon the shoulder of Pelops. Whom the Muses tell of shall live, while earth bears oaks, while heaven bears stars, while the river carries its waters. But he who does not heed the Muses, who sells love, let him follow the chariot of Idaean Ops and wander, filling three hundred cities, and cut off his worthless members to the Phrygian measures. Venus herself wishes there to be room for coaxing words: for suppliant complaints, for wretched weeping, she shows her favour." These things the god uttered for me to sing to Titius, but Titius's wife forbids him to remember them. Let him obey his own; but do you make me famous as your master, you whom a sly boy holds in misery with all his craft. Each has his own glory: let lovers who are scorned consult me: my door stands open to all. The time will come when, as I bear the precepts of Venus, an eager throng of youths will escort me, an old man. Alas, alas, how Marathus torments me with lingering love! My arts fail me, and my tricks fail too. Spare me, boy, I beg, lest I become a shameful story, when they laugh at my empty teachings.

I was harsh, and I said I bore our parting well, but now that brave boast is far from me. For I am driven like a swift top whirled across the level ground by the lash, which a nimble boy spins with practised art. Burn the wild one and torment him, that after this he may not wish to say anything proud: tame these defiant words. Yet spare me, by the bonds of our stolen bed, by Venus I beg, and by the head laid beside mine. It was I who, when you lay worn out with grievous sickness, am said to have snatched you back by my vows, and I myself purified you all around with clean sulphur, when the crone had chanted her magic song before; I myself made provision that cruel dreams might not be able to harm, with the holy meal thrice consecrated; I myself, veiled with the woollen fillet and my tunic loosened, made nine vows to Trivia in the silent night. All these I paid in full: now another enjoys your love, and that fortunate man profits by my prayers. But for myself I imagined a happy life, if you were spared, madman that I was, but the god refused. "I shall till the fields, and my Delia shall be there to guard the grain, while the threshing-floor beats out the harvest in the warm sun, or she shall keep for me the grapes in the brimming vats and the white new wine pressed by the swift foot; she will grow used to counting the flock, used to having the chattering home-born slave play in the lap of his loving mistress. She will know how to bring to the farmer's god the grape for the vines, the ears for the crop, the feast for the flock. Let her rule them all, let all be in her care, and let it please me to be nothing in the whole house. Here my Messalla will come, for whom Delia shall pluck sweet apples from choice trees; and, reverencing so great a man, let her diligently attend to him, let her prepare for him, and herself, as servant, carry the feast." These things I imagined for myself, which now the East and South winds scatter as vain vows among the perfumed Armenians. Often I tried to drive away my cares with wine, but grief had turned all the wine to tears. Often I held another woman, but just as I came to the joys, Venus reminded me of my mistress and forsook me. Then the woman, departing, said I was bewitched —she is ashamed, and tells how my girl knows unspeakable arts. She does not do this with words, but with her face and her tender arms my girl bewitches, and with her golden hair. Such once to Haemonian Peleus was Thetis, the dark-blue Nereid, borne on a bridled fish. These things have harmed me, that this girl has a wealthy lover; the cunning bawd has come to my ruin. May she eat bloody feasts, and with gory mouth drink cheerless cups mingled with much gall; may the souls of the dead flit about her, lamenting their own fates, forever, and the screech-owl sing from her roof; may she, frenzied, driven by goading hunger, seek out herbs upon the graves and the bones left by savage wolves, may she run with naked loins and howl through the cities, and behind her may a fierce pack of dogs drive her from the crossroads. It shall come to pass: the god gives signs; there are powers that watch the lover, and Venus rages, abandoned in defiance of her just law. But you, as soon as you can, abandon the precepts of the rapacious witch, for every love is conquered by gifts. A poor man will always be at hand, a poor man will be first to come to you and will cling fast to your tender side, a poor man, a faithful companion in the dense crowd of the throng, will lend his hands and make a way for you, a poor man will lead you secretly to your hidden friends and will himself take the bindings from your snowy foot. Alas, I sing in vain, nor does the door, won over by words, open: it must be struck with a full hand. But you who are now preferred, fear my fate: fickle Fortune turns upon the swift orb of her wheel. Not in vain does someone even now stand fast upon the threshold, attentive, and again and again look about and retreat, and pretend to pass the house, then soon comes hurrying back, and alone, before the very doors, keeps clearing his throat. I know not what stealthy love is preparing. Use your time, I beg, while you may: your boat floats on flowing water.

Always, to lure me on, you offer me coaxing looks, but afterwards, Love, you are cheerless and harsh to my misery. What cruelty have you to do with me? Or is it great glory that a god has laid an ambush for a mortal? For nets are spread for me: now Delia in secret, in the silent night, cunningly cherishes I know not whom. She indeed denies it many times over, but it is hard to believe: just so she denies me utterly to her husband. I myself, wretched, taught her by what means she might trick her guards: alas, alas, now I am crushed by my own art. Now she has learned to feign reasons to sleep alone, now she can turn the door on its silent hinge. Then I gave her juices and herbs by which the bruise might fade that mutual love makes with the pressed-in tooth. But you, careless husband of a deceitful girl, keep watch on me too, that she may do no wrong. Beware lest she throng with young men in much talk, nor lie with her breast bared and her dress loose, nor deceive you with a nod, nor draw the wine with her finger and trace signs upon the round of the table. Fear her, however often she goes out, whether she says she goes to see the rites of the Good Goddess, which no man may approach. But if you would trust me, I alone would follow her to the altars; then I should not need to fear for my own eyes. Often, as if I were examining her gems and her signet, I remember I touched her hand on that pretext; often I brought sleep upon you with wine, but I myself drank the sober cups, victorious, with water poured in beneath. I did not wrong you knowingly: forgive me, who confess it, Love commanded: who would bear arms against the gods? I am the one—nor will I now be ashamed to tell the truth— at whom your dog barked all night long. What need have you of a tender wife? If you do not know how to keep your blessings, in vain is the key in the door. She holds you, but sighs for other, absent loves and pretends that her head has suddenly begun to ache. But entrust her to me for keeping: I do not refuse the cruel lashes, I do not shrink from chains upon my feet. Then keep far off, whoever dresses his hair with art, and whoever's loose toga flows with a flowing fold, and whoever shall come in our way, let him stand far off, that he may have no ground for suspicion, or take another road. So the god himself commands, so the great priestess has prophesied to me with inspired voice. She, when she is stirred by Bellona's frenzy, fears neither the fierce flame nor, in her madness, the twisted lashes; she herself, in her violence, slashes her own arms with the axe and, the blood pouring out, sprinkles the goddess, unharmed, and stands with her side pierced through by the spear, stands with her breast wounded, and sings the events that the great goddess foretells: "Spare to wrong the girl whom Love guards, lest you be sorry, after, to have learned it through great misfortune. Should he touch her, his wealth will slip away, as the blood from our wound, as this ash is scattered by the winds." And she told you, my Delia, of I know not what penalties; yet if you should err, I pray they may be light upon you. It is not for your own sake that I spare you, but your mother moves me, and the golden old woman conquers my anger. She brings you to me in the darkness and amid much fear, and silently, in secret, joins our hands, she waits for me by the doors at night, pressed close, and knows from afar the sound of my feet as I come. Live long for me, sweet old woman: with you I would gladly, if only it were lawful, have shared my own years. You I shall always love, and your daughter for your sake: whatever she does, she is still your own blood. Only teach her to be chaste, though no fillet binds her gathered hair, nor a long robe her feet. And let harsh laws be mine: let me not be able to praise any woman, but she will fly at my eyes, and if she thinks I have erred in anything, let me be dragged by the hair and thrown headlong, undeserving, through the streets. I would not wish to strike you, but if that madness should come, I would wish I had no hands; nor be chaste through cruel fear, but with a faithful heart: let mutual love, even in my absence, keep you for me. But she who has been faithful to no one, conquered by old age at last, draws out the twisted threads with a trembling hand, in want, and binds firm leashes to the hired loom and trims the drawn-out wool from the snowy fleece. The bands of young men watch her with rejoicing hearts and declare that the old woman deservedly bears so many ills, and Venus, lofty, looks upon her weeping from high Olympus and warns how bitter she is to the faithless. Let these curses fall on others; let us, Delia, be a pattern of love, both of us, even with grey hair.

This day the Fates sang of, spinning the fated threads that no god may unravel, this day that should bring one who could rout the Aquitanian peoples, before whom the Atax, conquered by his brave soldiery, should tremble. It has come to pass: the Roman youth has seen new triumphs and leaders with captive arms bound; and you, Messalla, wearing the victorious laurels, the ivory chariot bore along with its gleaming horses. This honour was not won for you without me: Tarbellian Pyrene is witness, and the shores of the Santonic Ocean, witness the Saône and the swift Rhône and the great Garonne, and the dark-blue water of the Loire of the fair-haired Carnutes. Or shall I sing of you, Cydnus, who gently, with silent waters, dark-blue, glide along your calm channels through the shallows, and how great the cold Taurus, touching the clouds with its peak in the sky, nourishes the unshorn Cilicians? Why tell how the white dove, sacred to the Palestinian Syrian, flits unharmed through the crowded cities, and how Tyre, first taught to trust her ship to the winds, looks out from her towers over the vast level of the sea, and how the Nile, fertile, overflows with its summer water, when the Dog-star splits the parched fields? Father Nile, by what cause could I tell of you, or in what lands you have hidden your source? Because of you your land asks for no rains, nor does the dry grass entreat rain-bringing Jove. You the barbarous youth sing of and wonder at, as their Osiris, taught to mourn the Memphite bull. Osiris first made ploughs with skilful hand and stirred the tender earth with the iron, he first committed seeds to the untried soil and gathered fruits from unfamiliar trees. He taught how to join the tender vine to the stakes, how to cut the green foliage with the hard pruning-hook; for him the ripe grape, pressed by untrained feet, first gave its pleasant flavours. That liquor taught how to bend the voice in song and moved the unskilled limbs to fixed measures, Bacchus gave to the farmer's heart, worn out with great toil, release from its sadness. Bacchus brings rest to suffering mortals, though their legs ring, struck with the hard fetter. Cheerless cares and grief are not yours, Osiris, but the dance and song and light love befit you, and varied flowers and the brow wreathed with ivy-clusters, the yellow robe flowing down to the tender feet, and Tyrian garments and the sweet pipe with its song and the light basket, partner of the secret rites. Come hither, and grace the Genius with games and the Genius with dances, and drench your temples with much wine: let perfumes drip from his gleaming hair, and let him wear soft garlands on head and neck. So come, god of this day: to you I would give the honours of incense and bring sweet cakes with Mopsopian honey. But for you may offspring grow up, to increase your deeds, your child's deeds, and stand revered around you in your age. Nor let the land that Tusculum holds, and bright Alba with its ancient Lar, be silent of the monuments of the road. For with your wealth here the hard gravel is heaped and laid down, here the flint is joined with fitting skill. You the farmer sings of, when, late from the great city, he brings his foot home without stumbling. But you, Birthday, to be honoured through many years, come ever brighter and brighter.

I cannot be deceived as to what the nods of a lover, or what gentle words in a soft tone, may mean. For me there are no lots, no entrails privy to the gods' counsel, nor does the song of a bird foretell events for me: Venus herself, binding my arms with the magic knot, taught me thoroughly, not without many a blow. Cease to dissemble: the god burns more cruelly those whom he sees yield to him unwillingly. What does it now profit you to have tended your soft hair and so often to have arranged your changing locks, what to adorn your cheeks with gleaming rouge, what to have your nails trimmed by the practised hand of an artist? In vain now are your robes, in vain your mantles changed, and the tight band that binds your pressed-in feet. She pleases, though she has come with an unadorned face and has not dressed her shining head with slow art. Has some old woman bewitched you with chants, with pale herbs, in the silent hour of night? Chants draw the crops across from neighbouring fields, chants halt the course of the angry snake, chants even try to draw the Moon down from her chariot and would do it, if the clashing bronze did not resound. Why do I lament, alas, that a chant has harmed my wretched boy, why herbs? Beauty uses no magic aids: but to have touched the body harms, to have given long kisses, to have joined thigh to thigh. Yet remember, boy, not to be hard upon your girl: Venus pursues cheerless deeds with penalties. Do not demand gifts: let a grey-haired lover give gifts, that he may warm his cold limbs in a soft bosom. Dearer than gold is the youth whose smooth face gleams, and whose rough beard does not chafe the embrace. Beneath his shoulder set your gleaming arms, and let the great wealth of kings be despised. But Venus finds a way to lie with a boy in secret, while he fears, and presses close to the tender bosom, and to give moist kisses to him, panting, with battling tongues, and to fix the marks of teeth upon his neck. Stone and gem do not please her who must sleep alone in the cold and be desired by no man. Alas, too late is love recalled, too late youth, when grey old age has stained the white head. Then is there zeal for beauty: then the hair is changed, to hide the years, dyed with the green husk of a nut; then it is a care to pluck out the white hairs by the root and, the old skin removed, to bring back a new face. But you, while the bloom of your first season flowers for you, use it: it slips away with no slow foot. And do not torment Marathus: what glory is there in a conquered boy? Be hard upon old men, my girl. Spare the tender one, I pray: his is no serious ailment, but excessive love stains his body with paleness. How often, poor boy, does he fling cheerless complaints at her in her absence, and all things are wet and full of tears! "Why do you scorn me?" he says. "The guard could have been overcome: the god himself granted to the eager the power to deceive. Stolen love is known to me, how the breath may be drawn softly, how kisses snatched may give no sound; and I can creep up even in the middle of the night and unbar the doors in secret with no noise. What use are arts, if the cruel girl scorns her wretched lover and flees from the very bed? Or when she promises, but suddenly, faithless, deceives me, then must I keep a night awake amid many ills. While I imagine she is coming, whatever stirs, I believe then that her feet have made the sound." Cease to weep, boy: she is not to be broken, and now your eyes, weary with weeping, are swollen. The gods hate disdain, Pholoe, I warn you, nor does it profit to have given incense to their holy hearths. This Marathus once made sport of wretched lovers, not knowing that an avenging god stood behind his head; often too he is said to have laughed at the tears of one in grief and to have held off the eager one with feigned delay: now he hates all haughtiness, now there displeases him whatever door is barred hard against him. But punishment awaits you, unless you cease to be proud. How you will wish, with prayers, to call back this day!

If you meant to wound my wretched love, why did you give pledges by the gods, to be broken in secret? Ah, wretch, even if at first one hides his perjuries, yet late comes Punishment with silent feet. Spare him, you of heaven: it is just that the beautiful be allowed, once, to wrong your powers unpunished. Seeking gain, the countryman yokes his bulls to the handy plough and presses the hard labour of the earth, seeking gain, the fixed stars guide the unsteady ships that will seek profit over the seas obedient to the winds: my boy was captured by gifts, but may the god turn those gifts to ashes and flowing waters. Soon he will pay me the penalty, and the dust will strip away his beauty and his hair grow rough in the winds; his face will be burnt, his hair burnt by the sun, and the long road will wear away his weak feet. How often I warned him: "Do not defile your beauty with gold: often many evils lie hidden beneath gold. If anyone, captured by riches, has violated love, Venus is harsh and unkind to him. Rather burn my head with flame and strike my body with the sword and cut my back with the twisted lash. And let there be no hope of hiding it for one preparing to sin: there is a god who forbids that deceits should stay secret. The god himself allowed the silent servant to speak softly, to utter free words over much wine; the god himself bade those mastered by sleep to send forth their voice and, against their will, to speak of deeds that should be hidden." These things I used to say: now I am ashamed to have wept as I spoke, now to have fallen at your tender feet. Then you swore to me that for no weight of rich gold, for no gems, would you sell your faith, not if the land of Campania were given you as a price, not if Falernian fields, the care of Bacchus, were yours. With those words you would have torn from me the belief that the stars of heaven shine, and that the paths of the lightning are clear. You even wept: but I, not skilled in deceit, credulous, kept wiping the tears from your wet cheeks. What was I to do, but that you too were in love with a girl? Yet I pray she may be fickle to you, after your own example. O how often, that no one might be privy to our words, I myself, your companion, carried the torch through the deep night! Often, by my gift, she came to you when you did not hope for it and hid behind the closed doors, veiled. Then I, wretched, was undone, fool that I was to trust I was loved: for I might have been more wary of your snares. What is more, with stunned mind I sang your praises, and now I am ashamed of myself and of the Muses. I would that Vulcan might scorch those songs with rapid flame and the river wash them away with its flowing water. You, keep far from here, whose care is to sell your beauty and carry back great profit with a full hand. But you, who dared to corrupt the boy with gifts, may your wife mock you, unavenged, with constant tricks, and when she has wearied a youth with stolen pleasure, let her lie down beside you, languid, with a robe between. Let there always be strangers' traces in your bed, and let your house always lie open to the eager; nor let her wanton sister be said to have drunk more cups, or to have served more men. They say she often draws out the feasts with Bacchus, until the risen wheel of the Morning Star summons the day. No woman could spend the night better than she or arrange the various changes of her tasks. But your wife has learned all this, and you, most foolish, do not perceive it, when she moves her body for you with unwonted art. Do you think she dresses her hair for you or combs her fine locks with the close-toothed comb? Is it that face that persuades, to bind her arms with gold and come forth fitted out in a Tyrian fold? Not for you, but for some young man she wishes to look fine, for whose sake she would curse both your fortune and your house. Nor does she do this from vice, but the elegant girl flees bodies foul with gout and an old man's embrace. Yet beside this man our boy has lain: him I could believe able to join in love with savage beasts. Have you dared to sell my coaxing words to others? Have you, madman, dared to carry my kisses to others? Then you will weep, when another boy holds me bound and reigns in proud sovereignty over your kingdom. But then your punishment will gladden me, and to deserving Venus a golden palm, fixed up, shall mark my fortunes: "Freed from a deceitful love, Tibullus dedicates this to you, and asks, goddess, that you be of gracious mind."

Who was it that first brought forth dreadful swords? How fierce and truly iron-hearted that man was! Then slaughter was born to the race of men, then battles, then a shorter road to dread death was opened. Or did that wretch deserve no blame, but did we turn to our own harm what he gave against savage beasts? This is the fault of rich gold, nor were there wars when a beechwood cup stood before the feasts. There were no citadels, no rampart, and the leader of the flock sought sleep untroubled among his scattered sheep. Then I should have lived, nor would I have known the cheerless arms of the mob, nor heard the trumpet with a quaking heart; now I am dragged to war, and now perhaps some enemy carries the weapon that will lodge in my side. But guard me, my fathers' Lares: you nourished me, the same, when as a child I ran about before your feet. And be not ashamed to be made of an old stump: so you dwelt in the home of my forefather of old. Then men kept faith better, when, in poor worship, the wooden god stood in his little shrine. He was appeased, whether someone had offered the grape or laid garlands of grain on his holy hair, and one, his prayer fulfilled, himself brought the cakes, and after him his little daughter brought the clear honeycomb. But from us, Lares, ward off the bronze weapons, . . . . . . and a country pig from the full sty as victim. This I shall follow in clean garments, and bound with myrtle I shall bear the baskets, bound with myrtle on my own head too. So may I please you: let another be brave in arms and lay low the enemy leaders with Mars to favour him, that, while I drink, the soldier may tell me his deeds and trace his camp in wine upon the table. What madness is it to summon black death by war? It hangs over us and comes in secret on silent foot. Below there is no crop, no cultivated vineyard, but bold Cerberus and the foul ferryman of the Stygian water; there, with bruised cheeks and burnt hair, the pale throng wanders by the gloomy pools. How much rather to be praised is he whom, his offspring assured, slow old age overtakes in his little cottage. He himself follows his sheep, his son the lambs, and his wife makes ready warm water for him when he is weary. So may I be, and may it be allowed that my head grow white with age and that, an old man, I tell of the deeds of former times. Meanwhile let Peace tend the fields. Bright Peace first led the oxen to plough beneath the curved yoke, Peace nourished the vines and stored up the juice of the grape, that the father's jar might pour out wine for the son, in Peace the hoe and the ploughshare gleam—but rust seizes in the darkness the cheerless arms of the hard soldier— and the countryman, none too sober himself, brings home from the grove his wife and his children in the wagon. But then the wars of Venus grow hot, and the woman laments her torn hair and her broken-down doors. She weeps, her tender cheeks bruised, but the victor himself weeps that his maddened hands had such strength. But wanton Love supplies the bitter words to the quarrel, and sits, indifferent, between the two angry ones. Ah, he is stone and iron, whoever strikes his girl: he drags the gods down from heaven. Let it be enough to tear the thin robe from her limbs, let it be enough to undo the ordering of her hair, let it be enough to have moved her to tears: four times blessed is he at whom a tender girl can weep when he is angry. But let him who is savage with his hands bear shield and stake, and let him stay far from gentle Venus. But to us, kindly Peace, come, and hold the corn-ear, and let your bright bosom be overflowing with fruits in front.