Book 3
Imperial Tibullus LatinThe festal Kalends of Roman Mars have come — this was the New Year's Day for our forefathers — and now gifts run everywhere in roving procession through the streets of the city and through its houses. Tell me, Pierian Muses, with what honour she should be presented, my dear Neaera, or, if I am deceived, dear still. Lovely women are won by song, the greedy by a price: let her rejoice, as she deserves, in my verses. But let a saffron parchment wrap the snow-white little book, and let the pumice first trim its grey edges, let fine vellum face the upper ends of the page, so that the lettering may proclaim your name, and let horns be painted between the twin margins: for thus it is fitting to send a finished work, well-adorned. By you, the authors of this song of mine, I pray, and by the Castalian shade and the Pierian pools, go to her house and give her my well-dressed little book, just as it will be: let no colour run from it. She will tell me whether her care for me is mutual, or grown less, or fallen wholly from her heart. But first, as she deserves, give her bountiful greeting, and speak these words in a hushed tone: "This chaste Neaera, your husband once, now your brother, sends to you, and asks that you accept these small gifts, and swears that you are dearer to him than his own marrow, whether you are to be his wife or his sister; but rather his wife: of the hope of that name the pale water of Dis will rob him only when he is dead."
He who first tore from a youth the girl dear to him, and the youth dear to the girl, that man was iron; and hard too was he who could bear so great a grief, and live, when his wife was snatched away. I am not strong in this; this patience is not in my nature: grief breaks even brave hearts; nor am I ashamed to speak the truth, and to confess that weariness has been born of my life, which has endured so many ills. Therefore, when I shall have been changed into a thin shade and the black ash covers my white bones, let Neaera come before my pyre, her long hair unbound, and let her weep, mournful, before my pyre; but let her come accompanied by her dear mother's grief: let this one mourn for her son-in-law, that one for her husband. Having first spoken before my Manes and prayed for my soul, and bathed their pious hands first in water, the bones, the only part of my body that will survive, they will gather, white, girt in black raiment, and first sprinkle the gathered remains with aged wine, then too cleanse them with snow-white milk, after this dry up the moisture with linen cloths and lay them, dried, in their marble home. There let the wares that rich Panchaia sends and the Eastern Arabs, and rich Assyria, and tears in memory of me, be poured out in the same place: so would I wish to be laid, when I am turned to bones. But let an inscription declare the mournful cause of my death, and mark these verses on the much-frequented front: HERE LYGDAMUS LIES: GRIEF AND LONGING FOR NEAERA, HIS WIFE SNATCHED FROM HIM, WERE THE CAUSE OF HIS DEATH.
What good is it, Neaera, to have filled heaven with vows and to have given coaxing incense with many a prayer, not that I might come forth from a threshold of marble roof, distinguished and conspicuous in a famous house, or that my bulls might break the many acres anew and the kindly earth might give great harvests, but that I might share with you the joys of a long life and that my old age might fall in your embrace, then, when, my measured span of light fulfilled, I should be forced to go, naked, on the boat of Lethe? For what good to me is the heavy weight of rich gold, or if a thousand oxen cleave my fertile fields? What good is a house propped on Phrygian columns, or yours, Taenarus, or yours, Carystus, and groves within the houses imitating sacred woods, and gilded beams and a floor of marble? Or what good is the shell that is gathered on the Erythraean shore, and the wool dyed with Sidonian purple, and what besides the people marvel at? In those things there is envy: the common crowd loves much that is false. The minds and cares of men are not eased by wealth, nor does Fortune govern her seasons by her own law. Let poverty with you be pleasant to me, Neaera: but without you I want no gifts of kings. O the snow-white light that could give you back to me! O the day thrice and four times happy for me! But if, against all the vows that are made for a sweet return, my god should listen with averted ear, neither kingdoms please me, nor the gold-bearing Lydian river, nor what wealth the round world of lands sustains. Let others desire these; let it be mine, in poor estate, to be able to enjoy a dear wife untroubled. Be present and favour my timid vows, daughter of Saturn, and favour them, Cyprian goddess, borne upon your shell. But if the fates deny my return, and the cheerless Sisters, who draw out the threads and spin what is to be, let lurid Orcus, rich in his idle water, call me to the vast rivers and the black marsh.
May the gods bring better things, and may they not be true for me, the dreams that the worst of sleep brought last night. Go far away, idle visions, and turn aside your false sights, cease wishing to seek belief in us. The gods give true warning, the entrails approved by Tuscan men give true warning, the messengers of fortune to come; but rash dreams make sport in the deceitful night and bid timid minds fear what is false; and the race of men, born to cares, appeases the omens of night with pious meal and leaping salt! And yet, however it be, whether the gods wish him to be truly warned, or to trust a lying dream, let Lucina make the night's fears empty and grant that I have feared, in vain, for the undeserving, if my mind is guilty of no shameful deed and no impious tongue has wronged the great gods. Now Night, having measured the airy world with her black team, had bathed her wheels in the dark-blue stream, nor had the god that helps the sick mind lulled me to sleep: Sleep fails before troubled houses. At last, when Phoebus looked out from the height of his rising, late rest pressed down my drooping eyes. Then a youth, his temples bound with chaste laurel, was seen to set his foot in my dwelling. No age of those before bore anything more beautiful than he, nor did any house of heroes bear his like. His unshorn locks flowed down his long neck, his myrtle-scented hair dripped with Syrian dew. His was such radiance as the Latonian Moon shows forth, and a rosy colour upon his snow-white body, as when the maiden, first led to her young husband, stains her tender cheeks with a blushing face, and as when girls weave white lilies with amaranth, and the bright apples redden in autumn. A robe of such a hue seemed to play about his feet: for this was the garment on his gleaming body. A work of rare art, gleaming with tortoise-shell and gold, a chattering lyre hung at his left side. This, as he first came, he tuned with an ivory plectrum and gave forth happy songs with his sounding voice; but after his fingers had spoken together with his voice, he uttered these cheerless words in a sweet measure: "Hail, care of the gods: for rightly Phoebus and Bacchus and the Pierian Maids favour the chaste poet; but Bacchus, the offspring of Semele, and the learned sisters do not know how to tell what the next hour will bring; but to me the father granted to be able to see the laws of fate and what is to come in the ages of the future; therefore receive what I say, no lying prophet, and what I, the Cynthian god, bear to you with truthful lips. She who is dear to you as no daughter is to her mother, as no lovely girl is to her eager husband, for whom you trouble the powers of heaven with vows, who lets no day of yours pass untroubled and, when Sleep has veiled you in his dusky cloak, deceives you, idle, with images of the night, Neaera the lovely, celebrated in your songs, would rather be another man's girl, and her impious mind drives her diverse cares, nor does Neaera rejoice, a bride, in a chaste home. Ah, cruel race, and woman, a faithless name! Ah, perish whatever woman has learned to deceive her man! But she can be turned: their minds are changeable; do but stretch out your arms with much faith. Cruel Love taught us to attempt mighty labours, cruel Love taught us to be able to endure the lash. That I once pastured the snow-white heifers of Admetus is no tale made up for an idle jest; then I could not delight in the sounding lyre nor render with my voice sounds like its strings, but I rehearsed a song upon the clear-toned reed, I, that son of Latona and of Jove. You do not know what love is, young man, if you refuse to bear a harsh mistress and a cruel wedlock. Therefore do not hesitate to bring coaxing complaints to bear: hard hearts are conquered by soft prayer. But if the oracles in the sacred temples sing true, report these words to her in my name: the Delian himself promises you this marriage; happy in this, cease to wish for another man." He spoke, and idle sleep ebbed from my body. Ah, may I never be able to see such ills! Nor could I believe that you held vows contrary to mine, nor that so great a crime was in your heart: for neither the waters of the vast sea bore you, nor the Chimaera rolling flame from her savage mouth, nor the dog girt with a serpent-coil on his back, who has three tongues and a triple head, nor Scylla, her maiden shape girt about with dogs, nor did a savage lioness bear you conceived, nor the barbarous land of Scythia or the dreadful Syrtis, but a cultured home, not to be dwelt in by the harsh, and a mother gentlest far before all others, and a father than whom no other is more loving. May the god turn these cruel dreams to better and bid the warm South Winds bear them away unfulfilled.
You it holds, the water that flows from Etruscan springs, water not to be approached beneath the summer Dog-star, but now, in springtime, nearest to the sacred waters of Baiae, when the earth unbends itself in the purple spring. But to me Persephone announces the black hour: spare to harm an undeserving youth, goddess. I have not boldly attempted to teach the rites of the praiseworthy goddess, not to be profaned by any of men, nor has my hand steeped my cups with deadly juices nor given crushed poisons to anyone, nor have I, a sacrilegious man, set fires to the temples, nor do unspeakable deeds trouble my heart, nor, plotting the quarrels of a maddened mind, have I loosed impious words against the hostile gods. And not yet has grey harmed my black hair, nor has bent old age come with slow foot: my parents saw my birthday first when both consuls fell by an equal fate. What pleasure is it to rob the vine of its growing grapes and to pluck the new-born fruit with a harsh hand? Spare me, you who hold the pale waters, gods allotted the third, the harsh kingdom. Let it be mine one day to know the Elysian fields, the boat of Lethe and the Cimmerian pools, when my face shall grow pale with wrinkled age and, an old man, I tell of olden times to boys. And O that I might be frightened, all in vain, by an empty fever! But my limbs have languished for thrice five days. But for you the powers of the Tuscan water are celebrated, and the easy wave is driven by your supple hand. Live happy, and live mindful of me, whether I shall be, or the fates wish that I have been. Meanwhile promise black beasts to Dis and cups of snow-white milk mingled with wine.
Radiant Liber, be present — so may the mystic vine be ever yours, so may you wear your temples bound with ivy — take away, you who heal, my grief along with the rest: often by your gift love has fallen, overcome. Dear boy, let the cups be wet with noble wine, and pour out the Falernian for us with a tilted hand. Go far off, you harsh tribe of cares, go, you labours; let the Delian shine here with his snow-white birds. Do you, sweet friends, only favour my purpose, and let no one refuse to be my comrade with me for leader, or if anyone declines the gentle contest of the wine, let his dear girl deceive him with hidden guile. That god makes spirits rich, that god crushes the fierce one and gives him over to his mistress's judgement, Armenian tigers and tawny lionesses he has conquered and given soft hearts to the untamed. This Love and greater things can do; but ask for the gifts of Bacchus: which of you do dry cups please? Liber consorts on equal terms, and is not grim toward those who cherish him and merry wine together, but he comes angry to the over-stern: let whoever fears the great powers of the angry god drink. What penalties, how great and how terrible, he threatens these, the bloody prey of the Cadmean mother teaches. But far from us let this fear be, and let her, if any such there be, feel what the wrath of the wronged god can do. But what do I pray, madman? Let the winds, let the airy clouds carry off my rash vows to be scattered. Although no care for me remains to you, Neaera, be happy, and may your fortunes be bright. But let us give our hours over to the carefree table: after many a day comes one that is serene. Ah me, it is hard to imitate false joys, hard to feign mirth with a cheerless mind, nor does laughter sit well on a lying face, nor do drunken words ring well from the troubled. Why do I complain, unhappy man? Shameful cares, depart: father Lyaeus hates cheerless words. Cnossian maid, you once wept for the perjuries of the Thesean tongue, left alone by an unknown sea: so the learned Catullus sang of you, daughter of Minos, recounting the impious deeds of the ungrateful man. Now I warn you, men: happy is whoever from another's grief shall learn to be able to guard against his own. Nor let arms hung about your neck capture you, nor let a foul tongue deceive you with coaxing faith; even if the deceiver has sworn by her own dear eyes, and by her Juno and by her Venus, no faith will be in it: Jupiter laughs at the perjuries of lovers and bids the winds carry them off unfulfilled. Why, then, do I so often complain of the words of a deceitful girl? Go from me, I pray, you grave words. How I would wish to rest with you the long nights and to lie awake with you through the long days, faithless one, and undeservedly my enemy though I deserve well, faithless, but, though faithless, dear still! Bacchus loves the Naiad: do you delay, slow attendant? Let the Marcian water temper the aged wine. I shall not, if a girl flees the feasts of our table, desiring in her folly an unknown bed, keep heaving sighs, troubled, all night long. You, boy, go, more boldly add the clear wine. Long since, my temples wet with Syrian spikenard, I ought to have twined my hair with garlands.
Panegyric of Messalla You, Messalla, I shall sing, though your proven worth frights me; though my feeble strength cannot stand fast, yet I will begin, and if my songs fall short of the praises you deserve, — let me be a humble author for deeds so great, nor could anyone but you weave your deeds into his pages, such that no greater ones remain unspoken, — for me it is enough to have wished it; and do not spurn small gifts: even to Phoebus the most welcome offerings a Cretan brought, and to Bacchus the guest more pleasing than all was Icarus, as the stars in the clear sky bear witness, Erigone and the Dog, lest a later age deny it; nay, Alcides too, the god soon to ascend Olympus, set his glad steps in the cottage of Molorchus, and a little grain appeased the heavenly one, nor for them does the bull always fall a victim with gilded horn. Let this small labour too be welcome, so that I may be able to compose for you other verses, mindful, on another theme. Let another tell of the marvellous fabric of the great world, how the earth has settled in the boundless air, how the sea has flowed together into a curving orb, and the wandering air, where it strives to rise from the lands, and how the fiery ether, woven everywhere about it, flows, and how all things are shut within the overhanging sky; but whatever my Muses shall be able to dare, whether they can equal you or, what hope denies, go beyond, or fall short (and surely they will sing short), all this I vow to you, nor let my page lack so great a song. For though the praises of your ancient line abound to you, your glory is not content with the fame of your ancestors, nor do you ask what each label says beneath its image, but you strive to surpass the old honours of your race, yourself a greater glory to those to come than were your forebears to you: but a title beneath your name will not contain your deeds, but great volumes of eternal verse will be yours, and from every side, eager to compose your praises, they will gather, both those who sing in bound measure and those in free; which is better, there will be a contest: may I be victor among them, that I may inscribe my name upon deeds so great. For who achieves greater things than you in the camp or the forum? Yet here or there your praise is neither greater nor less, as when the just balance is pressed with equal weight, and sinks no more on this side nor rises from that, such as it floats unsteady, sunk lower on alternate sides, if ever an uneven load presses on either hand. For whether the inconstancy of the divided mob rage, no other could calm it; or if a judge's anger must be appeased, it can grow gentle at your words. Not Pylos or Ithaca is said to have borne such great men, Nestor or Ulysses, the great glory of a little city, though that old man lived while Titan ran thrice through the world's ages in his fruitful hours, though that one wandered, bold, through unknown cities, where the land is shut in by the sea's furthest waves: for he repelled the bands of the Cicones with opposing arms, nor could the lotus turn aside the courses he had begun, and the Neptunian dweller of the Aetnaean crag gave way, his eye disfigured, vanquished by Maronean wine; he carried the Aeolian winds over the peaceful sea, he came to the savage Laestrygonians and Antiphates, whom famed Artacie waters with her cold stream; he alone the cups of skilled Circe did not change, though she was the offspring of the Sun, apt with herbs and apt with song to change men's ancient shapes; he came too to the dark towers of the Cimmerians, to whom day never appeared with gleaming dawn, whether Phoebus ran above the lands or below; he saw how the great offspring of the gods, subjected to the infernal kingdom of Pluto, ran among the light shades, and passed the Sirens' shores with swift ship; him, swimming between the borders of a twofold death, neither did the onset of Scylla terrify with her savage mouth, when she crept with her dogs amid the raging waves, nor did violent Charybdis consume in her wonted way, whether she rose on high from the lowest swell, or laid bare the sea with the gulf cut open. Let not the violated pastures of the wandering Sun be passed in silence, nor the love and the fruitful fields of Atlantean Calypso, nor the end of his wretched wandering, the Phaeacian land. And whether these things are known among our own lands, or whether legend gave a new world to these wanderings, let his be the labour, while your eloquence is the greater. For now no other masters the arts of war more fitly than you: where it is fitting to draw a safe trench before the camp, how to fix the stakes against the enemy facing him, or what place is better closed off by a drawn rampart, where the earth may break forth sweet streams of water, how the approach may be easy for your men and hard for the enemy, how the soldier may flourish in the constant contest for praise, who can hurl the slow stake or the swift arrow better, or break the opposing ranks with the supple javelin, or who can rein in a swift horse with a tight bit and give the loosed reins to the slow one, and in turn now strive with a straight course, or, if it please, wheel about in a shorter, curving ring, who can guard himself with the shield, on right hand or left, whether the heavy onset of the spear come this way or that, or strike the marked spots with the swift sling. And when at once the contests of bold Mars come on and the lines prepare to clash with opposing standards, then you do not fail to set the order of the battle, whether there be need that the line stand in a square column, that the rank run down with even fronts, or it please to plan a twofold battle apart, that the right wing hold the left and the left the right, and the victory of the twin chances be twofold. But my songs do not wander among doubtful praises: for I sing of what was proved in wars. Witness for me is the brave soldier of conquered Iapydia, witness too the treacherous Pannonian, scattered everywhere upon the icy Alps, witness one born poor in the Arupine fields, whom, should anyone see how old age has not broken him, he would marvel less at the thrice-told ages of Pylian fame: for while the old man passes the seasons of a long life, Titan would renew a hundred fruitful years, yet swift himself he dares to mount his body upon a swift horse, and sits, its master, with strong reins. With you for leader the Dalmatian, not before turned to flight, submitted his free neck to the Roman chain. Nor yet will you be content with this: greater things than those achieved press upon you, as it has been made known to me by truthful signs, with which Amythaonian Melampus could not contend. For lately you had put on a robe gleaming with Tyrian weft on the rising day, the first of the fruitful year, when the Sun, more splendid, lifted his head from the clear waves and the discordant winds held back their fierce blasts, nor did the curving rivers drive their wonted courses, nay, even the rapid sea stood still with calm waves, no bird glided through the airy breezes, nor did the rough beast graze the dense woods, nay, mute silence was lavished upon your vows. Jupiter himself, borne through the void on his light chariot, was present, and left Olympus near to heaven, and lent an ear intent upon your prayers, and nodded assent to all with truthful head: the fire, heaped upon the altars, shone brighter above the piled offerings. Nay, with the god urging you, begin to set yourself to great undertakings; let your triumphs not be the same as others': not facing you in neighbouring warfare will Gaul detain you, nor Spain bold in its broad lands, nor the fierce land beset by the Theraean settler, nor where either the Nile or the royal water Choaspes flows forth, or where the rapid Gyndes, Cyrus's madness, or the Oroatian wave, dries up on the Araccaean plains, nor where Tomyris bounded her kingdom by the wandering Araxes, nor where the Padaean, neighbour to Phoebus, keeping impious feasts at his savage tables, holds the furthest fields, and where Hebrus and Tanais water the Getae and the Magyni. Why do I delay? Where Ocean encircles the world with its sea, no region will set itself against you in arms. The Briton awaits you, unconquered by Roman war, and the other half of the world, with the sun set between. For the earth stands fast in the air poured round it and is divided into five parts over the whole orb. And two are always laid waste by icy cold: there the earth is hidden in dense shadow, and no wave glides on, its flowing checked, but, hardened, it stiffens into dense ice and snow, since there Titan never drives his risings overhead. But the middle is always subject to the heat of Phoebus, whether nearer to the lands he is borne into the summer circle or swiftly hastens to run down the winter days; therefore the earth does not rise up under the pressing plough, nor do the crops yield fruit nor the lands their pasture; there no god tends the fields, neither Bacchus nor Ceres, and no living things dwell in the scorched parts. Between this and the frozen zones is set the fertile one, both ours and the other part opposite to our soil, which the like nearness of the sky on either side tempers, and the one air kills the other's force; hence the gentle year turns for us through the seasons, hence the bull has learned to bow his neck to the yoke and the pliant vine to climb the lofty boughs, and the yearly crop is reaped of its ripe fruits, and the earth is cleft with iron, the sea with bronze, nay, even towns rise up with built walls. Therefore when your deeds have gone through bright triumphs, you alone, the same, will be called great in either world. I am not enough for the heralding of so great a praise, not if Phoebus himself should write the songs for me. You have one who can gird himself for great matters, Valgius: no other is nearer to immortal Homer. My toil does not pass its time in languid ease, although Fortune, as is her way, wearies me, turned against me. For me, when my lofty house gleamed with great wealth, which had golden furrows in their rows to enrich it and barns scarce able to hold the fruitful harvest, and whose flocks the hills pastured in a dense throng, enough for the master, and too much for the thief and the wolf, now only longing remains: for the care is made new whenever, remembering, grief ever reminds me of years gone by. But though harsher things befall and I am stripped of what is left, my Muses will not fail to commemorate you. Nor to you alone will Pierian honours be paid: for you I would dare to go even over the swift waves of the sea, though the wintry straits swell with opposing winds, for you I would dare to stand alone against dense squadrons, or commit my small body to the Aetnaean flame. Whatever I am, it is yours. If a little care for me be yours, however much you please, if only there be any, not the Lydian kingdoms, not the fame of great Gylippus, would be more to me, nor would I rather be able to surpass the pages of Homer. But if my verse, all of it or less, be either well known to you, or float upon your lips, no fates will set for me an end of singing you. Nay, even when the mound shall have covered my bones, whether the ripe day hasten swift death for me, or long life remain, yet, my form changed, whether it fashion me a horse taught to course the stiff plains, or I be a bull, the glory of the slow herd, or I be borne, a bird, through the clear air on wings, whenever the long age shall receive me again as a man, I will weave songs of you upon pages newly begun.
Elegies of Sulpicia by an Uncertain Author Sulpicia is dressed for you, great Mars, on your Kalends; come yourself from heaven to behold her, if you are wise; this Venus will forgive; but you, violent one, beware lest your arms fall shamefully from you as you marvel: from her eyes, when he wishes to set the gods aflame, keen Love kindles his twin torches. Her, whatever she does, wherever she has moved her steps, Grace secretly arrays and follows close behind; if she has loosed her hair, it is fitting to wear it flowing: if she has dressed it, with dressed locks she is to be revered. She kindles, whether she has chosen to come forth in a Tyrian robe: she kindles, whether she comes radiant in snow-white raiment. Such on eternal Olympus is happy Vertumnus, who has a thousand adornments, has a thousand fittingly. She alone of girls is worthy that Tyre should give her soft fleeces twice steeped in costly dyes, and that she should possess whatever the rich Arab reaps, the tiller of the fragrant crop, in his sweet-smelling fields, and whatever gems the dark Indian, nearest the Eastern waters, gathers from the red shore. Of her, you Pierian Maids, sing on the festal Kalends, and you, Phoebus, proud with your tortoise-shell lyre. This solemn rite she will keep for many years to come: no girl is worthier of your choir.
Spare my young man, whether you haunt the good pastures of the plain or the byways of the shady mountain, you boar, and let it not be yours to have whetted your hard tusks for battle; let Love, his guardian, keep him safe for me. But the love of hunting leads him far away, Delia: O perish the woods, and let the hounds fail! What madness is it, what sense, with the net to close the dense hills, wishing to hurt his tender hands? Or what pleasure is it to steal into the lairs of wild beasts and to mark his white legs with the hooked brambles? Yet, that it might be allowed to wander with you, Cerinthus, I myself would carry the twisted nets over the mountains, I myself would seek the tracks of the swift stag and take the iron bonds from the swift hound. Then, then the woods would please me, if, my light, with you I might be charged with having lain before the very snares: then, though the boar come to the toils, it will go off unharmed, that it may not disturb the joys of eager love. Now without me let there be no love, but by Diana's law, chaste boy, touch the chaste nets with a chaste hand: and whatever woman steals secretly upon my love, let her fall among the savage beasts, to be torn apart. But you, yield your zeal for hunting to your father, and run swiftly yourself back into my arms.
Come hither and drive out the sickness of the tender girl, come hither, Phoebus, proud of your unshorn hair; believe me, make haste, nor will you regret it now, Phoebus, to have laid your healing hands upon a lovely woman. Bring it about that no wasting seize her pallid limbs, nor any disfiguring hue mark her white body, and whatever of ill there is, and whatever cheerless thing we fear, let the river bear it away to the sea with its rushing waters. Holy one, come, and bring with you whatever flavours, whatever chants ease wearied bodies; nor torment the young man, who fears the girl's death and makes vows for his mistress scarce to be numbered; now and then he vows, now and then, because she is ill, he speaks harsh words against the eternal gods. Lay aside your fear, Cerinthus: the god does not harm lovers; only love always: your girl is safe for you; there is no need of weeping: it will be fitter to use your tears if ever she shall be more downcast toward you. But now she is wholly yours, she, radiant, thinks of you alone with herself, and the credulous crowd sits in vain. Phoebus, show favour: great praise will be paid to you to have saved two in one body kept safe. Now you will be famed, now glad, when each, glad, in rivalry pays back what is owed to your holy hearths; then the pious throng of gods will call you happy, and each will wish your arts for himself.
The day that gave you to me, Cerinthus, this shall be holy to me, and ever to be counted among the festal days: at your birth the Fates sang to girls a new slavery, and gave to you proud sovereignty. I burn before all others: this pleases me, Cerinthus, that I burn, if from you a mutual fire toward me is present; let mutual love be present, I ask by our sweetest stolen joys, and by your eyes, and by your Genius. Great Genius, take the incense gladly and favour my vows, if only, when he thinks of me, he glows. But if perchance he now sighs for other loves, then, holy one, leave, I pray, those faithless hearths. And do not be unjust, Venus: either let each serve you, bound alike, or lift the bonds from me; but rather let both of us be held by a strong chain, which no day hereafter could loose. The young man wishes the same as I, but wishes it more secretly: for he is ashamed to speak these words openly. But you, Birthday god, since you perceive all things as a god, grant it: what does it matter whether he ask in secret or openly?
Birthday Juno, take the holy heaps of incense that the skilled girl gives you with her tender hand; today she is wholly yours, for you she has dressed herself most gladly, that she might stand, fair to behold, before your hearths. She indeed refers to you, goddess, the causes of her adorning; yet there is one whom she would secretly wish to please. But you, holy one, show favour, and let no one tear the lovers apart, but for the young man, I beg, prepare equal bonds. So you will match them well: not to any girl is he worthier to be a slave, nor she to any man. And let no watchful guard be able to catch the eager pair, and let Love supply a thousand ways of deceiving. Grant it, and come, shining through your purple robe: three times a cake is offered you, three times, chaste goddess, wine; the eager mother instructs her daughter in what she wishes: the girl now, silent, in her own heart asks another thing; she burns, as the swift flames burn the altars, nor, though she might, would she wish to be whole again. Be gracious to the young man, and, when the next year comes, let this same love stand firm, now grown old in its vows.
Little Elegies of Sulpicia At last love has come, of such a kind that to have veiled it would be more a shame to me, by repute, than to have laid it bare to anyone. Won over by my Muses, the Cytherean goddess brought him and laid him in my bosom. Venus has paid her promises: let one tell of my joys, if any shall be said not to have had her own. I would not wish to entrust anything to sealed tablets, that no one might read it before my own beloved, but it is a delight to have erred; to compose my looks for repute's sake wearies me: let me be told to have been worthy, with one worthy of me.
The hated birthday is at hand, which must be spent, cheerless, in the wearisome country and without Cerinthus. What is sweeter than the city? Or is a farmhouse fit for a girl, and the cold river of the Arretine field? Now, Messalla, too zealous for me, be at rest; journeys, kinsman, are often not timely. Carried off, I leave here my mind and my senses to my own will, though you do not let me be my own.
Do you know that the cheerless journey has been lifted from the girl's mind? Now I may be at Rome on your birthday. Let that birthday be kept by us all, which now comes to you by chance, when you do not expect it.
It is pleasing that, untroubled, you now grant yourself so much about me, lest I, suddenly, in my folly, fall to ruin. Let your care be rather for the toga, and a harlot weighed down with the wool-basket, than Sulpicia, daughter of Servius: they are anxious on my behalf, to whom this is the greatest cause of grief, that I should yield to an ignoble bed.
Have you, Cerinthus, any loyal care for your girl, now that a fever vexes my wearied body? Ah, I would not wish to overcome my cheerless sickness otherwise than if I thought that you too wished it. But what would it profit me to overcome my sickness, if you can bear my ills with an indifferent heart?
May I no longer be, my light, so fervent a care to you as I seem to have been a few days before, if in all my youth I, foolish, have done anything of which I should confess I have repented more than that I left you alone last night, desiring to hide my own ardour.
By an Uncertain Author No woman shall steal your bed from me: on this terms first was our love joined. You alone please me, nor now, besides you, in the city is any girl lovely to my eyes. And would that you could seem fair to me alone! May you displease others: so shall I be safe. There is no need of envy, let the glory of the crowd be far off: let the man who is wise rejoice in a silent breast. So can I live well in the secret woods, where no path is worn by human foot. You are the rest from my cares, you in the black night are my light, and in lonely places you are a throng to me. Now though a sweetheart be sent from heaven to Tibullus, she would be sent in vain, and Venus would fail; this I swear to you by the holy power of your Juno, who alone before all other gods is great to me. What am I doing, madman? Alas! alas! I yield up my pledges; I have sworn foolishly: that fear was to my profit. Now you will be bold, now more daringly you will burn me: this my chattering tongue has brought as ill upon my wretched self. Now I will do whatever you wish, I will remain yours forever, nor will I flee the slavery of a well-known mistress, but, bound, I will sit at holy Venus's altars: she marks the unjust and favours suppliants.
Rumour says again and again that my girl is false: now I would wish to be of deaf ears. These charges are not made without grief to me: why do you torment a wretch, bitter Rumour? Be silent.
Of Domitius Marsus You too, Tibullus, the comrade of Virgil, unjust Death sent, a young man, to the Elysian fields, that there might be none either to weep tender loves in elegy or to sing royal wars in heroic measure.