BOOK 1, ELEGY 14
Puellam consolatur cui proe nimia cura comoe deciderant (He comforts the girl, whose hair has been falling out from too much care and attention)
'Leave colouring thy tresses' I did cry, 'Now hast thou left no hairs at all to die. But what had been more fair had they been kept? Beyond thy robes thy dangling locks had swept. Fear'dst thou to dress them? Being fine and thin Like to the silk the curious Seres spin, Or threads which spider's slender foot draws out Fast'ning her light web some old beam about. Not black, nor golden were they to our view, Yet although neither, mixed of either's hue, Such as in hilly Ida's wat'ry plains, The cedar tall spoil'd of his bark retains. Add, they were apt to curl an hundred ways, And did to thee no cause of dolour raise. Nor hath the needle, or the comb's teeth reft them, The maid that comb'd them ever safely left them. Oft was she dress'd before mine eyes, yet never, Snatching the comb to beat the wench, out drave her. Oft in the morn her hairs not yet digested, Half sleeping on a purple bed she rested, Yet seemly like a Thracian bacchanal That tir'd doth rashly on the green grass fall. When they were slender, and like downy moss, Thy troubled hairs, alas, endur'd great loss. How patiently hot irons they did take In crooked trammels crispy curls to make. I cried, 'tis sin, 'tis sin, these hairs to burn, They well become thee, then to spare them turn. Far off be force, no fire to them may reach, Thy very hairs will the hot bodkin teach. Lost are the goodly locks, which from their crown Phoebus and Bacchus wish'd were hanging down. Such were they as Diana painted stands All naked holding in her wave-moist hands. Why dost thy ill-kemb'd tresses loss lament? Why in thy glass dost look, being discontent? Be not to see with wonted eyes inclined, To please thyself, thyself put out of mind. No charmed herbs of any harlot scath'd thee, No faithless witch in Thessale waters bath'd thee. No sickness harm'd thee, far be that away, No envious tongue wrought thy thick locks decay. By thine own hand and fault thy hurt doth grow, Thou mad'st thy head with compound poison flow. Now Germany shall captive hair-tires send thee, And vanquish'd people curious dressings lend thee, Which some admiring, O thou oft wilt blush And say he likes me for my borrow'd bush, Praising for me some unknown Guelder dame, But I remember when it was my fame.' Alas she almost weeps, and her white cheeks, Died red with shame, to hide from shame she seeks. She holds, and views her old locks in her lap, Ay me, rare gifts unworthy such a hap. Cheer up thyself, thy loss thou mayst repair, And be hereafter seen with native hair.
BOOK 1, ELEGY 15
Ad invidos, quod fama poetarum sit perennis (To the envious, that the fame of poets lasts forever)
Envy, why carp'st thou my time's spent so ill, And term'st my works fruits of an idle quill? Or that unlike the line from whence I sprung, War's dusty honours are refus'd being young, Nor that I study not the brawling laws, Nor set my voice to sale in every cause? Thy scope is mortal, mine eternal fame, That all the world may ever chant my name. Homer shall live while Tenedos stands and Ide, Or into sea swift Simois doth slide. Ascreus lives, while grapes with new wine swell, Or men with crooked sickles come down fell. The world shall of Callimachus ever speak, His art excell'd, although his wit was weak. For ever lasts high Sophocles' proud vain, With sun and moon Aratus shall remain. While bondmen cheat, fathers be hard, bawds whorish, And strumpets flatter, shall Menander flourish. Rude Ennius, and Plautus full of wit, Are both in Fame's eternal legend writ. What age of Varro's name shall not be told, And Jason's Argos, and the fleece of gold? Lofty Lucretius shall live that hour, That Nature shall dissolve this earthly bower. Aeneas war, and Titerus shall be read, While Rome of all the conquer'd world is head. Till Cupid's bow, and flery shafts be broken, Thy verses sweet Tibullus shall be spoken. And Gallus shall be known from East to West, So shall Licoris whom he loved best: Therefore when flint and iron wear away, Verse is immortal, and shall ne'er decay. Let kings give place to verse, and kingly shows, And banks o'er which gold-bearing Tagus flows. Let base-conceited wits admire vilde things, Fair Phoebus lead me to the Muses' springs. About my head be quivering myrtle wound, And in sad lovers' heads let me be found. The living, not the dead, can envy bite, For after death all men receive their right: Then though death rakes my bones in funeral fire, I'll live, and as he pulls me down, mount higher.