BOOK 3, ELEGY 8
Tibulli mortem deflet (He grieves for the death of Tibullus)
If Thetis, and the morn their sons did wail, And envious fates great goddesses assail, Sad Elegia, thy woeful hairs unbind: Ah, now a name too true thou hast, I find. Tibullus, thy work's poet, and thy fame, Burns his dead body in the funeral flame. Lo, Cupid brings his quiver spoiled quite, His broken bow, his fire-brand without light. How piteously with drooping wings he stands, And knocks his bare breast with self-angry hands. The locks spread on his neck receive his tears, And shaking sobs his mouth for speeches bears. So at Aeneas' burial, men report, Fair-fac'd Iulus, he went forth thy court. And Venus grieves, Tibullus life being spent, As when the wild boar Adon's groin had rent. The gods' care we are call'd, and men of piety, And some there be that think we have a deity. Outrageous death profanes all holy things And on all creatures obscure darkness brings. To Thracian Orpheus, what did parents good? Or songs amazing wild beasts of the wood? Where Linus by his father Phoebus layed To sing with his unequall'd harp is said. See Homer, from whose fountain ever fill'd, Pierian dew to poets is distill'd. Him the last day in black Avern hath drown'd, Verses alone are with continuance crown'd. The work of poets lasts Troy's labour's fame, And that slow web night's falsehood did unframe. So Nemesis, so Delia famous are, The one his first love, th'other his new care. What profit to us hath our pure life bred? What to have lain alone in empty bed? When bad fates take good men, I am forbod, By secret thoughts to think there is a god. Live godly, thou shalt die, though honour heaven, Yet shall thy life be forcibly bereaven. Trust in good verse, Tibullus feels death's pains, Scarce rests of all what a small urn contains. Thee, sacred poet, could sad flames destroy? Nor fear'd they thy body to annoy? The holy gods' gilt temples they might fire, That durst to so great wickedness aspire. Eryx' bright empress turn'd her looks aside, And some, that she refrain'd tears have denied. Yet better is't, than if Corcyra's isle Had thee unknown interr'd in ground most vile. Thy dying eyes here did thy mother close, Nor did thy ashes her last off'rings lose. Part of her sorrow here thy sister bearing, Comes forth her uncomb'd locks asunder tearing. Nemesis and thy first wench join their kisses, With thine, nor this last fire their presence misses. Delia departing, 'Happier lov'd', she saith, 'Was I: thou liv'dst, while thou esteem'dst my faith.' Nemesis answers, 'What's my loss to thee? His fainting hand in death engrasped me'. If aught remains of us but name, and spirit, Tibullus doth Elysium's joy inherit. Their youthful brows with ivy girt to meet him, With Calvus, learn'd Catullus, come and greet him. And thou, if falsely charg'd to wrong thy friend, Gallus that car'dst not blood and life to spend. With these thy soul walks, souls if death release, The godly sweet Tibullus doth increase. Thy bones I pray may in the urn safe rest, And may th'earth's weight thy ashes nought molest.
BOOK 3, ELEGY 9
Ad Cererem, conquerens quod eius sacris cum amica concumbere non permittatur (To Ceres, complaining that he is not allowed to sleep with his mistress because of her sacraments)
Come were the times of Ceres' sacrifice, In empty bed alone my mistress lies. Golden-hair'd Ceres crown'd with ears of corn, Why are our pleasures by thy means forborne? Thee, goddess, bountiful all nations judge, Nor less at man's prosperity any grudge. Rude husbandmen bak'd not their corn before, Nor on the earth was known the name of floor. On mast of oaks, first oracles, men fed, This was their meat, the soft grass was their bed. First Ceres taught the seede in fields to swell, And ripe-eared corn with sharp-edg'd scythes to fell. She first constrain'd bulls' necks to bear the yoke, And untill'd ground with crooked plough-shares broke. Who thinks her to be glad at lovers' smart, And worshipp'd by their pain, and lying apart? Nor is she, though she loves the fertile fields, A clown, nor no love from her warm breast yields. Be witnesse Crete (nor Crete doth all things feign) Crete proud that Jove her nursery maintain. There, he who rules the world's star-spangled towers, A little boy drunk teat-distilling showers. Faith to the witness Jove's praise doth apply, Ceres, I think, no known fault will deny. The goddess saw Iasion on Candian Ide, With strong hand striking wild beasts' brist'led hide. She saw, and as her marrow took the flame, Was divers ways distract with love, and shame. Love conquer'd shame, the furrows dry were burn'd, And come with least part of itself return'd. When well-toss'd mattocks did the ground prepare, Being fit broken with the crooked share, And seeds were equally in large fields cast, The ploughman's hopes were frustrate at the last. The grain-rich goddess in high woods did stray, Her long hair's ear-wrought garland fell away. Only was Crete fruitful that plenteous year, Where Ceres went, each place was harvest there. Ida the seat of groves did sing with corn, Which by the wild boar in the woods was shorn. Law-giving Minos did such years desire; And wished the goddess long might feel love's fire. Ceres, what sports to thee so grievous were, As in thy sacrifice we them forbear? Why am I sad, when Proserpine is found, And Juno-like with Dis reigns underground? Festival days ask Venus, songs, and wine, These gifts are meet to please the powers divine.