BOOK 3, ELEGY 10
Ad amicam, a cuius amore discedere non potest (To his mistress, whom he cannot stop loving)
Long have I borne much, mad thy faults me make: Dishonest love my wearied breast forsake, Now have I freed myself, and fled the chain, And what I have borne, shame to bear again. We vanquish, and tread tam'd love under feet, Victorious wreathes at length my temples greet. Suffer, and harden: good grows by this grief, Oft bitter juice brings to the sick relief. I have sustain'd so oft thrust from the door, To lay my body on the hard moist floor. I know not whom thou lewdly didst embrace, When I to watch supplied a servant's place. I saw when forth a tired lover went, His side past service, and his courage spent. Yet this is less, then if he had seen me, May that shame fall mine enemies' chance to be. When have not I fixed to thy side close laid? I have thy husband, guard, and fellow play'd. The people by my company she pleas'd, My love was cause that more men's love she seiz'd. What should I tell her vain tongue's filthy lies, And to my loss God-wronging perjuries? What secret becks in banquets with her youths, With privy signs, and talk dissembling truths? Hearing her to be sick, I thither ran, But with my rival sick she was not than. These harden'd me, with what I keep obscure, Some other seek, who will these things endure. Now my ship in the wished haven crown'd, With joy hears Neptune's swelling waters sound. Leave thy once powerful words, and flatteries, I am not as I was before, unwise. Now love, and hate my light breast each way move; But victory, I think, will hap to love. I'll hate, if I can; if not, love 'gainst my will: Bulls hate the yoke, yet what they hate have still. I fly her lust, but follow beauty's creature; I loath her manners, love her body's feature. Nor with thee, nor without thee can I live, And doubt to which desire the palm to give. Or less fair, or less lewd would thou might'st be, Beauty with lewdness doth right ill agree. Her deeds gain hate, her face entreateth love: Ah, she doth more worth then her vices prove. Spare me, O by our fellow bed, by all The gods who by thee to be perjur'd fall, And by thy face to me a power divine, And by thine eyes whose radiance burns out mine. Whate'er thou art, mine art thou: choose this course, Wilt have me willing, or to love by force? Rather I'll hoist up sail, and use the wind, That I may love yet, though against my mind.
BOOK 3, ELEGY 11
Dolet amicam suam ita suis carminibus innotuisse ut rivales multos sibi pararit (He grieves that his mistress has been given so much publicity by his poems that he has provided himself with many rivals)
What day was that, which all sad haps to bring, White birds to lovers did not always sing? Or is I think my wish against the stars? Or shall I plain some god against me wars? Who mine was call'd, whom I lov'd more then any, I fear with me is common now to many. Err I? Or by my books is she so known? 'Tis so: by my wit her abuse is grown. And justly: for her praise why did I tell? The wench by my fault is set forth to sell. The bawd I play, lovers to her I guide: Her gate by my hands is set open wide. 'Tis doubtfiil whether verse avail, or harm, Against my good they were an envious charm. When Thebes, when Troy, when Caesar should be writ, Alone Corinna moves my wanton wit. With Muse oppos'd would I my lines had done, And Phoebus had forsook my work begun. Nor, as use will not poets' record hear , Would I my words would any credit bear . Scylla by us her father's rich hair steals, And Scylla's womb mad raging dogs conceals. We cause feet fly, we mingle hairs with snakes, Victorious Perseus a wing'd steed's back takes. Our verse great Tityus a huge space out-spreads, And gives the viper-curled dog three heads. We make Enceladus use a thousand arms, And men enthrall'd by mermaids' singing charms. The east winds in Ulysses bags we shut, And blabbing Tantalus in mid-waters put. Niobe flint, Callist we make a bear, Bird-changed Procne doth her Itys tear. Jove turns himself into a swan, or gold, Or his bull's horns Europa's hand doth hold. Proteus what should I name? Teeth, Thebes first seed? Oxen in whose mouths burning flames did breed? Heav'n star Electra that bewail'd her sisters? The ships, whose godhead in the sea now glisters? The sun turn'd back from Atreus' cursed table? And sweet-touch'd harp that to move stones was able? Poets' large power is boundless, and immense, Nor have their words true history's pretence, And my wench ought to have seem'd falsely prais'd, Now your credulity harm to me hath rais'd.