Amores II.18

While you, Macer, are bringing your poem to the time of Achilles' wrath and clothing the conspiring chiefs with the war's first arms, I dally in the slothful shade of Venus, and tender Love is bringing to naught the lofty ventures I would make. Oft have I said to my love: "At last leave me to myself'!" — and she has come forthwith and sat upon my lap. Oft have I said: "I am ashamed!" — scarce keeping back her tears, she has answered : "Poor me! are vou so soon ashamed of love?" and has wound her arms about my neck and given me a thousand kisses, to my undoing. I am vanquished, and summon back my genius from the taking up of arms to sing of exploits at home and of my own campaigns.

None the less, I did begin to sing of sceptres, and through my effort tragedy grew in favour, and for that task no one more fit than I. Hut Love laughed at my pall and painted buskins, and at the sceptre I had so promptly grasped in my unkinglike hand. From this ambition, too, the worshipful will of my lady drew me away — for she liked it not— and Love triumphant drags in his train the buskined bard.

What I may, I do. I either profess the art of tender love a — ah me, I am caught in the snares of my own teaching! — or I write the words Penelope sends her Ulysses, and thy tearful plaint, abandoned Phyllis; what Paris and Macareus are to read, and what ungrateful Jason, and Hippolytus, and Hippolytus' sire; and what pitiable Dido, with drawn blade in her hand, indites, and the Lesbian, loved of the Aonian lyre.

How quickly has my Sabinus returned from the ends of the earth and brought back missives writ in far-distant places!c Spotless Penelope has recognized the seal of Ulysses; the stepdame has read what was penned by her Hippolytus. Already devout Aeneas has written back to wretched Elissa, and a letter is here for Phyllis to read, if only she live. A missive grievous for Hypsipyle has come from Jason : the daughter of Lesbos, her love returned, may offer to Phoebus the lyre she vowed.

Nor do you, too, Macer, so far as the bard may who sings of arms, leave golden Love unsung amid your warlike strain. Both Paris and she who loved him, misdeed far-famed, are in your song, and Laodamia, comrade to her lord in death. If I know you well, not more gladly you sing of wars than of themes like these, and are passing from your camp to mine.