Book I, Elegy 16

I that of old was flung wide to welcome mighty triumphs, Tarpeia's portal glorified by her chastity, whose threshold gilded chariots once made renowned and the suppliant tears of captives once bedewed, I to-day am bruised by the nightly brawls of drunkards, and smitten by unworthy hands make moan. Dishonouring wreaths fail not to hang by me, and ever nigh me lie torches that tell their tale to lovers shut out from bliss.

Yet cannot I save my mistress from her nights of shame, but, once so noble, am now the prey of ribald rhymes. Nor yet is she moved to repent and have pity on her fair fame, and to cease from living more vilely than the vileness of a wanton age. And even while thus I make my moan, yet bitterer tears are mine to weep, as the long watches of the suppliant lover deepen my woe. He suffers never my pillars to have peace, with shrill blandishment chanting this refrain:

"Door yet more deeply cruel than even my mistress' heart, why are thy grim portals ever closed and mute for me? Why never dost thou unbar and give entrance to my love, thou that knowest not to relent and bear my secret prayers to my mistress? Wilt thou never grant an ending to my woes? And must a doleful sleep be mine on thy chill threshold? For me the midnight and the stars that turn to their setting and the breeze laden with chill frost of dawn grieve as they behold me prostrate. Thou alone pitiest never the agony of the heart of men; thy hinges are silent, and thou answerest naught. Would that some whisper of my voice might pass through some hollow rift in thee, and fall upon my mistress' startled ear! Then were she more passionless than flint or Etna's crags, more cruel than iron or steel, yet will she not have power to control her eyes, and mid unwilling tears a sigh shall rise.

Now she lies propped on another's happy arm and my words fall idly on the breezes of the night. But thou art the sole, the chiefest cause of my grief, unvanquished ever by the gifts I bring. My tongue hath never assailed thee with angry drunken jest, so dear to froward anger, that thou shouldst suffer me to grow hoarse with long complaining and watch all night at the street corner in anguished waiting. But oft for thee have I spun new strains of song and bowed me to print clinging kisses on thy steps. How oft have I turned my back upon thy pillars and with furtive hands bestowed the votive gifts that were thy due."

So cries he with aught else that ye, hapless lovers, have learned to cry, and outclamours the birds of dawn. So by my mistress' vices and her lover's tears am I for aye defamed with ever-during scorn.