Book II, Elegy 1

You ask me, from what source so oft I draw my songs of love and whence comes my book that sounds so soft upon the tongue. 'Tis not Calliope nor Apollo that singeth these things; 'tis my mistress' self that makes my wit. If thou wilt have her walk radiant in silks of Cos, of Coan raiment all this my book shall tell; or have I seen her tresses stray dishevelled o'er her brow, I praise her locks and she walks abroad in pride and gladness; or struck she forth music from the lyre with ivory fingers, I marvel with what easy skill she sweeps her hands along the strings; or when she droops those eyes that call for sleep I find a thousand new themes for song; or if, flinging away her robe, she enter naked with me in the lists, then, then I write whole Iliads long. Whate'er she does, whate'er she says, from a mere nothing springs a mighty tale.

But if, Maecenas, the Fates had granted me the power to lead the hosts of heroes into war, I would not sing the Titans, nor Ossa on Olympus piled, that Pelion might be a path to heaven. I'd sing not ancient Thebes nor Troy's citadel, that is Homer's glory, nor yet how at Xerxes' bidding sea met sundered sea, nor, again, would I chant the primeval realm of Remus or the fierce spirit of lofty Carthage, the Cimbrian's threats or the service wrought by Marius for the State. But I would tell of the wars and the deeds of thy master Caesar, and next after mighty Caesar my thoughts should turn on thee. For oft as I sang of Mutina or Philippi, where Romans lie by Romans slain, or of the sea-fight and the rout by the Sicilian shore, the ruined hearths of Etruria's ancient race, and the capture of the shore where Ptolemy's Pharos stands; oft as I sang of Egypt and the Nile, what time in mourning garb he went humbly to Rome with his seven captive streams, or of the necks of kings bound about with chains of gold, and the prows of Actium speeding along the Sacred Way; so oft would my Muse weave thy name into those deeds, true heart in peace or war.

Theseus to the shades below, Achilles to the gods above, proclaim a comrade's love, the one of Ixion's child the other of the son of Menoetius.

But neither would Callimachus' scant breath avail to thunder forth the strife 'twixt Jove and Enceladus on Phlegra's plains, nor has my heart power in verse severe to trace the line of Caesar to his Phrygian grandsires. The sailor talks of winds, the ploughman of oxen, the soldier counts o'er his wounds, the shepherd his sheep, while we for our part tell of lovers' wars upon a narrow couch! Let each man pass his days in that wherein his skill is greatest. To die for love is glory; and glory yet again to have power to joy in one love only; ah, may I, and I alone, joy in the love that's mine. If memory fails me not, she is wont to blame fickle-hearted maids, and on account of Helen frowns on the whole Iliad. Though I be doomed to drink of the cup that the stepdame Phaedra brewed, the cup whereof her stepson, was destined to take no hurt, or must die of Circe's herbs; or though for me the Colchian witch heat the caldron on the fires of Iolcus, yet since one girl hath stolen away my senses, from her house only shall go forth my funeral train.

Medicine cures all the anguish of mankind; love alone loves no physician of its ill. Machaon healed Philoctetes' limping feet, Chiron the son of Phillyra opened the eyes of Phoenix, the Epidaurian god restored the dead Androgeon to his father's hearth by power of Cretan herbs, and the Mysian youth received succour from the same Haemonian spear that dealt the wound. If any can take this frailty from me, he and he alone will be able to bring the apple to the hands of Tantalus; he too shall fill the casks from the maidens' pitchers, that their tender necks be not bowed for ever by the burden of water; he too shall loose Prometheus' arms from the Caucasian crag and drive the vulture from his inmost heart.

Therefore when at last the Fates demand my life, and I shall be no more than a brief name on a little stone of marble, then, Maecenas, thou hope and envy of our Roman youth, and, whether I live or die, mine own true glory, if perchance thy journeying lead thee near my tomb, stay awhile thy British chariot with carven yoke, and weeping pay this tribute to the silent dust: "An unrelenting maid wrought this poor mortal's death."