Book II, Elegy 34

Why should any one henceforth entrust his mistress' beauty to the care of Love? Thus was my beloved nearly stolen from me. I speak from experience; no man is ever faithful in love, and rarely does any, beholding beauty, seek not to make it his own. Love pollutes kinship, parts friends, and summons them, that are well agreed, to bitter strife. The adulterer, that was made welcome by Menelaus, was a stranger; and did not the woman of Colchis follow a lover whom she knew not?

Lynceus, hadst thou the heart to touch my beloved? Did not thy hands, faithless friend, fall powerless then? What if she had not been so constant and so true? Couldst thou have lived in such guilt? Take my life with poison or the sword, only take thyself away from my mistress. Thou mayest be the comrade of my life and part never from my side; my friend, I make thee lord of all my fortune; 'tis only as partner in my love that I would have thee never: I cannot endure a rival, though he were Jove himself. I am jealous of mine own shadow, a thing of naught, fool that I am to tremble with causeless fear. One plea alone can make me pardon such a crime: deep draughts of wine had caused thy tongue to stray. Yet never shall thy brow, wrinkled with stern morality, deceive me: the world is old enough for all to know how good a thing is love.

Late though it be, at last Lynceus, my friend, is mad with love! Of this only am I glad, that at last thou worshippest the gods we lovers serve. What will avail thee now thy wisdom drawn from Socratic books, what the power to set forth the cause of things? What avails thee the songs of the Athenian lyre? Thine ancient bard availeth naught against o'er-mastering love. Do thou rather imitate in thy song Coan Philetas, and the dreams of restrained Callimachus. Now, though thou shouldst tell once more how the stream of Aetolian Achelous flowed shattered by the might of love, and withal how the deceitful wave of Maeander wanders in the Phrygian plain and perplexes its own channels, and how, mourning at the funeral of Archemorus, Adrastus' victorious steed Arion spake aloud, naught will avail thee the fate of the chariot of Amphiaraus, nor the overthrow of Capaneus that made glad the heart of Jove. Cease to frame verse shod with the buskin of Aeschylus, and bend thy limbs in the soft choric dance. Begin now to turn thy verses on a narrower lathe, and sing of thine own flames, hard-hearted poet. Thou shalt not be safer in thy goings than Antimachus or Homer: for a comely girl despises even the power of the gods.

Yet the stubborn bull yields not to the yoke of the plough, e'er his horns have been caught in the stout noose. Nor wilt thou of thyself be able to endure the hardships of love; first thou must have thy fierce spirit tamed by me. Never will girl inquire concerning the system of the universe, nor ask why the labours of the moon depend on her brother's steeds, nor if in truth there is a judge beyond the waves of Styx, nor if the crashing thunderbolts be hurled by an aiming hand. Look on me, to whom but a scanty fortune hath been left at home, whose ancestors ne'er triumphed for battles long ago, see how I reign at the banquet in the midst of a crowd of girls, thanks to the wit for which thou now makest light of me! Be it mine to lie languidly among the wreaths of yesterday, for the god hath stricken me with aim unerring even to the bone. Be it for Vergil to sing the shores of Actium o'er which Phoebus watches, and Caesar's gallant ships of war; Vergil that now wakes to life the arms of Trojan Aeneas and the walls he founded on the Lavinian shore. Yield ye, bards of Rome, yield ye, singers of Greece! Something greater than the Iliad now springs to birth! Vergil, thou singest beneath the pine-woods of shady Galaesus, of Thyrsis, and Daphnis, with the well-worn pipe of reed, and how ten apples or a kid fresh from the udder of its dam may win the love of a girl. Happy thou that thus cheaply buyest thy love with apples; to such a love may even Tityrus sing, unkind though she be. Happy, too, Corydon who seeks to win Alexis, the darling of the farmer, his master, Alexis yet unwon; even though he weary and rest from his piping, yet is he praised by the wanton Hamadryads. Thou singest also the precepts of Ascra's poet old, telling in what plains the corn grows green, and on what hills the vine. Such music makest thou as the Cynthian god modulates with fingers pressed upon his well-skilled lyre. Yet these songs of thine will fail to please none that reads, whether he be skilled in love or all unlearned; and the melodious "swan," less lofty of accent, yet no less inspired when he sings the songs of love, sinks not to tuneless cackle like the "goose."

Such sportive themes also did Varro sing when his tale of Jason was all told; Varro, Leucadia's mightiest flame. Such are the songs that wanton Catullus wrote, whose Lesbia is better known than Helen. Such passion also the pages of learned Calvus did confess, when he sang of the death of hapless Quintilia; and dead Gallus too, that of late laved in the streams of Hell the many wounds dealt him by fair Lycoris. Nay, Cynthia also has been glorified by Propertius — if Fame shall grant me a place mid such as they.