Book I, Elegy 7

Whilst thou singest, Ponticus, of Cadmean Thebes, and the bitter warfare of fraternal strife, and — so may heaven smile on me, as I speak truth — dost rival Homer for crown of song (if only the Fates be kind to thy verse), I, as is my wont, still ply my loves, and seek for some device to o'ercome my mistress' cruelty. I am constrained rather to serve my sorrow than my wit and to bemoan the hardship that my youth endures.

Thus is my whole life passed: this is my glory: this is the title to fame I claim for my song. Let my only praise be this, that I pleased the heart of a learned maid, and oft endured her unjust threatenings. Henceforth let neglected lovers read diligently my words, and let it profit them to learn what woes were mine. Thou too, should the boy strike thee with unerring shaft — but may the gods I serve ordain thee other doom — shalt weep in misery that thy seven leaguered hosts are cast aside and lie dumb in everlasting neglect, and in vain shalt thou desire to write soft songs of passion; Love come so late shall ne'er inspire thy song.

Then shalt thou marvel at me as no mean singer; then shalt thou rank me above the bards of Rome; and youths perforce will cry above my tomb: "Mighty singer of our passion, dost thou lie so low?" Beware then lest in thy pride thou spurn my song. Love that comes late oft claims a heavy toll.