Book I, Elegy 8

Art thou then mad? Does no care for me stay thy going? Am I of less account to thee than chill Illyria? And esteemest thou that wretch, whoe'er he be, so highly that thou art ready to leave me and fly to his arms on any wind that blows? Canst thou bear unmoved the roar of the raging deep? canst thou make thy couch on the hard ship's-bench? or press with tender feet the fallen hoar-frost? or endure, my Cynthia, the unfamiliar snows? Ah, would that the wintry season's storms were doubled, and the Pleiads' rising delayed, that the sailor might tarry idle and the cables ne'er be loosed from the Tyrrhene strand nor the cruel breeze make light of my prayers to thee; and yet may I never see such winds subside, when thy bark puts out to sea and the wave bears it afar, leaving me rooted on the shore, shaking clenched hands and crying out upon thy cruelty.

Yet, faithless one, whate'er thou deserve of me, may Galatea smile upon thy path. Pass the Ceraunian cliffs with prosperous oarage and may Oricos at last receive thee in its calm haven. For never shall the love of any maid lure me from uttering at thy threshold my bitter complaint against thee, light of my life; nor will I cease to question the mariners as they hurry by: "Tell me in what port has my love found shelter?" and I will cry: "Though she abide on Artacia's shores, or where the Hylaei dwell, yet shall she be mine!" She never went! She has sworn and she remains! Let those that wish me ill burst for envy! We have conquered! She turned a deaf ear to his persistent prayer! Now let their greedy jealousy lay aside its joy! My Cynthia has ceased to tread new paths and strange. She loves me, and for my sake loves she Rome most of cities, and cries: "Apart from thee a kingdom were not sweet." She has preferred to lie in my embrace, though the couch be poor and narrow, and to be mine, whate'er the cost, rather than enjoy the ancient realm that was Hippodamia's dower and all the wealth that Elis won by its steeds. Great though his gifts were and greater his promises, avarice could not tempt her from my bosom. Not by gold nor by the pearls of Ind did I prevail to win her, but by the homage of beguiling song. The Muses then are maids of might and Apollo is not slow to aid a lover; trusting in their help I pursue my love; and peerless Cynthia is my own. Now is it mine to set my feet upon the highest stars of heaven; come night or day, she is mine own; no rival now shall steal my love; 'tis fixed and sure. The glory of to-day shall crown my head when white with eld.