Book III, Elegy 16

'Twas midnight when a letter came to me from my mistress bidding me come without delay to Tibur, where the white hills heave up their towers to right and left and Anio's waters plunge into spreading pools. What should I do? Trust myself to the dark that shrouded all and tremble lest my limbs should be gripped by ruffian hands? Yet if I should put off obedience out of fear, her tears would be more terrible than any midnight foe. Once had I sinned, and was rejected for a whole year long. Against me her hands are merciless.

Yet there is none would hurt a lover: lovers are sacred: lovers might travel Sciron's road unscathed. A lover, though he walk on Scythia's shores, will find none so savage as to have heart to harm him. The moon lights his path; the stars show forth the rough places, and Love himself waves the flaming torch before him; the fierce watchdog turns aside his gaping fangs. For such as him the road is safe at any hour. Who is so cruel as to embrue his hands in a lover's worthless blood, above all when Venus herself bears him company?

But did I know that if I perished I should surely receive due rites of burial, death would be worth the purchase at such price. She will bring unguents to my pyre and adorn my tomb with wreaths, she will sit beside my grave and keep watch there. God grant she place not my bones in some crowded spot, where the rabble journeys on the busy highway. Thus after death are lovers' tombs dishonoured. Let me be shadowed by leafy trees in some field far from the roadside; else let me be buried walled in by heaps of nameless sand. I would not that my name should be recorded amid the bustle of the street.