Book IV, Elegy 3

This charge doth Arethusa send to her Lycotas, if I may call thee mine who art so often far from me. Yet if any part thou wouldst read be lost and blotted, the blot will have been made by my tears; or if any letter baffle thee with uncertain outline, 'twill be the token of my right hand that now faints in death.

Thee now did Bactra behold in the twice-visited East, now the Neuric foe with armoured steed, the wintry Getans, and Britain of the painted car and the swart Indian washed by the Eastern wave.

Was this the meaning of thy wedded troth, of the night pledged to our kisses, when a stranger in love's warfare I yielded to thine onset? The torch that burned with ominous light before me as they led me to thy house drew its baleful flame from the ruins of some pyre; I was sprinkled with water from the pool of Styx, the wreath was set awry upon my hair: Hymen was not with me when I wedded. On every gate, alas! are hung my vows for thy safety, vows that bring naught save woe, and 'tis now the fourth cloak I am weaving for thy warfare. Perish the man first plucked the soldier's stake from some unoffending tree, and wrought mournful trumpets from hoarse-echoing bones! Worthier he than Ocnus to twist the rope, sitting slantwise at the task, and to feed thy hungry maw, poor ass, to all eternity!

Tell me, does the breastplate gall thy soft arms? does the heavy spear chafe thy hands that were not meant for war? Sooner let spear and breastplate hurt thee than that any girl should mar thy neck with the marks of her teeth, marks that must bring me tears to weep! They say, too, that thy face is lean and drawn: only I pray that thy pallor spring but from longing for me.

Meanwhile I, when evening brings round for me the bitter night, kiss whatever of thy weapons lie left at home. Then I complain that the coverlet will never stay upon my couch, and that the birds that herald dawn are slow to sing. Through the nights of winter I toil to weave thee raiment for thy life in camp, and sew lengths of woollen cloth purple with Tyrian dye, only to meet the sword. I learn where flows the Araxes thou must conquer, and how many miles the Parthian charger can run without slaking his thirst. I am driven also to study from a map the painted world and to learn what is the position of the far-northern Dahan, what lands are stiff with frost, what crumbling with heat, and what is the wind that may waft thy sails safe home to Italy.

My sister only waits on my sorrows, and my nurse, turning pale, swears falsely 'tis winter's season that delays thee. Happy Hippolyte! bare-breasted she bore arms and savage-hearted hid her soft locks beneath the helm. Would that the camps of Rome had opened their gates to women; then had I been the faithful burden of thy warfare. Nor would Scythia's hills delay me when Father Jove binds the deep waters to ice with keener cold. Love is mighty ever, but mightier far for an acknowledged husband; this flame Venus herself fans that it may live.

To what purpose now should robes of purple shine for me or clear crystal adorn my fingers? All things are silent and deaf; the Lares' closed shrine is opened on the Kalends, that come so seldom, and scarce even then by one solitary handmaid on her accustomed round. Dear to me is the whine of the little dog Craugis: she only claims thy place in my bed. I cover shrines with flowers, I wreathe the cross-roads with sacred branches, and the herb Sabine crackles for me on ancient altars. If the owl perched on some neighbouring bough makes moan, or the lamp, as it burns low, needs the sprinkling of wine, that day orders sacrifice of this year's lambs, and the high-girt priests busy themselves to win fresh profit.

Count not, I pray, too high the glory of scaling Bactra's walls, or the spoil of fine linen torn from some perfumed chief, in that hour when the bolts of the twisted sling are scattered abroad and the crafty bow twangs from the flying steed! But — so when Parthia's nurslings are tamed may the headless spear-shaft follow thy triumphant steeds! — do thou keep unsullied the pact that binds thee to my bed! 'Tis the sole condition on which I would have thee return! Then when I shall have carried thine armour and votive offering to the Capene gate I will write beneath it: THE THANKOFFERING OF A GRATEFUL WIFE FOR HER HUSBAND'S SAFETY.