Book II, Elegy 3: Nemesis is Taken to the Country (Postgate)

In country and farmhouse bides my girl, Cornutus. Ah, me ! he is iron who can stay in town. Venus herself has moved into the spreading fields and Love is learning the rustic speech of ploughmen. Oh, when I looked upon my mistress, how stoutly there with my sturdy hoe would I turn the fertile soil and follow the curved plough as a tiller of the fields, while the barren oxen forced the clods up for the sowing ! Nor would I murmur that the sun burned my slender limbs or that broken blisters hurt my delicate hands.

Apollo, too, the beautiful, fed the bulls of Admetus ; nor did his lute and hair unshorn avail him aught, nor could he cure his trouble by health-giving herbs. Love had triumphed o'er all resources of the healer's art. The god became accustomed to drive the kine from the byre, ['tis said] and taught the way of mixing rennet with new milk, and the milky stream curdled at its touch. Then was the cheese-basket woven from the bulrushes' light stems, and here and there through their interfacings a passage left for the whey. Oh, how often as he went through the fields, a calf in his arms, do they say, his sister met him and blushed ! Oh, how often, while he was singing deep in the valley, did the kine with their lowings rudely break in on the artistic verse ! Often did chiefs seek oracles from him in times of trouble and the company go home in disappointment from his temple. Often did Latona grieve for the unkemptness of the sacred hair which before had been a marvel to his stepmother herself. Whoever had seen his head undecked and hair all loose would have asked indeed where were the locks of Phoebus. Where, Phoebus, is thy Delos now, and where thy Delphian Pytho ? Why, Love bids thee house in a humble cot.

Happy the men of olden days, when they tell that gods eternal were not ashamed to be the open slaves of passion. Now is he the talk of all. But one that loves his girl would liefer be the talk of all than a god without a love.

And thou, whosoever thou art, whom frowning Love now bids make warfare in my house ,

It is not love but booty that this iron age applauds. Yet booty is concerned in a multitude of ills. Booty buckles the armour of strife on the raging hosts; hence bloodshed comes, hence slaughter, and death approaches nigher than before. Booty bade men double the perils on the surging deep when it fitted the beaks of war to the rocking ships. 'Tis the freebooter who longs to seize upon the measureless plains, that on many an acre he may graze his countless sheep. His fancy turns to foreign marbles, and through the quaking city his column is carried by a thousand sturdy teams. For him the mole confines the tameless sea, that unconcerned inside the fish may reck naught of the storm that blusters near. But in my feast's happy course let there be only the pottery of Samos or the slippery clay that Cumae's wheels have shaped.

Alas ! I see that maidens' hearts are set upon the rich. Then come booty, if Love desires wealth, that my Nemesis may float in finery and step it through the city, in bravery a gift from me! Let her wear the gossamer robe which some woman of Cos has woven and laid it out in golden tracks. Let hers be the dusky pages that India scorches and the Sun's fire tans as he drives so near. Let the lands vie to give her their choicest dyes, Afric the crimson and Tyre the purple.

What I say all know. That very man has now a kingdom who on the barbarians' platform has oft been forced to move his gypsumed feet.

For thee, cruel field, that drawest Nemesis away from town, may Earth fail utterly to pay the grain she owes thee. And thou, soft Bacchus, planter of the pleasant grape-vine, do thou too, Bacchus, leave the vats that we have cursed. No one may bury fair maids 'mid dreary fields without a punishment. Thy new wine, Sire, is not worth this price. Oh, let the corn go, so there are no lasses in the country ; let acorns be our fare and water our drink in the olden way. Acorns were the food of the ancients, and they had love always wherever they were. What hurt to them if they had no furrows sown with seed ?

Then to those on whom Love's god breathed kindly did gentle Venus bring open pleasures in the shady vales. No watchers were there, nor door to close against the anguished. If it be not wrong, old custom, I pray thee to, return. [Then and let] rough limbs be clad in shaggy raiment. Now, if my love is under bolt and bar, it but seldom I can see her, poor wretch, what comfort is there in a flowing toga ? Take me away ; I will plough the fields at a mistress's command. From chains and stripes my body shall not shrink.