Book III, Elegy 5: Lygdamus Sick to his Friends (Postgate)

Ye, my friends, stay by the stream that flows from Etruscan source, stream not to be approached in the Dog-stars heat, but now second only to the holy waters of Baiae when the ground loosens in bright-hued spring. But have warning from Persephone that the black hour is nigh.

Harm me not, goddess; I am young and have done no wrong. I have not sought in recklessness to make known the rites of the goddess whom folk call Good, which no male must profane. My hand has infused no deadly juices in men's cups or pounded poison for the lips of any one. Nor have I sacrilegiously set fire to temples, nor is my conscience vexed by horrid crime, nor from the pent-up bitterness of a frantic soul have I let my blaspheming tongue wag in the very face of heaven.

Neither as yet has my black hair been harmed by grey, nor bowed age come to me on halting feet. My parents first beheld my birthday when both the consuls fell by the self-same fate. What gain is it to rob a vine of growing grapes or to pluck the fruit just formed with brutal hand ? Spare me, ye gods in whose sway are the wan waters and the stern realms, allotted to you third. Let the hour be far off when my eyes shall see the Elysian plains, the barque of Lethe, and the Cimmerian pools, when my cheeks are sallow with wrinkled age and the old man tells the boys of the days gone by.

And would it were no real fever, but some vain alarm ! But for thrice five days their strength has left my limbs.

But ye, my friends, resort to the haunts of Tuscan water sprites, and the stream parts lightly to the strokes of your leisurely arms. May ye live happy and with thoughts of me, whether I am here or destiny choose that I be no more. Meantime do ye promise black sheep to Dis and cups of snow-white milk mingled with wine