Part 13 (2/2)

You grant, you knew my suit: my Muse and I Had taught it you in frequent elegy.

That I believe--yet seal'd--you have divin'd Our repet.i.tions, and forestall'd my mind, So that my thronging elegies and I Have made you--more than poets--prophesy.

But I am now awak'd; forgive my dream Which made me cross the proverb and the stream, And pardon, friends, that I so long have had Such good thoughts of you; I am not so mad As to continue them. You shall no more Complain of troublesome verse, or write o'er How I endanger you, and vex my wife With the sad legends of a banish'd life.

I'll bear these plagues myself: for I have pa.s.s'd Through greater ones, and can as well at last These petty crosses. 'Tis for some young beast To kick his bands, or wish his neck releas'd From the sad yoke. Know then, that as for me Whom Fate hath us'd to such calamity, I scorn her spite and yours, and freely dare The highest ills your malice can prepare.

'Twas Fortune threw me hither, where I now Rude Getes and Thrace see, with the snowy brow Of cloudy aemus, and if she decree Her sportive pilgrim's last bed here must be, I am content; nay, more, she cannot do That act which I would not consent unto.

I can delight in vain hopes, and desire That state more than her change and smiles; then high'r I hug a strong despair, and think it brave To baffle faith, and give those hopes a grave.

Have you not seen cur'd wounds enlarg'd, and he That with the first wave sinks, yielding to th' free Waters, without th' expense of arms or breath, Hath still the easiest and the quickest death.

Why nurse I sorrows then? why these desires Of changing Scythia for the sun and fires Of some calm kinder air? what did bewitch My frantic hopes to fly so vain a pitch, And thus outrun myself? Madman! could I Suspect fate had for me a courtesy?

These errors grieve: and now I must forget Those pleas'd ideas I did frame and set Unto myself, with many fancied springs And groves, whose only loss new sorrow brings.

And yet I would the worst of fate endure, Ere you should be repuls'd, or less secure.

But--base, low souls!--you left me not for this, But 'cause you durst not. Caesar could not miss Of such a trifle, for I know that he Scorns the cheap triumphs of my misery.

Then since--degen'rate friends--not he, but you Cancel my hopes, and make afflictions new, You shall confess, and fame shall tell you, I At Ister dare as well as Tiber die.

[OVID, EPISTOLARUM] DE PONTO, LIB. IV. EPIST. III.

TO HIS INCONSTANT FRIEND, TRANSLATED FOR THE USE OF ALL THE JUDASES OF THIS TOUCHSTONE-AGE.

Shall I complain, or not? or shall I mask Thy hateful name, and in this bitter task Master my just impatience, and write down Thy crime alone, and leave the rest unknown?

Or wilt thou the succeeding years should see And teach thy person to posterity?

No, hope it not; for know, most wretched man, 'Tis not thy base and weak detraction can Buy thee a poem, nor move me to give Thy name the honour in my verse to live.

Whilst yet my s.h.i.+p did with no storms dispute, And temp'rate winds fed with a calm salute My prosp'rous sails, thou wert the only man That with me then an equal fortune ran; But now since angry heav'n with clouds and night Stifled those sunbeams, thou hast ta'en thy flight; Thou know'st I want thee, and art merely gone To shun that rescue I reli'd upon; Nay, thou dissemblest too, and dost disclaim Not only my acquaintance, but my name.

Yet know--though deaf to this--that I am he Whose years and love had the same infancy With thine, thy deep familiar that did share Souls with thee, and partake thy joys or care; Whom the same roof lodg'd, and my Muse those nights So solemnly endear'd to her delights.

But now, perfidious traitor, I am grown The abject of thy breast, not to be known In that false closet more; nay, thou wilt not So much as let me know I am forgot.

If thou wilt say thou didst not love me, then Thou didst dissemble: or if love again, Why now inconstant? Came the crime from me That wrought this change? Sure, if no justice be Of my side, thine must have it. Why dost hide Thy reasons then? For me, I did so guide Myself and actions, that I cannot see What could offend thee, but my misery.

'Las! if thou wouldst not from thy store allow Some rescue to my wants, at least I know Thou couldst have writ, and with a line or two Reliev'd my famish'd eye, and eas'd me so.

I know not what to think! and yet I hear, Not pleas'd with this, th'art witty, and dost jeer.

Bad man! thou hast in this those tears kept back I could have shed for thee, shouldst thou but lack.

Know'st not that Fortune on a globe doth stand, Whose upper slipp'ry part without command Turns lowest still? the sportive leaves and wind Are but dull emblems of her fickle mind.

In the whole world there's nothing I can see Will throughly parallel her ways but thee.

All that we hold hangs on a slender twine, And our best states by sudden chance decline.

Who hath not heard of Cr[oe]sus' proverb'd gold, Yet knows his foe did him a pris'ner hold?

He that once aw'd Sicilia's proud extent By a poor art could famine scarce prevent; And mighty Pompey, ere he made an end, Was glad to beg his slave to be his friend.

Nay, he that had so oft Rome's consul been, And forc'd Jugurtha and the Cimbrians in, Great Marius! with much want and more disgrace, In a foul marsh was glad to hide his face.

A Divine hand sways all mankind, and we Of one short hour have not the certainty.

Hadst thou one day told me the time should be When the Getes' bows, and th' Euxine I should see, I should have check'd thy madness, and have thought Th' hadst need of all Anticyra in a draught.

And yet 'tis come to pa.s.s! nor, though I might Some things foresee, could I procure a sight Of my whole destiny, and free my state From those eternal, higher ties of fate.

Leave then thy pride, and though now brave and high, Think thou mayst be as poor and low as I.

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