But when I die, would I might droop with doing,
And in the midst thereof, let my soul going,
That at my funerals some may weeping cry,
Even as he led his life, so did he die.
AMORUM, LIB. III. ELEGIA 6.
Quod ab amica receptus cum ea coire non potuit, conqueritur. Either she was foul, or her attire was bad,
Or she was not the wench I wished t' have had;
Idly I lay with her, as if I lov'd her not,
And like a burden griev'd the bed that moved not;
Though both of us perform'd our true intent,
Yet could I not cast anchor where I meant ;
She on my neck her ivory arms did throw,
That were as white as is the Scythian snow,
And eagerly she kiss'd me with her tongue,
And under mine, her wanton thigh she flung,
Yea, and she sooth'd me up, and called me sir,
And used all speech that might provoke and stir,
Yet like as if cold hemlock I had drunk,
It mocked me, hung down the head and sunk.
Like a dull cypher, or rude block I lay,
Or shade, or body was I, who can say?
What will my age do? age I cannot shun,
Seeing in my prime, my force is spent and done;
I blush, and being youthful, hot, and lusty,
I prove neither youth nor man, but old and rusty. Pure rose she, like a nun to sacrifice,
Or one that with her tender brother lies,
Yet boarded I the golden Chie twice;
And Libas and the white cheek'd Pitho thrice.
Corinna craved it in a summer's night,
And nine sweet bouts had we before day light,
What, waste my limbs through some Thessalian
May spells and drugs do silly souls such harms?
With virgin wax hath some imbast my joints,
Had pierc'd my liver with sharp needle points?
Charms change corn to grass and make it die,
By charms are running springs and fountains dry;
By charms mast drops from oaks, from vines grapes fall,
And fruit from trees, when there's no wind at all.
Why not then might my sinews be enchanted,
And I grow faint as with some spirit haunted?
To this add shame, shame to perform it quail'd me,
And was the second cause why vigor fail'd me:
My idle thoughts delighted her no more
Than did the robe or garment which she wore,
Yet might her touch make youthful Pilius fire,
And Tithon livelier than his years require.
Even her I had, and she had me in vain,
What might I crave more if I ask again?
I think the great Gods, griev'd they had bestow'd,
This benefit, which lewdly I forslow'd:
I wish'd to be received in, and in I got me,
To kiss, I kiss'd, to lie with her she let me.
Why was I blest? why made king and refus'd it,
Chuf-like had I not gold and could not use it?
So in aspiring thrives he that told so much,
And lookes upon the fruits he cannot touch.
Hath any rose so from a fresh young maid,
As she might straight have gone to church and pray'd.
Well, I believe she kiss'd not as she should,
Nor us'd the slight nor cunning which she could;
Huge oaks, hard adamants might she have mov'd,
And with sweet words cause deaf rocks to have lov'd.
Worthy she was to move both gods and men,
But neither was I man, ne lived then.
Can deaf ears take delight, when Phemius sings,
Or Thamyris in curious painted things?
What sweet thought is there, but I had the same,
And one gave place still as another came.
Yet notwithstanding like one dead it lay,
Drooping more than a rose pull'd yesterday:
Now when he should not jet, he bolts upright,
And craves his task, and seeks to be at fight,
Lie down with shame, and see thou stir no more,
Seeing now thou would'st deceive me as before:
Thou cozend'st me, by thee surpris'd am I,
And bide great hurt with endless infamy.
Nay more, the wench did not disdain a whit,
To take it in her hand and play with it.
But when she saw it would by no means stand,
But still dropp'd down, regarding not her hand,
Why mock'st thou me she cried, or being ill,
Who bade the lie down here against thy will?
Either thou'rt witched with blood of frogs new dead,
Or jaded cam'st thou from some other's bed.
With that her loose gown on from me she cast her,
In skipping out her naked feet much grac'd her,
And lest her maid should know of this disgrace,
To cover it spilt water in the place.
AMORUM. LIB. I. ELEGIA 2.
Quod primo amore correptus, in triumphum duci se a Cupidine patiatur.
What makes my bed seem hard seeing it is so soft?
Or why slips down the coverlet so oft?
Although the nights be long I sleep not through,
My sides are sore with tumbling to and fro.
Were love the cause it's like I should descry him,
Or lies he close and shoots where none can spy him?
'Twas so he struck me with a tender dart,
'Tis cruel love turmoils my captive heart.
Yielding or striving do we give him might,
Let's yield, a burden easily borne is light.
I saw a brandish'd fire increase in strength,
Which being not shak'd, I saw it die at length.
Young oxen newly yok'd are beaten more,
Than oxen which have drawn the plough before:
And rough jades' mouths with stubborn bits are torn,
But manag'd horses' heads are lightly borne.
Unwilling lovers, love doth more torment,
Than such as in their bondage feel content.
Lo I confess, I am thy captive I,
And hold my conquer'd hands for thee to tie.
What need'st thou war, I sue to thee for grace
With arms to conquer
armless men is base.
Yoke Venus' Doves, put myrtle on thy hair,
Vulcan will give thee chariots rich and fair:
The people thee applauding, thou shalt stand,
Guiding the harmless pigeons with (thy) hand.
Young men and women shalt thou lead as thrall,
So will thy triumphs seem magnifical;
I, lately caught, will have a new made wound,
And captive like be manacled and bound,
Good meaning shame, and such as seek loves wrack
Shall follow thee, their hands tied at their back.
Thee all shall fear, and worship as a king
Io, triumphing shall thy people sing.
Smooth speeches, fear and rage shall by thee ride,
Which troops have always been on Cupid's side:
Thou with these soldiers conquer'st gods and men.
Take these away where is thy honor then?
Thy mother shall from heaven applaud this show,
And on their faces heaps of roses strow,
With beauty of thy wings, thy fair hair gilded,
Ride golden love in chariots richly builded.
Unless I err, full many shalt thou burn,
And give words infinite at every turn.
In spite of thee, forth will thy arrows fly,
A scorching flame burns all the standers by.
So having conquer'd Ind, was Bacchus hue,
Thee pompous birds and him two tigers drew;
Then seeing I grace thy shew in following thee,
Forbear to hurt thyself in spoiling me.
Behold thy kinsman Cæsar's prosperous hands,
Who guards thee conquered with his conquering hands.
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