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Fool, can'st thou him in thy white arms embrace? Fool, canst thou lie in his enfolding space?

Know'st not this head a helm was wont to bear? This side that serves thee, a sharp sword did wear. His left hand whereon gold doth ill alight A target bore: blood-sprinkled was his right. Can'st touch that hand wherewith some one lies dead? Ah, whither is thy breast's soft nature fled? Behold the signs of ancient fight, his scars, Whate'er he hath his body gain'd in wars. Perhaps he'll tell how oft he slew a man, Confessing this, why do'st thou touch him then? I, the pure priest of Phoebus and the Muses, At thy deaf doors sing in verse my abuses. Not what we slothful know, let wise men learn; But follow trembling camps and battles stern. And for a good verse draw the first dart forth : Homer without this shall be nothing worth. Jove, being admonish'd gold had sovereign power, To win the maid came in a golden shower. Till then, rough was her father, she severe, The posts of brass, the walls of iron were. But when in gifts the wise adulterer came, She held her lap ope to receive the same. Yet when old Saturn heaven's rule possest, All gain in darkness the deep earth supprest. Gold, silver, iron's heavy weight, and brass, In hell were harbour'd, here was found no mass. But better things it gave, corn without ploughs, Apples, and honey in oaks' hollow boughs.

With strong ploughshares no man the earth did cleave,
The ditcher no marks on the ground did leave.
Nor hanging oars the troubled seas did sweep,
Men kept the shore and sail'd not in the deep.
Against thyself, man's nature, thou wert cunning,
And to thine own loss was thy wit swift running.
Why gird'st thy cities with a towered wall,

Why let'st discordant hands to armour fall?
What dost with seas? with th'earth thou wert content;
Why seek'st not heav'n the third realm to frequent?
Heaven thou affects: with Romulus, temples brave,
Bacchus, Alcides, and now Cæsar have.

Gold from the earth instead of fruits we pluck;
Soldiers by blood to be inrich'd have luck.
Courts shut the poor out: wealth gives estimation,
Thence grows the judge, and knight of reputation.
All, thee possess: they govern fields, and laws,
They manage peace, and raw war's bloody jaws.
Only our loves let not such rich churls gain:
'Tis well, if some wench for the poor remain.
Now, Sabine-like, though chaste she seems to live,
One she commands, who many things can give.
For me, she doth keeper and husband fear,
If I should give, both would the house forbear.
If of scorn'd lovers god be venger just,
O let him change goods so ill got to dust.

ELEGIA 9.

Tibulli mortem deflet.

IF Thetis, and the Morn their sons did wail,
And envious fates great goddesses assail;

VOL. III.

37

Sad Elegy, thy woeful hairs unbind:
Ah, now a name too true thou hast I find.
Tibullus, thy works' poet, and thy fame,
Burns his dead body in the funeral flame.
Lo, Cupid brings his quiver spoiled quite,
His broken bow, his firebrand without light.
How piteously with drooping wings he stands,
And knocks his bare brest with self-angry hands.
The locks spread on his neck receive his tears,
And shaking sobs his mouth for speeches bears.
So at Æneas' burial men report,

Fair-fac'd Iulus; he went forth thy court.
And Venus grieves, Tibullus' life being spent,
As when the wild boar Adonis' groin had rent.
The gods care we are call'd, and men of piety,
And some there be that think we have a deity.
Outrageous death profanes all holy things,
And o'er all creatures obscure darkness brings.
To Thracean Orpheus what did parents good?
Or songs, amazing wild beasts of the wood?
Where Linus by his father Phoebus laid,
To sing with his unequal harp is said,
See Homer, from whose fountain ever fill'd,
Pierian dew to poets is distil'd.

Him the last day in black Avern hath drown'd:
Verses alone are with continuance crown'd.
The work of poets lasts, Troy's labours' fame,
And that slow web night's falsehood did unframe.
So Nemesis, so Delia famous are,

The one his first love, th'other his new care.
What profit to us hath our pure life bred?

What to have lain alone in empty bed?
When bad fates take good men, I am forbod,
By secret thoughts to think there is a God.
Live godly, thou shalt die, though honour'd heaven,
Yet shall thy life be forcibly bereaven.

Trust in good verse, Tibullus feels death's pains,
Scarce rests of all what a small urn contains.
Thee sacred poet could sad flames destroy?
Nor feared they thy body to annoy?
The holy gods' gilt temples they might fire,
That durst to so great wickedness aspire.
Eryx, bright empress, turn'd her looks aside,
And some, that she refrain'd tears, have denied.
Yet better is't, than if Corcyra's Isle,
Had thee unknown interr'd in ground most vile.
Thy dying eyes here did thy mother close,
Nor did thy ashes her last offerings lose.
Part of her sorrow here thy sister bearing,
Comes forth her uncomb'd locks asunder tearing.
Nemesis and thy first wench join their kisses
With thine, nor this last fire their presence misses.
Delia departing, happier loved she saith,

Was I thou liv'dst, while thou esteem'dst my faith.
Nemesis answers, what's my loss to thee?
His fainting hand in death engrasped me.
If ought remains of us but name and spirit,
Tibullus doth Elysium's joy inherit.

Their youthful brows with ivy girt to meet him,
With Calvus, learn'd Catullus comes to greet him.
And thou, if falsely charged to wrong thy friend,
Gallus, that car'dst not life and blood to spend,

With these thy soul walks: souls if death release, The godly sweet Tibullus doth increase.

Thy bones, I pray, may in the urn safe rest,

And may the earth's weight thy ashes nought molest.
ELEGIA 10.

Ad Cererem, conquerens quod ejus sacris cum amica
concumbere non permittatur.

COME were the times of Ceres' sacrifice;

In empty bed alone my mistress lies.
Golden-hair'd Ceres crown'd with ears of corn,
Why are our pleasures by thy means forborn?
Thee, goddess, bountiful, all nations judge,
Nor less at man's prosperity any grudge.
Rude husbandmen bak'd not their corn before,
Nor on the earth was known the name of flour.
On mast of oaks, first oracles, men fed,
This was their meat, the soft grass was their bed.
First Ceres taught the seed in fields to swell,
And ripe-ear'd corn with sharp-edg'd scythe to fell.
She first constrain'd bulls necks to bear the yoke,
And untill'd ground with crooked ploughshares broke.
Who thinks her to be glad at lovers' smart,
And worshipp'd by their pain, and lying apart?
Nor is she, though she loves the fertile fields,
A clown, nor no love from her warm breast yields:
Be witness Crete (nor Crete doth all things feign)
Crete proud that Jove her nursery maintain.
There, he who rules the world's star-spangled towers,
A little boy drunk tea-distilling showers.
Faith to the witness Jove's praise doth apply;
Ceres, I think, no known fault will deny.

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