BOOK IV

1

Pray accept a poem composed, Sextus Pompeius,
by one who owes you his life;
and if you don’t forbid me to add your name and title,
this too will accrue to the sum of your deserts.
But suppose you frown? Though I’d then concede an error,	5
the motive for my offence must be found good:
my heart could not be restrained from gratitude. Don’t, I beg you,
let my loyal gesture be crushed by your weight of wrath!
How often, in those books where I’d made no mention
of you by name, I felt lacking in courtesy!	10
How often, intending to write to another, without thinking
I’d write your name on the wax rather than his!
The very mistake in such blunders gave me pleasure,
I could hardly bring myself to strike it out.
‘Let him see it,’ I said in short, ‘even if it annoys him!	15
I’m ashamed of not having earned this reproach before.’
Dose me (if they exist) with Lethe’s heart-numbing waters,
and still I could not forget you! But please,
grant me this, don’t reject my words with contumely, don’t make
my courtesy into a crime: allow this slight	20
gratitude in return for such substantial favours —
yet if you don’t, I’ll still be grateful against your will.
Your grace has never been slow in my support, your coffers
have never stinted me munificent aid. Even now,
your constancy, quite undeterred by my sudden downfall,	25
still brings — and will go on bringing — aid to my life.
You might ask, what gives me such confidence in the future?
Each individual looks after the work he’s wrought.
Just as Venus forms Apelles’ labour, and glory,
squeezing out her sea-wet hair,	30
as the warrior-goddess guarding the Acropolis, Athena,
stands in bronze or ivory, Pheidias’ work,
as Calamis claims renown for his sculptures of horses,
as the truly lifelike cow reveals Myron’s hand,
so I, Sextus, am not the meanest of your possessions:	35
my safeguard, you; your gift, your creation, I.

2

What you are reading, Sevérus, great bard of mighty monarchs,
comes to you all the way from the long-haired Goths.
That hitherto your name has never once been mentioned
in my books is something (if you’ll forgive the truth)
of which I’m ashamed. Yet we’ve kept up a constant correspondence,	5
an exchange of friendly letters — in prose.
Poems alone, as witness to your caring remembrance,
I haven’t bestowed on you: why should I, when you
compose them yourself? Who’d give wine to Bacchus, honey
to Aristaeus, fruit to Alcinoüs, grain	10
to Triptolemus? Fertile your talent: among the cultivators
of Helicon no one harvests a richer crop. To send
such a maker verses would be adding leaves to the forest:
this was the cause, Sevérus, of my delay.
Yet my talent fails to respond to me as it once did:	15
it’s an arid shore I’m ploughing, with sterile share.
In just the way (I assure you) that silt blocks water-channels
and the flow’s cut short in the choked spring,
so my heart’s been vitiated by the silt of misfortune,
and my verse flows in a narrower vein.	20
Had Homer himself been consigned to this land, believe me,
he too would have become a Goth. What’s more,
my work has fallen off: these days — forgive the confession —
I write scarcely a word.
That divine impulse, inspiration’s sustenance,	25
once always innate in me, now is gone.
Today my reluctant Muse works only under compulsion,
laying a bored hand on the tablets I take up;
writing affords me little — if any — pleasure,
I find no joy in forcing words to scan.	30
This may be because I’ve derived no benefit from it,
because, indeed, it’s the chief source of my woes,
or that writing a poem you can read to no one
is like dancing in the dark.
An audience stimulates brilliance, to praise a talent	35
swells it: fame indeed is the spur.
Who exists, here, that I can recite my works to
save tow-headed natives, the Danube’s barbarous crew?
Yet what should I do as a solitary, how kill my fruitless
leisure, how struggle through the day?	40
For since neither wine nor beguiling dice attract me
(those common aids to killing time), and I
cannot (though, wars permitting, I would like to)
get pleasure from working the land,
what’s left but the Muses, a frigid consolation, goddesses	45
who have not deserved well of me?
Do you, though, with your luckier draught from inspiration’s
wellspring, embrace to your profit this pursuit,
follow — with every reason — the cult of the Muses,
and send me something new of yours to read!	50

3

Shall I complain, or keep silent? make a nameless accusation,
or decide to tell everyone who you are?
No, I won’t use your name: that might bring you advantage,
make you a celebrity through my verse.
So long as my ship rode well, on a solid kelson,	5
you were the first to want to sail with me,
but now that Fortune’s frowned on me, when you find there’s need of
your help — why, then you pull out.
You dissemble, too, hope not to be thought to know me,
ask — when my name comes up — who Ovid is.	10
I am he: united to you in friendship since childhood,
or nearly, boy to boy (this you don’t want to hear);
I am he, who first shared your heartfelt intimations,
served as first audience for your jokes,
I am he who long shared meals and lodgings with you,	15
I am he whom you thought the poet without peer,
I am he whom you never bothered to ask after, not knowing
or caring — traitor! — if I were dead or alive.
If I never meant anything to you, you’re a clear dissembler;
if you weren’t pretending, your fickleness will out.	20
Tell me if some resentment’s changed you, made you angry,
for if you have no just complaint to make, I do!
What crime is it now stops you being your old self? Or do you
call my descent into misery a crime?
Though you brought me no active, no substantial assistance,	25
you might have scribbled me a three-word note!
Rumours are even rife — I can scarcely believe it —
that you’re bad-mouthing me, kicking me when I’m down.
What lunacy’s this? Suppose your own luck changes?
Why ensure that your shipwreck finds dry eyes?	30
Fortune’s a fickle goddess, admits it: that unstable
wheel she always totters on gives her away.
Any leaf, any breeze is more settled: her inconstant
nature, you reprobate, is matched by yours alone!
All mánkind’s affairs are hung on one fine thread: some sudden	35
chance brings high-riders tumbling down.
Who hasn’t heard of the wealth that Croesus commanded?
Yet he was captured, owed his life to his foe.
The tyrant lately dreaded in Syracuse scraped his living
at a lowly job, just kept starvation at bay.	40
What could be greater than Pompey? Yet he most humbly
begged for his client’s aid while on the run,
and the man to whom the whole world owed allegiance
[ended a headless corpse on Egypt’s strand].
The famed conqueror of Jugurtha and the Cimbri,	45
whose consulships marked so many triumphs for Rome,
Marius himself, lay crouched amid swamp and marsh-reeds,
enduring much unworthy so great a man.
Human affairs are the sport of heavenly powers,
and the present moment will scarcely bear sure trust.	50
If anyone had told me, ‘You’ll end up by the Euxine,
scared of being hit with a shaft from some native’s bow,’
my reply would have been, ‘Take a purge, your brain needs clearing:
try hellebore, you’re in a really bad way.’
Yet such is what befell me: though I might have guarded	55
against mortal weapons, those of a high god
were beyond me. So watch out: even while you’re talking,
what looks good can suddenly turn sour.

4

No day is ever so sodden with southern rain-clouds
that the water pelts down without a break;
no place is so barren that among the clinging brambles
there’s no useful plant to be found.
Grave misfortune has made nothing quite so wretched	5
that no scintilla of pleasure offsets its ills.
See me then, stripped of home, country, friendly contacts,
tossed up as flotsam on the Black Sea coast,
still finding ways to brighten my sad features,
not to remember my fate.	10
For while I strolled, alone, on the golden sands, behind me
there came (it seemed to me) a rustle of wings,
and when I looked back, I could see no physical presence,
but my ears picked up these words:
‘I am Rumour, I’ve flown here a measureless distance to bring you	15
good news: the coming year
will be radiant and happy — the consul will be Pompeius,
your dearest friend in the world.’
Thereupon, after filling Pontus with such glad tidings,
the goddess flew off elsewhere; but for me	20
these new joys banished my cares, and the iniquitous
harshness of this place just fell away.
So, two-faced Janus, when you’ve opened the long-awaited
year, when December’s ousted by your sacred month,
the purple of highest office will robe my Pompey,	25
ensure that his titles are complete.
Already I seem to see your halls crowded to bursting,
folk trampled through lack of space,
you making your first visit to the Tarpeian temples,
the gods responding propitiously to your prayers.	30
I see the oxen, grazed on Falerii’s lush pastures,
offering their throats to the sure axe;
and when you pray to the gods, it’s Jupiter and Caesar
whose favour you’ll most particularly seek.
You’ll be received in the Senate, the Fathers assembled	35
in traditional fashion will hang upon your words,
and when you’ve delighted them with your eloquence, when custom
has pronounced the lucky formulas for the day,
and you’ve given due thanks to the gods on high, and to Caesar
(who’ll give you cause to repeat them, time and again),	40
you’ll go home in procession with the whole Senate for escort,
and the public’s homage will overflow your house.
My bad luck that I won’t be seen in that crowd, that my eyes won’t
be able to feast on the sight!
What I can do is visualize a mental image of you	45
in your absence: at least my mind will gaze
on its dear consul’s face. At some time too, God willing,
you’ll remember my name. ‘Poor man,
what’s he up to these days?’ you’ll ask. If I get such a message,
I’ll concede at once that my exile’s more easily borne.	50

5

Go, lightweight elegiac, to our consul’s ultra-learned
ears, take this message for the man of honours to read.
It’s a long road; your feet, as you go, are uneven,
and the land lies hidden under winter snow.
When you’ve crossed frozen Thrace, and the cloud-capped Balkan ranges,	5
and the waters of the Ionian sea,
then, in ten days or less, without hurrying your journey,
you’ll reach the imperial city. Here you should
at once seek out Pompeius’s house, the closest
to the Forum of Augustus. If you’re asked	10
(as you may be, in the crowd) who you are, where you come from,
pick any name to deceive your questioner,
for though it may prove safe (I think it is) to come out with
the truth, there’s less risk in a lie.
Even if no one stops you, you still won’t see the consul	15
the moment you reach his threshold. He’ll be
Busy handing down judgments to Rome’s citizen body,
high on his inlaid ivory chair, or else
by the contract-spear, controlling the public cash-flow, making
sure that the city’s revenues don’t fall off,	20
or, when the Fathers are summoned to the Julian temple,
as befits a great consul, engaged in high debate,
or paying official respects to Augustus and his offspring,
consulting them on unfamiliar tasks.
Germanicus Caesar will claim all the time left over	25
from such duties: him he worships less only than the gods.
Yet when he can take a rest from this throng of obligations,
he’ll reach out a kindly hand to you,
and perhaps inquire how I, your parent, am faring.
This is the way I’d like you to reply:	30
‘He still lives: that life, the gift, first, of Caesar’s mercy,
he owes, he admits, to you. He often recalls,
gratefully, how when he was travelling into exile,
you ensured safe passage for him through the wilds:
that his hot blood besmeared no Thracian broadsword	35
was due to your care and concern;
think, too, of all those life-sustaining gifts you gave him
to obviate his ever needing to deplete
his own resources! In thanks for such devotion
he swears he’ll be your chattel for all time,	40
for the mountains will sooner lose their shady forests,
the seas be bare of vessels under sail,
or rivers flow backward, ascending to their sources,
than his gratitude for your kindnesses will cease.’
Urge him — this said — to maintain that gift of life he’s granted:	45
thus will your journey’s purpose be achieved.

6

The letter you’re reading, Brutus, has reached you from that region
where you’d rather Ovid was not:
but my wretched destiny’s overridden what you wanted,
is stronger (alas!) than all your prayers.
I’ve spent a full Olympiad in Scythia: now I’m moving	5
into a second five-year spell,
for Fortune, with obstinate malice, still frustrates me,
cunningly tripping up my every wish.
You, Maximus, glory of the Fabian clan, had determined
to supplicate Augustus’ godhead on my behalf;	10
but you’re dead, your prayer unuttered, Maximus — and I fear me
I, though unworthy, am the cause of your death.
Now I’m scared to entrust my welfare to any person:
help itself has vanished with your demise.
Augustus had begun to forgive my unwitting error	15
when he left desolate both my hopes and the world.
From my far-distant home I dispatched you such a poem
celebrating the new deity as I could,
Brutus, for you to read. May this pious gesture help me,
may my ills have an end, the ire of the sacred house	20
be milder! You too (I can swear with a clear conscience),
my trusty Brutus, utter the same prayer —
for though you’ve always shown me genuine affection,
in times of adversity this love has grown,
and anyone seeing the tears we shed together	25
would have thought us both condemned.
Nature made you compassionate to those in trouble, bestowed no
kindlier temper upon any man than you,
so that those who don’t know your toughness in courtroom warfare
can scarce imagine you prosecuting a case.	30
Yet in fact the same man (though such skills may seem in conflict)
can be easy with suppliants, yet tough
on the guilty. When you assume the mantle of strict justice,
each word you utter will leave a venomous sting.
May enemies come to learn your fierce resolve in battle,	35
endure your tongue’s missiles — which you file
with such fine subtlety that none would ever credit
so delicate a talent in that great frame of yours!
Yet if you see some victim of unjust Fortune, no woman
could be more tender than your heart. This I felt	40
above all when the greater part of my private circle
denied all knowledge of me. Them I’ll forget,
but you I’ll remember always, all of you, who lighten
this laden soul’s burden of ills;
and sooner shall my too-close neighbour the Danube	45
return from the Black Sea to its source,
or — as though we were back in the days of Thyestes’ banquet —
the Sun drive his horses into the dawn sea,
than any of you, who’ve mourned my loss through exile,
will prove me forgetful or lacking in gratitude.	50

7

Since you’ve been posted to the Black Sea’s shore, Vestalis,
to keep the peace in these sub-polar lands,
you can see for yourself the kind of country I lie in,
can testify that mine are no feigned complaints.
My claims will garner high credibility through you,	5
my young scion of Alpine kings: with your own eyes
you’ve seen, doubtless, ice thickening off the shoreline,
wine frozen stiff by frost, seen for yourself
how the shaggy peasant trundles his laden wagons
right over the Danube, how native arrow-points	10
have their steel barbs smeared with poison, carry a double
hazard of death. How I wish
you’d been no more than a visitor in this region, rather
than being obliged to campaign here yourself!
Dangers came thick and fast: your recent promotion	15
was an honour well earned — yet though
the appointment’s full of rewards for you, your marvellous
valour will still outshine your rank.
No denial of this from the Danube: once your sword-arm
turned its waters scarlet with native blood;	20
no denial from Aegisos, by you stormed and recaptured,
that found its defensive position of no avail
though it stood on a lofty saddle, up at cloud-level, and whether
site or garrison stood it in better stead
is hard to determine. A savage enemy incursion	25
had seized it from its king, taken over its wealth;
till Vitellius, sailing down-river, disembarked his army,
advanced his standards, marched against the Goths.
Then battle-frenzy, you descendant of high Donnus,
drove you sheer on the waiting foe,	30
and at once, conspicuous in your gleaming armour,
ensuring your brave deeds could not be missed,
with great strides you charged the swords, the strong position,
stones thicker than wintry hail,
and neither the downflung rain of javelins could halt you	35
nor arrows envenomed: your helm
bristled with bright-feathered shafts, scarcely a single
spot on your shield was left unscarred.
Your body was not so charmed, though, that it came through every onslaught
unscathed — but your thirst for glory outweighed the pain.	40
Such at Troy, before the ships, was Danaän Ajax
facing Hector’s firebrands. But when
the battle-lines closed, and sword-arm jarred on sword-arm,
and the fight was at close quarters, with cold steel,
it’s hard to recount all your warlike actions, how many	45
you killed, who they were, or how they died.
You trod in victory over mountains of corpses
that fell to your blade: full many a native lay
trampled under your heel. Your troops fought like their commander,
inflicting — and suffering — countless wounds;	50
but your personal courage as far outstripped all others’
as Pegasus once outraced the swiftest horse.
So Aegisos stands recaptured, and your deeds, Vestalis,
are witnessed by my poem for all time.

8

Your letter, Suillius, most refined of savants, reached me
late, but remains most welcome. In it you say
that, so far as dutiful loyalty can, by petition,
assuage the high gods, you’ll give me aid.
Though you should grant me no more, your amicable intentions	5
have made me your debtor: I call the will to help
a service. I only hope this impulse is long-lasting,
and my troubles don’t wear your devotion out!
I have some claim upon you through our bonds of kinship —
may they ever survive unshaken, I pray!	10
For she who is your wife is, besides, my all-but-daughter,
and she who calls you son-in-law calls me
her husband. Alas, if when you peruse these verses
you pull a long face, feel shame
at being a relation of mine! Yet in me you’ll find nothing	15
blameworthy — save Fortune, who to me
has shown herself blind. If you check on my family background
you’ll find an unbroken equestrian pedigree
going back to our origins. My character? No problem:
that error apart (poor me!) I’m without stain.	20
If you think anything can be done by means of petition,
put up a suppliant’s prayer to your special gods —
and your gods are — young Caesar! Propitiate his power:
there’s no altar you frequent more often than his;
he never allows the prayers of his acolytes to be tendered	25
in vain: here seek help for my distress!
However slight the breeze by which I’m assisted,
my wave-washed skiff will rise from the deep once more —
then I’ll feed the swift flames with holy incense, a witness
to the power the godhead wields. But I’ll not,	30
Germanicus, erect you any temple of Parian marble:
that downfall of mine destroyed my wealth.
Let opulent houses and cities present you with temples: Ovid’s
gratitude will be shown through his sole riches — verse.
Poor indeed — I admit it — this gift, in return for ample	35
service, mere words against deliverance.
But the man who gives all he can renders thanks in abundance,
his loyalty’s reached its goal,
and the incense the poor man offers from his pounce-box
is as good as what comes on an ostentatious dish,	40
and when victims are splashing blood on the Tarpeian altars
the nursling lamb and the pasture-fattened ox
stand side by side. Yet for great men nothing’s more fitting
than the homage of poets, offered through their verse.
Poems function as public criers of your praises,	45
see that the fame of your actions never fades:
poems keep virtue alive, unentombed, familiar
to posterity down the ages. Steel and stone both
are worn down by corrosive time. Than time there’s nothing
in existence has greater strength. Yet the written word	50
defies the years. It’s through that you know Agamemnon,
and all who bore arms against him, or on his side:
who’d ever have heard of Thebes, and her seven captains,
or of all that came after and before,
without poetry? Even the gods (is this blasphemy?) have their being	55
through poems: such majesty needs a poet’s voice.
It’s thus we know how Chaos was split off from the primal
mass of nature, formed elements of its own;
how the Giants, in their bid for the sovereignty of Heaven,
were blasted to Styx by the avenger’s stormy bolts;	60
how Bacchus, victorious, drew praise from the conquered Indies,
or Heracles from captured Oechália;
and lately your grandfather, Caesar, now by virtue added
to the stars, was in some part sanctified by verse.
So if any spark of life still remains in my talent,	65
Germanicus, it will all be devoted to you.
You cannot, being a poet, despise a poet’s homage,
since that, in your judgement, is of worth;
indeed, had a great name not called you to greater matters,
you’d have become the rarest jewel in the Muses’ crown.	70
Though you choose to furnish us themes, not write us poems,
you cannot altogether abandon verse:
one moment you’re on campaign, the next, composing;
what’s work for others will be play for you.
Just as Apollo’s no slouch with either bow or cittern,	75
but the strings of each obey his sacred hand,
so you’re endowed with the arts of both prince and scholar,
Jove and the Muse cohabit in your heart.
And since I’m not banned by the Muse from that Heliconian
spring, struck forth by Pegasus’ hollow hoof,	80
may it turn to my profit that we have rites in common,
that I set my hand to the same pursuit; may I
at long last escape the savage Goths, the skin-clad
barbarians that terrorize these parts!
And if my homeland’s barred to me in my misfortune,	85
set me down anywhere less remote from Rome,
in a place where I can cry up your latest praises,
retail your great deeds with minimal delay.
To ensure, dear Suillius, that this plea affects the heavenly
powers, please pray for your wife’s not-quite-papa!	90

9

From his licit but far-from-favourite Black Sea base, Graecinus,
Ovid sends you this greeting, which, being sent,
may the gods fix to arrive upon that special morning
that first beholds the rods and axes at your call.
Since you won’t have me there when you reach the Capitol as consul,
and I shall form no part of your retinue,
let my note take its master’s place, bestow the homage
due from a friend on the appointed day.
Had I, indeed, been born to a better destiny, did my
axle run true in its wheel,	10
that duty of salutation which my hand’s now performing
with written words, my tongue would have discharged
with congratulations, elegant compliments, and kisses,
an honour no less mine than yours.
On that day, I don’t mind admitting, I’d be so high-flown	15
there’s hardly any house that could contain my pride;
and while that mob of sacré senators milled round you,
as a knight I’d have my orders to march in front,
and (though I’d always long to be your close companion),
I’d be glad not to have had that place at your side.	20
Suppose I was squashed in the crowd, I’d raise no objection:
to have the populace jostle me, what fun!
I’d gaze out with delight on the long processional column
and the dense throng all along its route,
and — to give you a better idea how common things can touch me —	25
I’d see what sort of purple you had on,
examine your curule chair for its figured inlay
(Numidian ivory, hand-carved throughout),
and when you’d been escorted to the Tarpeian stronghold,
and the victim was being sacrificed at your command,	30
that mighty god enthroned at the temple’s mid-point
would have heard me too, rendering silent thanks,
offering incense (full heart if not full salver!),
hailing your office’s honour with treble — no,
with fourfold joy. I’d figure among your friends there present,	35
if a lenient Fate but gave me visiting rights
to the City: then my eyes, too, would enjoy the pleasure
that now I have to catch with my mind alone.
The high gods decided otherwise, maybe with justice:
what use to challenge my punishment’s rightful cause?	40
Yet I’ll still employ my mind — that alone is unexiled —
to view your rods and axes, your purple robe.
My mind will picture you giving justice to the people,
will imagine itself there when you utter your decrees;
now you’ll be leasing out (it’ll think) those five-year contracts	45
with scrupulous probity, fixing the revenues;
now making some eloquent speech before the Senate,
pursuing what public interests demand,
now ordering thanks to the gods on behalf of the Caesars,
or slitting the throats of oxen: choice, plump, white.	50
Could you, when you’re through with your more urgent petitions,
ask for the Prince to assuage his wrath against me?
At these words may holy fire flare up from a full altar,
and a bright sharp flame furnish your prayer
with a good omen. Meanwhile (not to be always complaining!)	55
here too, as best I may, I’ll celebrate
your consulship. There’s also a second cause for rejoicing,
as great as the first: your brother’s to follow you
in this high office. Your tenure ends in December,
his has its inception on New Year’s Day.	60
There’s such affection between you, you’ll both be rejoicing —
you in your brother’s appointment, he in yours.
Thus you will have been twice consul, twice consul he also,
a double honour for displayal in your house.
And though this honour’s great, though Mars’ Rome sees no higher	65
office than that of consul, yet the weight
and grandeur of its bestower multiplies the honour,
the majesty of the giver shines in the gift.
May you and Flaccus be granted the pleasure of such judgments
by Augustus for all time to come!	70
But when he’s at leisure from more urgent affairs, I beg you,
add both your prayers to mine,
and if there’s the least puff of breeze in those sails, then shake out
the shrouds, get my vessel clear of the waters of Styx!
Till recently, Graecinus, the commander of this district	75
was Flaccus: under his rule the warlike banks
of the Danube were safe. His sword cowed Getic bowmen,
he held the Moesian tribes to a loyal peace,
with speed and valour recovered captured Troesmis,
till the Danube ran red with native blood.	80
Ask him about the terrain, the vile Scythian climate,
the terror I suffer from a too-near foe;
ask him if the light local arrows aren’t envenomed,
if human heads aren’t employed
as grisly offerings, if I lie when I say the Euxine	85
freezes, that acres of sea are turned to ice.
When he’s told you these things, then ask him how I’m regarded,
what I do to while away these heavy hours.
Here I’m not hated, nor indeed do I deserve that:
my fortune may have changed, my ways have not.	90
The same peace of mind, the old propriety of expression
that you used to praise, persist.
Here, where savage guerrillas make war a stronger weapon
than the law, my position’s long been such
that over the years, Graecinus, no man, no child, no woman	95
has had grounds to complain on my account.
That’s why, in my distress, the inhabitants of Tomis
like and support me (since I must call this land
to witness on my behalf). Because they see I wish it
they’d like me to leave, yet on their own account	100
would rather I stayed. If you don’t believe me, public
edicts exempting me from civic dues
are extant — and, though boasting ill suits misfortune,
I enjoy a like privilege from neighbouring towns.
Nor is my loyalty unobserved: an alien country	105
now sees a shrine to Caesar in my house,
with Caesar’s loyal son and consort-priestess standing
beside him — no minor powers now he’s a god!
To complete the family group, each of his grandsons
is present, one next to his grandmother, one beside	110
his father. To all these I offer prayers and incense
daily at sunrise. Anyone in these parts
will tell you — go ask them — that this is no pious fiction,
will witness to my devotion. They all know
that (with what rites I can) I celebrate on this altar	115
the birthday festival of the God;
and my piety’s equally well known to foreign travellers
who put in here from distant ports.
Why, even your brother, commanding the leftward coast of Pontus,
may well have had word of it.	120
Though my means do not match my wishes, in such service,
poor though I am, I gladly spend such slight
resources as I possess. At this distance from the City
I can’t let you see this, I have to rest content
with unspoken homage. Yet this must, some time, come to	125
Tiberius Caesar’s ears: in the whole wide world
there’s not a thing that he misses. You certainly know this, Caesar,
and see it, being one with the gods, since now the earth
lies spread out beneath your gaze. High-throned in the starry
vault of heaven you hear my anxious prayers.	130
Perhaps those poems I’ve written on your late apotheosis
may also reach you there —
so I surmise that your godhead’s yielding to my entreaties,
and your gentle title of ‘Father’ is not undeserved.

10

This dragging summer’s the sixth I’ve spent, perforce, among skin-clad
natives, on a far northern shore. Can you
compare any flint or steel, dear Albinovánus,
to my endurance? Rings are worn thin by use,
dripping water hollows a stone, the curving ploughshare	5
is ground away by the resistant soil.
All things but me, then, time, that great corrosive,
will destroy: even death holds off, quite overcome
by my toughness. The stock example of over-suffering?
Ulysses, ten years tossed on chancy seas —	10
Yet his troubles were far from non-stop, he enjoyed plenty
of peaceful interludes. Or was it tough
to spend six years making out with pretty Calypso,
sharing a sea-nymph’s bed and board?
Aeolus entertained him, gave him the winds as a present	15
so he’d have a following breeze to belly his sails;
and it’s not such a chore to hear girls sweetly singing,
nor did the lotus have a bitter taste.
(To get its juices, that bring oblivion of country,
I’d gladly give half of my life.)	20
Nor could you ever compare the Laestrygonians’ city
with those tribes the winding Danube meets in its course.
Nor will the Cyclops out-bestialize our Scythian
cannibals — yet they’re but a tiny part
of the terror that haunts me. Though from Scylla’s misshapen	25
womb monsters bark, sailors have suffered more
from pirates. Charybdis is nothing to our Black Sea corsairs,
though thrice she sucks down and thrice spews up the sea:
they may prey on the eastern seaboard with greater licence,
but still don’t leave this coastline safe from raids.	30
Here are leafless plains, here arrowheads smeared with poison,
here winter makes footpaths over open sea,
so that where, lately, oars thrust their way through water
the traveller, scorning boats, now walks dry-shod.
Arrivals from home report that such things scarce find credence	35
among you: pity the wretch who bears what’s past belief!
Yet believe it: nor shall I leave you ignorant of the reasons
why rugged winter freezes the Black Sea.
We lie very close here to the wain-shaped constellation
that brings excessive cold:	40
from here the North Wind rises, this coast is his homeland,
and the place that’s the source of his strength lies closer still.
But the South Wind’s breezes are languid, seldom reach here
from that other far-distant pole. Besides,
there’s fluvial influx into the land-locked Euxine,	45
river on river making the sea’s strength ebb,
all flowing in: the Lýcus, the Ságaris, Pénius, Cálés,
Hýpanis, eddying Hálys, all twists and loops;
rapacious Parthénius, boulder-tumbling Cynápses,
Týras, swiftest of torrents, Thérmodon,	50
familiar haunt of Amazon squadrons; Phásis,
once sought out by Greek heroes; Borýsthenés,
Dyrápsus’ crystalline waters, Melánthus so silently
pursuing his gentle course, with Don,
the river that marks the boundary of Europe and Asia,	55
flowing between the two;
and countless others, Danube greatest among them,
a match for even the Nile. So great a mass
of fresh water adulterates the sea to which it’s added,
stops it keeping its own strength.	60
Even its colour’s diluted — azure no longer, but like some
still pond or stagnant swamp. The fresh
water’s more buoyant, rides above the heavier
deep with its saline base.
Should anyone ask me why I’ve told all this to Pedo,	65
what point there is to putting such things in verse,
I’d say: ‘I’ve beguiled the time, held off my troubles:
that’s the profit this hour has given me.
While writing these lines I forgot my habitual sorrow,
was oblivious of being among the Goths.’	70
But you (I don’t doubt) since you’re writing a poem in praise of
Theseus, are doing your subject proud,
and emulating the hero as you recreate him: surely
he wouldn’t want loyalty kept for happy times?
Though his exploits are mighty, though you indeed portray him	75
in the proper heroic style,
there’s one quality he possesses that each of us can copy:
as far as loyalty goes it’s in us all
to be a Theseus. No need to club or knife those villains
who kept the Isthmus barred to all but a few;	80
love’s what you have to make good on, no problem if you’re willing —
is it hard to keep pure faith spotless? You who stand
so unshakeably by your friend have no cause to believe these
words spoken by way of complaint.

11

A near-inexcusable omission on my part, Gallio,
should your name find no place in my verse:
for you were among those whose tears (I well remember)
helped heal the wounds the heavenly spear had dealt.
I could only have wished that the hurt of your bereavement,	5
the loss of a friend, had been the last pain you knew,
but the cruel gods chose otherwise: they did not scruple
to despoil you of your chaste wife.
Your grief-stricken letter only lately reached me,
and I wept as I read of your loss.	10
I’m not so silly as to rehash wise commonplaces
as consolation for so sagacious a friend:
your sorrow, I suspect, has been long since ended
if not by reason, then by lapse of time.
While your letter travelled to me, crossing so many	15
lands and seas, while mine returns to you,
a year will have passed. The right time for consolation
is when grief’s at its height, when the sick man seeks relief.
But after long passage of days has cicatrized his trauma
to touch it again’s untimely, reopens the wound.	20
Besides — may this presage be true on arrival! — another
marriage may already have brought you joy.

12

The reason, my friend, why you don’t appear in my poems
is the awkward form of your name.
Myself, I’d rate no one more worthy of such an honour
(if honour it is to be in a poem of mine):
but metrics and that damned name combine to rule the	5
compliment out: you just don’t fit my verse.
I’d be ashamed to split up your name between two verses,
last foot in the long line, first in the short;
and I’d blush no less to contract you, shorten a vowel
that’s long by nature, call you Túticǎnús.	10
Nor can you enter my verse disguised as Tǔticánus,
with your first long syllable made short,
or by taking your second syllable, short at present,
and dragging the i out long —
if I dared to corrupt your name with such distortions	15
I’d be laughed at, rightly accused of having no taste.
Such was the reason why I delayed this offering,
but my love will discharge the task with interest:
I’ll promote you (under whatever label!), send you poems —
we’ve known each other almost since we were boys,	20
and through all the long years we’ve enjoyed together
I’ve loved you like a brother. When I seized
with prentice hand those new reins, you gave me encouragement,
you were my comrade, my guide.
Your judgement often led me to revise my writings,	25
while you often made cuts on my advice —
while you were turning out a Phaeácid worthy of Homer
under the Muses’ own tutelage. And this
constancy, this concord first established between us
in our salad days, has endured unshaken until	30
our hair’s turned white. If you don’t find such things moving
you’re harder-hearted than steel or adamant.
But sooner would cold and war desert this region
(the two things hateful Pontus offers me),
sooner would north winds blow warm or south winds chilly,	35
or my fate find some reprieve,
than your heart would be hardened towards your fallen comrade —
let this last straw not be laid (and it’s not) on my woes!
Only do you — by the gods, of whom He is the surest, under
whose rule your honours ever have increased —	40
ensure, by watching over this exile, with constant devotion,
that the hoped-for breeze does not desert my raft!
You ask for my instructions. Hard to say, may I die else —
if a man who’s died already can die again.
I can find nothing to do, or want, or not want,	45
nor do I clearly know what’s best for me.
Believe me, good judgement’s what those in trouble surrender
first: along with fortune both sense and reason flee.
Search out for yourself, I beg you, the ways in which to help me,
and through what shallows to build a road to my prayers.	50

13

Carus, caro mio, well named, who must be reckoned
among my undoubted friends, my greetings to you!
This poem’s style and structure should bear instant witness
to the source of the salutation. It may not
be marvellous, but at least it’s not common-or-garden,	5
since (whatever its quality) there’s no doubt it’s mine.
In the same way, if you removed the title from your cover
I’m sure I could tell it was a work by you —
mix it up in a pile of books, still your characteristic
traits would stand out, identify it as yours.	10
The author will be betrayed by that Herculean vigour
(so appropriate to your theme!),
while my Muse too, revealed by her personal complexion,
may be remarkable — for her faults.
Just as beauty made Nireus conspicuous, so Thersites	15
found his ugliness kept him in the public gaze.
Nor should you be surprised if my poems are faulty, since their
maker is almost a Getic bard. I blush
to admit it, I’ve even composed in the Getic language,
bending barbarian patois to our verse:	20
among the uncultured natives I’m getting a reputation
as a poet. Congratulate me: I’ve made a hit.
You want to know my subject? You’ll love it: I spoke of Caesar;
my novel venture received the deity’s aid.
I explained how the body of Father Augustus was mortal,	25
but his godhead had gone to its abode in the sky;
how he who (after many refusals) now held the reins of
empire was equal in virtue to his sire;
how you, Livia, were the Vesta of chaste matrons (query:
more worthy of your husband or your son?);	30
how there were two youths, strong bastions of their father,
of whose valour the world already had full proof.
When I’d declaimed all this (composed in the local language!)
and had come to the end of my last page,
all the heads and the laden quivers nodded together,	35
with a long approving murmur. One of them said:
‘Since you write in this way about Caesar, it would be fitting
for you to be brought back home at Caesar’s command.’
Thus he spoke; but this is already the sixth winter, Carus,
to find me exiled beneath the snowbound pole.	40
My poems are useless — as, once before, they proved noxious,
prime cause of my wretched banishment. But do you,
by the common covenant of our sacred calling, by that
title of friendship you do not hold cheap — so may
Germanicus, leading his enemies captive in Roman	45
chains, provide your talent with a theme;
so may his sons (a world-wide prayer!) flourish,
whose training (great credit to you!) lies in your hands —
lend support, in so far as you can, to that deliverance
which, unless I’m redomiciled, I’ll never find.	50

14

This letter comes to you, who (I complained in a recent poem)
have a name that will not fit my verse.
In it, apart from the fact that I’m still, in my fashion, healthy,
you’ll come upon nothing else that gives you delight.
Health itself is now hateful to me, my final prayer	5
is to get anywhere, anywhere, out of here.
I don’t give a damn where I’m posted from this country:
any place else would look better to my eyes.
Ship me out to the mid-Syrtes or into Charybdis,
so long as I get quit of my present abode!	10
Even Styx, if Styx exists, or somewhere yet lower,
if that exists, would be a welcome change
from the Danube. The cold’s less repugnant to a swallow,
or grass to tilth, than to Ovid this land, the prey
of neighbouring warrior tribes. For such words men in Tomis	15
are incensed against me, my poems have stirred up
the wrath of the town. Shall I never stop being injured
by my verse, will I always be taking knocks from this
too tactless talent of mine? Why not chop off all my fingers
to stop me writing, why still crazily pursue	20
the missiles that maimed me, why steer for those old reef-strewn
waters in which my craft was wrecked before?
But I’ve done nothing wrong, men of Tomis, I’ve committed
no crime: you I love, although I loathe your land.
Let anyone go through my work: there’s not one letter	25
makes any complaints about you —
the cold, the constant fear of raids from every quarter,
the enemy at the gate: it’s of these I complain;
and against the place — not its people — I’ve brought true charges:
even you often criticize your own terrain.	30
That old farmer-poet Hesiod had no compunction
about saying his home town, Ascra, was a place
to avoid at all seasons: the man who wrote that was born there,
yet Ascra did not resent her poet’s words.
Who loved his country more than shrewd Ulysses?	35
Yet he’s our witness to its ruggedness.
In his bitter attacks Metrodorus denounced our Roman mores,
not our land, put Rome in the dock;
yet Rome bore his slanderous insults with calm indifference,
and the author took no harm from his savage tongue.	40
But now a malicious interpreter’s whipping up public
anger against me, is bringing a new charge
against my poems. I only wish I could be as happy
as my heart is pure! There’s no one alive today
whom my words have wounded. Besides, even if I were blacker	45
than pitch, I’d never savage such loyal friends:
the gentle way you received my sad case, men of Tomis,
proves that such kindly souls are Greek by birth —
my own Paelignian people, my home town of Sulmo
could not have been more compassionate to my woes;	50
and an honour you’d seldom grant to one with a clean record
you lately bestowed upon me — I’m the sole
person, to date, who’s been granted tax-exemption
in these parts (except those exempt by law):
a consecrated wreath was placed around my temples,	55
by popular acclamation, against my will.
So as dear as to Latona is the isle of Delos, the only
place in her wanderings to grant her safe
harbourage, so dear to me is Tomis, ever loyal
and hospitable to this exile from his native land.	60
Would only the gods had settled it further off from the frozen
pole, and given it some hope of peace!

15

If there’s anyone still alive by whom I’m not forgotten,
or who’s asking how Ovid-in-exile fares,
let him know that I owe my life to Caesar, my welfare
to Sextus. After the high gods, in my eyes
he takes first place. In the span of my grim existence	5
there’s no part that lacks kindnesses from him.
How count them? As many as, in a lush farm orchard,
red seeds of the pomegranate under their tough rind;
as many as Africa’s wheatsheaves, Lydia’s grape-clusters,
Sicyon’s olives, Hybla’s honeycombs.	10
My testament: you can be witness. Citizens, seal it!
No need of legal process: my personal word
will suffice. Set this patch, this me, among your ancestral riches:
I’m a part, however tiny, of your estate.
As surely as your Macedonian or Sicilian holdings,	15
as your house by Augustus’ forum, as your lands
in Campania (dear to their master’s eye), or whatever
you hold by inheritance, Sextus, or have acquired
by purchase, so I am yours; this sad bequest prevents you
from claiming that Pontus has nothing which you own.	20
Would that you could, that a friendlier plot came with me,
that you could invest your gain in a better place!
Since this lies with the gods, do your best to soften through prayer
those powers most constantly cultivated by you;
for it’s hard to discern if you’re more the proof of my error	25
or my succour against it. I don’t
plead because I’m uncertain; but often by rowing
we can still speed up a journey made downstream.
I’m ashamed and nervous to be forever making
the same requests, afraid you’ll get bored (as well	30
you might). But what can I do? My desire’s boundless.
Gentle friend, pardon my fault. Though I often yearn
to write about something else, I find myself slipping
back in the same old rut. Each letter picks out
the theme by itself. Yet whether your influence proves effective,	35
or a hard fate bids me die beneath the frozen pole,
I shall always keep your favours fresh in my recollection,
and the earth where now I lie shall hear
that I belong to you: all lands below whatever
sky — if my Muse outreach the savage Goths — shall know	40
that you are the cause and upholder of my survival,
that I — no need for formal purchase! — am yours.

16

Envious wretch, why bother to savage a dead man’s poems?
Ovid is gone. As a rule no talent is hurt
by death: fame grows after the ashes — and I enjoyed a
reputation when I was alive still, when Marsus lived,
and bombastic Rabirius, Macer the Trojan War buff,	5
Pedo up there among the stars,
Carus (whose Hercules would have offended Juno, had its
hero not already been Juno’s son-in-law),
Sevérus, who treated Rome to his Royal Cantos,
finicky Numa, Priscus A and B,	10
Montanus, known as the two-metre man, adequate
at epic and elegiacs both;
Sabinus, who made Ulysses write back to Penelope
during his ten-year traipse through choppy seas,
and whose premature death left his local battle-epic unfinished,	15
not to mention an almanac in verse;
Largus, whose large genius matched his surname, who trotted
old Phrygian what’s-his-name off to the fields of Gaul,
Camerinus, who settled Troy’s business after Hector’s downfall,
Tuscus (a name for his Phyllis) — and what about	20
that old sea-dog of a poet, whose works might well have
been slapped together by the gods of the sea?
Or the other fellow who versified Rome’s wars in Libya,
or Marius, the pro who could turn out anything?
Don’t forget our Sicilian friend, mulling over his Perseid,	25
or Lupus on Menelaus and Helen’s return,
or the littérateur who adapted Homer’s Phaeacian sequence,
or Rufus, one-man performer upon Pindar’s lyre,
or Turranius’ Muse, propped up on her tragic buskins,
or the Muse of Melissus with her comic clogs.	30
While Varius and Graccus wrote fierce fustian for tyrants,
Proculus trod Callimachus’ primrose path,
Passer resummoned Tityrus to his ancient pastures,
Grattius wrote hot tips for hunting buffs,
Fontanus tossed off the amours of nymphs and satyrs,	35
Capella crammed phrases in the elegiac mould.
There were plenty more, though I don’t have time to mention
all their names (but their works are in public vogue),
not to mention the youngsters whose efforts remain unpublished,
and don’t, thus, belong in my list	40
a (though for you, Cotta Maximus, I have to make an exception,
the Muses’ jewel and guardian of the courts,
endowed with a double nobility — your father’s Messallan
ancestry, plus the Cottas on your mother’s side).
If it’s seemly to say so, my talent was distinguished,	45
and among all that competition, I was fit to be read.
So, Malice, sheathe your bloody claws, spare this poor exile,
don’t scatter my ashes after death!
I have lost all: only bare life remains to quicken
the awareness and substance of my pain.	50
What pleasure do you get from stabbing this dead body?
There is no space in me now for another wound.