BOOK I

I

Little book — no, I don’t begrudge it you — you’re off to the City
without me, going where your only begetter is banned!
On your way, then — but penny-plain, as befits an exile’s
sad offering, and my present life.
For you no purple slip-case (that’s a colour	5
goes ill with grief), no title-line picked out
in vermilion, no cedar-oiled backing, no white bosses
to set off those black
edges: leave luckier books to be dressed with such trimmings:
never forget my sad estate.	10
No smoothing off your ends with friable pumice — appear for
inspection bristly, unkempt.
And don’t be embarrassed by blots. Anyone who sees them
will sense they were due to my tears.
Go, book, and bring to the places I loved my greeting —	15
let me reach them with what ‘feet’ I may! —
And if, in the throng, there’s one by whom I’m not forgotten,
who should chance to ask how I am,
tell him I live (not ‘he’s well’!), but emphasize I only
survive by courtesy of a god.	20
For the rest, keep silent. If people demand more details
take care not to blab out
any state secrets: a reader, once reminded, will remember
the charges against me, I’ll be condemned
in public, by popular vote. Though such accusations may wound you,	25
make no defense. A good (for nothing) case
stands beyond any advocacy. Find one who sighs at my exile,
who can’t read those poems dry-eyed,
and who prays (but in silence, lest the malicious hear him)
that Caesar’s wrath may abate,	30
my sentence be lightened. Anyone gets my prayers
for happiness, who prays the gods to bestow
a benison on the unhappy. May his hopes be fulfilled, may ebbing
Imperial anger give me the chance to die
on my native soil! Yet, book, though you follow	35
all my instructions, you may still be dismissed
as falling short of my genius. Any judge must unravel
not the act alone, but also its context — if
context is what’s stressed, then you’re in the clear. But poems
come spun from serenity; my heart	40
is clouded with sudden troubles. Poems demand for the writer
leisure and solitude: I’m tossed by sea and wind,
savaged by winter. Terror chokes off creation. My hapless
throat cringes every moment in fear
of a sword’s edge slicing through it. Your fair-minded critic	45
will be amazed that I achieve even this much,
will peruse my work with indulgence. Put even Homer
amid dangers like mine, his genius would fail
when faced with such troubles. Lastly, remember to go unbothered
by public opinion: if you leave a reader cold	50
don’t worry — I’m not favoured enough by Fortune
for you to keep tally on your praise!
While I walked safe still, I yearned for recognition,
was on fire to make myself a name;
but now, let it suffice me not to detest the poems,	55
the pursuit that undid me: it was my own wit
brought me to exile. So go in my stead, you have licence,
be my eyes in Rome (dear God, how I wish I could be
my book!) — but don’t assume just because you’ve reached the Big City
from abroad you’ll be incognito. You may	60
lack a title: no matter, your style will still betray you;
dissimulate all you like, it’s clear you’re mine.
Slip in unnoticed, then: I wouldn’t want my poems
to do you harm. They’re not
so popular as they were. If you meet someone who refuses	65
to read you because you’re mine, who thrusts you away,
‘Look at the title,’ tell him, ’I’m not Love’s Preceptor;
that work has already paid
the penalty it deserved.’ Perhaps you thought I’d send you
up the Palatine, bid you climb	70
to Caesar’s home? Too august. The site — and its incumbent
gods — must excuse me, but the bolt that struck my head
came from that citadel. The Beings up there are forgiving
(Shall I ever forget it?), but I still fear the gods
who did me harm. A dove, once raked, hawk, by your talons	75
takes fright at the faintest whirr of wings.
A ewe lamb that’s been dragged from the fangs of a hungry
wolf won’t dare to stray far from the fold.
Had Phaëthon lived, he’d have steered clear of those horses
he once was crazy about, kept out of the sky.	80
What scares me is Jove’s weaponry, I’ve been its target:
whenever there’s thunder I’m sure
the lightning’s for me. Any Greek who’s avoided shipwreck
off the rocks of Euboea steers clear
of those waters thereafter; my small skiff, once beam-ended	85
by a fierce hurricane, shudders at sailing back
into the eye of the storm. So be watchful, unassuming:
seek no readers beyond the common sort.
Look at Icarus: flew too high with that rickety plumage,
gave his name to the Icarian Sea.	90
Should you row, or hoist sail to the breeze? It’s hard, at this distance,
to decide: you must improvise as occasion dictates.
Catch him when he’s at leisure, when his mood’s all mellow,
when his temper has lost its edge;
find someone to murmur a few words of introduction	95
and present you (hesitant still, still scared
to approach him): then make your bid. On a good morning
and with better luck than your master’s, you might just
get in there and ease my suffering. None but the person
who himself inflicted my wounds	100
can, like Achilles, heal them. Only take care your helpful
efforts don’t hurt me instead — in my heart
hope runs well behind fear — or rewake that quiescent
fury, make you
an extra occasion of punishment. When you’ve won admission	105
to my inner sanctum, and reached your proper domain,
the book-bins, there you’ll find your brethren, all in order,
all worked through and through with the same
vigilant care. Most of these will display their titles
openly, have a label for all to read;	110
but three you’ll find skulking in an obscure corner;
even so, they teach, something everyone knows,
how to go about loving. Avoid them, or, if you have the courage,
berate them as parricides! At least if you still feel
respect for your father, don’t treat any one of this trio	115
(though it teach you the way itself) with love.
There are also fifteen books of Metamorphoses, worksheets
lately saved from my exequies:
To them I bid you say that the new face of my fortunes
may now be reckoned one more	120
among their bodily changes: by sudden transformation
what was joyful once is made fit matter for tears.
I meant (if you’re curious) to give you still further instructions,
but I fear I’ve been holding you up —
besides, little book, if you took all my afterthoughts with you	125
your bearer would find you a heavy load.
It’s a long trek: make haste. Meanwhile my habitation
remains the world’s end, a land from my land remote.

2

‘You gods of sea and sky’ — what’s left me now but prayer? —
‘Don’t break up our storm-tossed ship:
don’t, I beseech you, endorse great Caesar’s fury!’ Often
when one god’s hostile another will bring help:
Hephaestus stood against Troy, on Troy’s behalf Apollo;	5
Venus was pro-Trojan, Athena pro-Greek,
Juno hated Aeneas, had more sympathy for Turnus —
Yet because of Venus’ power Aeneas stayed safe.
Time and again Poseidon made savage assaults on prudent
Odysseus; time and again	10
Athena deflected her uncle’s wrath. Though I lack such heroic
stature, who says I can’t get heavenly aid
when a god’s angry with me? But my words are all wasted,
spindrift stings my lips as I speak, the waves
tower up, these fearful storm-winds scatter my message,	15
stop my prayers reaching the gods
to whom they’re addressed, and (to cause me double trouble)
are driving both sails and entreaties heaven knows where.
Ah misery! what great mountains of heaving water —
up, up, about (you’d think) to touch	20
the summit stars: ah, what yawning liquid valleys —
down, down, about (you’d think) to plumb the black
abyss. Look where I may, there’s only sky and water,
here swollen waves, there menacing clouds: between,
howl and vast ground-bass of winds: the sea-swell cannot	25
decide which master to obey,
for now from the red east the tempest gathers momentum,
now veers round from the twilit west,
now blasts with chill fury from the ice-dry Pole Star, now from
the south flings its cold front into the fray.	30
The steersman’s at a loss, can’t work out when to close-haul her,
when to run with the wind. His expertise
is foxed by such four-way troubles. We’re surely done for,
no hope of safety. As I speak, a wave
drenches my face. The sea will overwhelm my spirit,	35
I’ll gag down the killing water, all my prayers
frustrated. My loyal wife grieves only for my exile —
the one misfortune of mine she knows and laments.
She has no idea I’m being tossed around the ocean,
no idea that I’m wind-whipped, at death’s door.	40
What good luck that I didn’t allow her to board ship with me —
that would have meant (poor me!)
enduring a double death. As it is, though I perish,
her freedom from danger guarantees
my demi-survival. Ah, see that swift lightning flicker	45
amid the clouds, hear the crash
shatter the heavens! Those seas now pounding at our timbers
slam home like artillery-stones in a city wall.
Here surges a huge wave, overtopping all waves before it,
the proverbial tenth. It’s not	50
death as such that I fear, but this wretched way of dying —
only spare me shipwreck, and death will come
as a blessing. Whether you’re caught by cold steel or natural causes,
it’s something, when dying, to lie on solid ground,
to bequeath your remains to your kinsfolk, in expectation	55
of a proper tomb, not to be fishes’ food.
Even suppose I deserve such an end, I’m not the only
passenger aboard: why should my
punishment drag down the innocent? ‘You gods in heaven,
you sea-green gods of the deep (I implore both groups),	60
stop your threats, let me lug to its appointed destination
this life that Caesar’s most merciful anger spared!
If you want me to pay the penalty I deserve, remember
my judge himself has rated my fault as short
of a capital sentence: if Caesar had wished me across the Stygian	65
lake, he could have dispatched me without your aid.
He owns no invidious quantity of my life-blood: what he
gave he can withdraw again at will.
But you, whom surely — I think — no crime of mine has injured,
rest content, I beseech you, with my present woes!	70
Yet even so, supposing you’re all agreed to save my
wretched life, how can the me that’s dead
achieve salvation? Give me calm seas, a following
wind — though you spare me, I’m an exile still.
It’s not with goods to trade, and in avid pursuit of unbounded	75
wealth that I plough the vasty deep;
nor am I now, as once, a student bound for Athens
or the cities of Asia, sites I saw long ago,
or travelling to far-famed Alexandria to sample
the fleshpots of wanton Nile;	80
The reason I’m begging a wind is — oh, who’d believe it? —
to sail for Sarmatia: that’s the land I seek!
I’m forced to coast up the sinister rive gauche of Pontus,
and still I complain that my voyage from home is so slow;
To see the men of Tomis in their nowhere backwoods	85
I actually pray for a shorter route!
If you love me, restrain these monstrous billows, use your
powers to save our ship — but if
I’ve incurred your hatred, then speed me to my landfall: part of
my punishment is in its chosen place.	90
Blow, winds! Belly my canvas! Here I have no business —
why do my sails strive back towards Italy’s shore?
Such was not Caesar’s purpose: why hold back one who’s banished?
Time for the Pontic shore to glimpse my face.
Such his command. I deserved it. Besides, it’s wrong, it’s impious	95
to defend any case he’s condemned.
Yet if you gods are never deceived by mortal actions
you must know my fault was no crime;
so if you do know, if I was misled by my own error,
if my mind was not criminal, just inept,	100
if (though in minor matters!) I supported his house, accepted
Augustan public fiat, spoke out
in praise of the Happy Age with him as Leader, offered
pious incense for Caesar, for all the Caesars — then
if such was my record, gods, then grant me deliverance;	105
if not, may a mighty wave crash down
and overwhelm me!’ Am I wrong? Aren’t those heavy storm-clouds
beginning to clear? And isn’t the sea’s wrath
subsiding? ‘No accident: I invoked you on oath: you cannot
be deceived — it’s you who are bringing me this aid!’	110

3

Nagging reminders: the black ghost-melancholy vision
of my final night in Rome,
the night I abandoned so much I dearly treasured —
to think of it, even now, starts tears.
That day was near dawning on which, by Caesar’s fiat,	5
I must leave the frontiers of Italy behind.
I’d lacked time — and inclination — to get things ready,
long procrastination had numbed my will:
Too listless to bother with choosing slaves, attendants,
the wardrobe, the outfit an exile needs,	10
I was dazed, like someone struck by Jove’s own lightning
(had I not been?), who survives, yet remains unsure
whether he’s dead or alive. Sheer force of grief unclouded
my mind in the end. When my poor wits revived
I had one last word with my friends before departure —	15
those few friends, out of many, who’d stood firm.
My wife, my lover, embraced me, outwept my weeping,
her undeserving cheeks
rivered with tears. Far away in north Africa, my daughter
could know nothing of my fate. From every side,	20
wherever you looked, came the sounds of grief and lamentation,
just like a noisy funeral. The whole house
mourned at my obsequies — men, women, even children,
every nook and corner had its tears.
If I may gloss the trite with a lofty comparison,	25
such was Troy’s state when it fell.
By now all was still, no voices, no barking watchdogs,
just the Moon on her course aloft in the night sky.
Gazing at her, and the Capitol — clear now by moonlight,
close (but what use?) to my home,	30
I cried: ‘All you powers who dwell in that neighbour citadel,
you temples, never more to be viewed
by me, you high gods of Rome, whom I must now abandon,
accept my salutation for all time!
And although I assume my shield so late, after being wounded,	35
yet free this my exile from the burden of hate,
and tell that heavenly man what error beguiled me, let him
not think my remissness a crime — so that what you know
may likewise be discerned by the author of my expulsion:
with godhead appeased, I cannot be downcast.’	40
Such my prayer to the powers above; my wife’s were countless,
sobs choked each half-spoken word;
she flung herself down, hair loose, before our familial
shrine, touched the dead-cold hearth with trembling lips,
poured out torrential appeals on behalf of the husband	45
she mourned in vain. Our little household gods
turned a deaf ear, the Bear wheeled round the Pole Star,
and ebbing dark left no room
for further delay. What to do? Seductive love of country
held me back — but this night	50
tomorrow came exile. The times friends said ‘Hurry!’ ‘Why?’ I’d ask them,
‘Think to what place you’re rushing me — and from where!’
The times I lied, swearing I’d set up an appropriate
departure-time for my journey! Thrice I tripped
on the threshold, thrice turned back, dragging lethargic	55
feet, their pace matched to my mood.
Often I’d make my farewells — and then go on talking,
kiss everyone goodbye all over again,
unconsciously repeat identical instructions, eyes yearning
back to my loved ones. In the end —	60
‘Why make haste?’ I exclaimed, ‘it’s Scythia I’m being sent to,
it’s Rome I must leave: each one a prime excuse
for postponement: my living wife is denied her living
husband for evermore: dear family, home,
loyal and much-loved companions, bonded in brotherhood	65
that Theseus might have envied — all
now lost to me. This may well be my final chance to embrace them —
let me make the most of one last extra hour.’
With that I broke off, leaving my speech unfinished,
and hugged all my dear ones in turn —	70
but while I’d been speaking, and amid their tears, the morning
star (so baneful to me) had risen high
and bright in the heavens. I felt myself ripped asunder
as though I’d lost a limb; a part of me
seemed wrenched from my body. So Mettus must have suffered	75
when the horses avenging his treachery tore him in two.
Now my family’s clamorous weeping reached its climax,
sad hands beat naked breasts,
and my wife clung to me at the moment of my departure,
making one last agonized tearful plea:	80
‘They can’t tear you from me — together’, she cried, ‘we’ll voyage
together, I’ll follow you into exile, be
an exile’s wife. Mine, too, the journey; that frontier station
has room for me as well: I’ll make little weight
on the vessel of banishment! While your expulsion’s caused by	85
the wrath of Caesar, mine springs from loyal love:
this love will be Caesar for me.’ Her argument was familiar,
she’d tried it before and she only gave it up —
still reluctant — on practical grounds.* So I made my exit,
dirty, unshaven, hair anyhow — like a corpse	90
minus the funeral. Grief-stricken, mind whirling-black, she fainted
(they tell me), fell down half-dead,
and when she came round, hair foul with dust, and staggered
back to her feet from the cold floor,
wept now for herself, and now for hearth and household	95
bereft of their lord, cried her lost husband’s name
again and again, groaning as though she’d witnessed
her daughter’s corpse, or mine, on the high-stacked pyre;
longed to expunge, by dying, all sense of hardship,
yet through her regard for me could not succumb.
Let her live, then, ever to support her absent husband’s
living lot, since this is what fate has willed.

* She remained behind in Rome to safeguard Ovid’s interests and property, and to work for his recall. See Introduction, p. xvii.

4

Dipped now in Ocean, the She-Bear’s stellar guardian
is stirring up stormy seas: yet here am I
constrained, not by my will, to plough the Adriatic,
bold only out of necessity — and fear.
Ah misery! Gale-force winds black-ruffle the water,	5
sand, scoured from the bottom, boils up in waves
that crash, mountain-high, on prow and curving stern-post,
batter our painted godheads. The hull’s
timbers resound to their pounding, wind whines in the rigging,
the very keel groans at my woe.	10
The steersman’s pallor betrays his icy fear: no longer
does his skill control the ship; he gives her her head,
and just as a weak rider will let fall the ineffectual
reins on his horse’s stubborn neck,
so not where he plans, but where the sea’s force takes it,	15
I see our pilot let the vessel ride,
and now (unless Aeolus issues winds from a fresh quarter)
I shall be carried where I may not go:
for Illyria’s far away now on our port side, while forbidden
Italy’s clear in view: may the wind, I pray,	20
cease striving towards precluded territory, join me
in obedience to the mighty God!
While I speak — in equal hope and fear of being driven
back — with what fierce strength the waves
pound at our beam! Enough that Jove is angered at me —	25
show mercy, you gods of the blue deep,
rescue this weary spirit of mine from a fearful
death — if one dead already may not die!

5

Friend, henceforth to be reckoned the foremost among my comrades,
who, above all others, made my fate your own,
who first, I recall, when the bolt struck, dared to support me
with words of comfort — carissimo! —, who gave
kind counsel, the will to live, when in my wretched	5
heart all I yearned for was death — such clues
in lieu of your name must tell you whom I’m addressing,
and you know, very well, the debt
of friendship I have to discharge. These things will remain for ever
deep-fixed in my very marrow, I’ll owe you for my life	10
in perpetuity, my spirit shall blow away into empty
wind, desert my bones on the tepid pyre,
before oblivion clouds my mind to your high merits
and the long day sinks such loyalty out of sight.
May the gods go easy with you, grant you a fortune	15
in need of no man’s aid, and unlike mine!
Yet were this vessel being driven by friendly breezes
your loyalty might well remain unknown:
Pirithoüs would never have valued Theseus’s friendship
so highly had Theseus not gone down	20
alive to the waters of Styx. Your Furies, unhappy Orestes,
were what made Pylades the model of true
friendship: had Euryalus not fallen fighting Rutulian
foes, then Nisus would have no renown.
Just as red gold is assayed by fire, so in times of trouble	25
loyalty, too, should be tested: while Fortune smiles
serenely on our endeavours, and lends us her assistance,
all things pursue our undiminished luck;
but the first thunderclap scatters them: no one recognizes
the man who just now was enringed	30
by fair-weather comrades. Time was, I gathered this from ancient
instances: now my own troubles prove it true.
Of all my friends, only you two or three stay faithful —
the rest were Fortune’s followers, not mine.
The more cause, then, being few, to succour my exhaustion,	35
to offer this shipwreck of my hopes
a friendly shore! And don’t, please, get unduly nervous,
scared lest such devotion might offend the God:
Caesar has often praised loyalty, even in those who fought him,
loves faith in his own, approves it in a foe.	40
My case is better: I never fostered armed opposition,
my exile was earned by mere naïvety.
Be vigilant, then, I beg you, over my misfortunes, see if
the deity’s wrath can in any way be appeased!
To demand my full dossier, though, is asking for more than	45
circumstances permit. The total sum
of my misfortunes matches the stars that shine in heaven,
the grains of a dust-storm. Much
that I’ve suffered defies credibility, and although it
happened in fact, will not sustain belief.	50
A part, too, should die with me; I only wish my silence
might guarantee its suppression. If I had
an untiring voice, a more-than-brazen larynx,
multiple tongues and mouths, not even then
could my words encompass the whole, so far does the subject	55
outreach my powers. Instead
of the warlord from Ithaca our educated poets
should write about my misadventures: I’ve undergone
worse troubles than he did. He wandered for years — but only
on the short haul between Ithaca and Troy;	60
thrust to the Getic shore by Caesar’s wrath, I’ve traversed
seas lying beneath unknown stars,
whole constellations distant. He had his loyal companions,
his faithful crew: my comrades deserted me
at the time of my banishment. He was making for his homeland,	65
a cheerful victor: I was driven from mine —
fugitive, exile, victim. My home was not some Greek island,
Ithaca, Samos — to leave them is no great loss —
but the City that from its seven hills scans the world’s orbit,
Rome, centre of empire, seat of the gods.	70
He was physically tough, with great stamina, long-enduring;
my strength is slight, a gentle man’s. He spent
a lifetime under arms, engaged in savage warfare —
I’m accustomed to quieter pursuits.
I was crushed by a god, with no help in my troubles:	75
he had that warrior-goddess at his side.
And just as Jove outranks the god of the rough ocean,
so he suffered Neptune’s anger, I bear Jove’s.
What’s more, the bulk of his troubles are fictitious,
whereas mine remain anything but myth!	80
Finally, he got back to the home of his questing, recovered
the acres he’d sought so long; but I,
unless the injured deity’s wrath diminish, am sundered
for everlasting from my native soil!

6

Not so dear was Lyde to the Clarian poet, not so truly
loved was Bittis by her singer from Cos
as you are deeply entwined, wife, in my heart: you merit
a less wretched if not a better man.
You are the underthrust beam shoring up my ruin:	5
if I am anything still, it’s all due to you.
You’re my guard against stripping and despoliation
by those who went for the timbers of my wreck.
Just as the ravening wolf, bloodthirsty and famine-driven,
prowls in search of unguarded sheepfolds, just as	10
a hungry vulture will scan the wide horizon
for corpses still above ground, just so
that nobody, bad faith battening on our bitter troubles,
would (if you’d let him) have seized
my remaining goods. Your courage, those influential	15
friends — I can never thank them enough — put paid
to his tricks. So accept this tribute from a poor but honest
witness — if such a witness carries weight:
In probity neither Hector’s wife excelled you,
nor Laodameia, who clove	20
to her husband even in death. If you’d had Homer	21
to sing your praises, Penelope’s renown	22
would be second to yours, you’d stand first in the honoured roll-call	33
of heroines, pre-eminent for courage and faith —	34
whether this quality’s inborn, produced by your own nature,
devotion that owes nothing to a master’s words,
or whether that princely lady, for years your honoured patron,	25
has trained you to be a model wife, by long
inurement, assimilation to her own example (if great things
may properly be compared with small).
Alas, my verses possess but scanty strength, your virtues
are more than my tongue can proclaim,	30
and the spark of creative vigour I once commanded
is extinct, killed off by my long	32
misfortunes. Yet in so far as our words of praise have power	35
you shall live through these verses for all time.

7

Reader, if you possess a bust made in my likeness,
strip off the Bacchic ivy from its locks!
Such signs of felicity belong to fortunate poets:
on my temples a wreath is out of place.
This is for you, dear friend: disown me in public, acknowledge	5
my words in your heart — you who wear
(and long may you!) my gold-framed image on your finger,
makeshift memento of an exile’s dear
features: perhaps when you look at it you’re prompted
to muse: ‘How far from us friend Ovid lies!’	10
Your devotion’s a comfort, yet my poems will furnish
a larger portrait: read them, such as they are,
those verses that tell of human transformations,
the work, cut short by its author’s unhappy flight,
which, like so much else of mine, on my departure I sadly	15
consigned to the flames with my own hand.
And just as Althaea (a better sister than mother)
is said to have cremated her own son
in the guise of a log, so I flung my books, doomed to perish with me,
my very vitals, upon that raging pyre —	20
whether through hate of the Muses (who’d wrought my downfall)
or because the opus was still unfinished, still
in rough draft. Several copies, I think, were made: the poem
was not destroyed outright, remains extant.
And now it’s my wish to preserve it, let it enhance my readers’	25
far-from-idle leisure, remind them of me —
Yet no one will be able to peruse it and keep patience
who doesn’t know that it lacks my final hand:
a job snatched from me half-done, while still on the anvil,
a draft minus the last touch of the file.	30
What I seek is not praise but pardon, I’m praised in abundance
if, reader, I contrive to avoid your scorn.
And here are six lines more for you, to be placed in the first book’s
frontispiece (if that honour’s what you think they deserve):
‘All you who touch these rolls, now orphaned of their father,	35
grant them at least a place
in your City! He didn’t publish them (that’s in their favour);
they were, in a manner of speaking, snatched
from their master’s funeral. So whatever faults this unfinished
poem reveals, he’d have mended if he could.’	40

8

Back from the sea now, back to their sources shall deep rivers
flow, and the Sun, wheeling his steeds about,
run backward; earth shall bear stars, the plough cleave heaven,
fire shall give forth water, and water flames,
all things shall move contrary to the laws of nature,	5
no element in the world shall keep its path,
all that I swore impossible will happen now: there’s nothing
left that one can’t believe. This I foretell
after my betrayal by that person who, I’d trusted,
would aid me in my distress.	10
False friend! Did you consign me to such utter oblivion,
were you so scared to come near
affliction, that you gave not a look, no crumb of comfort —
you stone! — to my downfall, did not follow my bier?
Does the sacred and venerable title of friendship	15
lie, mere trash, beneath your feet?
What trouble to visit a comrade crushed by such weighty
disaster, to help cheer him with kind words,
and even if you couldn’t shed tears at my misfortunes,
at least pretend to be sorry, offer a few	20
polite clichés, like a stranger — ‘What a rotten business’ —
parrot stock phrases, common turns of speech;
finally, gaze your last, while you could, at those grief-stricken
features you’ll not behold again,
hear, and return in kind, the never-to-be-repeated-	25
in-a-lifetime word, ‘Farewell’?
Others did this, not close friends, the merest acquaintances,
their feelings proved by their tears —
But weren’t you linked to me by the strong bonds of a lifetime’s
association and friendship? Hadn’t you been	30
privy to all my moods, both serious and light-hearted,
as I was privy to yours?
Were we merely urban companions? Didn’t you travel
everywhere with me, see the world?
Has all this gone for nothing, blown away on the God’s wind-blasts,	35
swallowed by Lethe’s waters, forgotten, lost?
No, you surely weren’t born in Rome, that civilized city —
in which I can never again set foot —
but there, by the Black Sea’s sinister rocky shoreline,
on the wild Scythian or Sarmatian hills,	40
heart cradled with veins of flint, an iron seeding
to stiffen your breast; and she
who once gave your soft mouth her full and milky udder
was a tigress — else you’d not
be so alienated today from my misfortunes,	45
or stand accused by me
of hard-heartedness. But since, to crown these other fated
troubles, my early days have failed of their hope,
work hard, now, to ensure that I forget your shortcomings;
straighten up, win praise where you garnered blame.	50

9

Reader, should you peruse this work without malice, may you
cross life’s finishing-line without a spill!
For you, I hope, my prayers may find fulfilment,
though for me they failed to move the obdurate gods.
So long as your luck holds good, your friends will be legion:	5
if clouds gather, then you’re on your own.
You’ve seen how pigeons flock to a white dovecot,
while a dirty habitat attracts no birds;
ants likewise never make for an empty granary,
and not one friend will come round	10
to visit the bankrupt. As a shadow dogs walkers in sunlight,
but vanishes when the sun is overcast,
so the inconstant crowd pursues the light of fortune,
yet as soon as a cloud blocks it, will take off.
May this formulation, I pray, always ring hollow	15
and false to you: for me
events proved it all too true. Before my house’s downfall
visitors thronged the place, I was à la mode
if not ambitious. The first tremor sent them running —
a prudent mass exit, scared of being caught	20
in the collapsing ruins. Small wonder if men dread lightning,
since it burns up everything around —
yet friendship that remains constant through tribulations
wins Caesar’s approval, even in a foe
that’s earned his hatred. Nor is he prone to anger —	25
none more restrained than he! — when true
devotion persists in adversity. Even Thoas,
learning the story of Pylades, we’re told,
approved: the unswerving friendship of Patroclus
for Achilles elicited Hector’s praise.	30
When loyal Theseus followed Pirithoüs down to Hades
they say that the Dark God shared
his grief; when Turnus learnt how Euryalus and Nisus
kept faith, the tears (it’s fair to assume)
poured down his cheeks. There’s trust even among the wretched;	35
in a foe it wins praise. Alas, how few are moved
by these words of mine! My present state and fortune
are such that my tears should know no bounds,
yet my heart, though overwhelmed by grief at its own disaster,
has still found serenity in your success.	40
Long ago, dear friend, I must tell you, I saw this coming
when the wind in your sails was still the merest breeze;
if moral integrity or a life without blemish carry
a price-tag, no man could command
a higher figure; if anyone’s climbed to prominence	45
through the liberal arts, it’s you; is there any cause
your eloquence can’t make good? That’s why I told you,
right from the start, ‘My friend, a major stage
awaits your talents.’ This I learnt not from thunder
on the left, or sheep’s guts, or the cry	50
or flight of a bird: reason’s my augury, my prediction
for the future: thus I divined, thus got
my knowledge. And since it’s come true, whole-hearted congratulations
to you (as well as to me!)
that your talents have not remained hidden — though I wish my own had,	55
and in blackest darkness: best if no light had shone
on my creations! And just as your eloquence has been aided
by serious arts, so an Art of another kind
hurt me. But my life’s well known to you — the author’s
own morals had no truck with these ‘arts’;	60
you know that this poem was written for fun, a product
of my youth: not a good joke, but a joke.
Thus though my offence can’t be camouflaged or defended,
at least it has some excuse. So, as far as you can,
excuse it: don’t desert your friend’s cause; so may you	65
ever advance as well as you’ve begun!

10

I have (may I always keep!) blonde Minerva’s protection: my vessel
bears her painted casque, borrows her name.
Under sail she runs well with the slightest breeze; her rowers
speed her along when there’s need for oars.
Not content with outstripping any companion vessel	5
she’ll somehow contrive to overhaul any craft
that’s set out before her: no storms will spring her timbers,
she’ll ride tall waves like a flat calm;
first met at Cenchreae, harbour of Corinth; since then
the faithful guide and companion of my flight,	10
kept safe by the power of Pallas through countless hazards,
across endless gale-swept seas. Safe still —
I pray! — may she thread vast Pontus’s entrance-channel
and enter the waters of the Getic shore.
But as soon as she’d brought me into Aeolian Helle’s seaway,	15
setting course for the long haul through the narrows, then
we swung away westward, leaving Hector’s city,
and made harbour at Imbros. Thence
with a light following breeze our wearied vessel
rode over to Samothrace,	20
from where it’s a short haul to Tempýra on the Thracian
coast, and a parting of the ways between
master and ship: I planned an overland journey
through Thrace, while she was to sail back
into Hellespontine waters, coasting along the Troad,	25
past Lampsacus, home of the country god
Priapus, through the straits between Sestos and Abydos —
scene of not-quite-virgin Helle’s fatal flight —
to Cyzicus in the Propontis, barely linked to the mainland,
Cyzicus, Thracian colony of renown,	30
and so to Byzantium, guarding the jaws of Pontus,
great gateway between twin seas.
May she win past all these, I pray, and with a strong following
south wind wing her way through the Clashing Rocks,
skirt Thynias’ bay, set course by Apollo’s city	35
under Anchialus’ lofty walls, and thence
sail on past the ports of Mesémbria and Odéson,
and that citadel named
for the wine-god, and the hilltop where Megarian exiles
(we’re told) made their home from home;	40
cruising thence may she safely reach the Milesian foundation
to which I’m consigned by the wrath
of an injured god. If she makes it, I’ll sacrifice to Minerva
a lamb for services rendered: I can’t afford
anything larger. You too, twin brother-gods of this island,	45
sons of Tyndareus, watch over our separate paths
with propitious power (one craft is to thread the Symplégadés,
the other’s for Thracian waters). Make the winds,
though we’re bound for diverse destinations, favour
this vessel and that alike!	50

11

Every word you’ve read in this whole book was written
during the anxious days
of my journey: scribbling lines in mid-Adriatic
while December froze the blood,
or after we’d passed the twin gulfs of the Isthmus	5
and transferred to another ship,
still verse-making amid the Aegean’s savage clamour
(a sight, I fancy, that shook the Cyclades).
In fact, I’m surprised myself that in all that upheaval
of spirit and sea inspiration never flagged.	10
How to label such an obsession? Shocked stupor? Madness?
No matter: by this one care all cares are relieved.
Time and again I was tossed by wintry tempests
and darkly menacing seas;
time and again the day grew black with storm-clouds,	15
torrents of wind-lashed rain;
time and again we shipped water; yet my shaky
hand still kept writing verses — of a sort.
Now winds whistle once more through the taut rigging,
and massy-high rears up each hollow wave:	20
the very steersman, hands raised high to heaven,
his art forgotten, turns to prayer for aid.
Wherever I look, there’s nothing but death’s image —
death, that my split mind fears
and, fearing, prays for. Should I come safe to harbour	25
terror lurks there too: more hazards on dry land
than from the cruel sea. Both men and deep entrap me,
sword and wave twin my fear:
sword, I’m afraid, hopes to let my blood for booty,
wave wants the title of my death. Away	30
on our left lies a barbarous coast, inured to rapine,
stalked ever by bloodshed, murder, war —
the agitation of these wintry waves is nothing
to the turbulence in my breast.
All the more cause for indulgence, generous reader,	35
if these lines fall short — as they do —
of your hopes: they were not written, as formerly, in my garden,
while I lounged on a favourite day-bed, but at sea,
in wintry light, rough-tossed by filthy weather, spindrift
spattering the paper as I write.	40
Rough winter battles me, indignant at my presumption
in ignoring its fierce threats, still scribbling away.
Let the storm have its will of the man — but let storm and poem
reach their end, I pray, each at the same time!