BOOK IV

1

Whatever defects there may be — and there will be — in these poems,
hold them excused, good reader, by the times
in which they were written. An exile, I was seeking solace,
not fame, to keep my mind
from brooding on its misfortunes. Just so the ditcher,	5
though shackled, sings, to lighten his rough task,
a crude refrain; sings too, as he strains by the slimy sandbar,
the fellow who hauls a sluggish barge upstream;
while the rower, tugging two pliant oars breastward together,
moves to the flute’s rhythm at each stroke.	10
The weary shepherd, perched on a boulder or leaning
against his crook, plays a pipe
to soothe the flock; a slave-girl will sing as she spins her
allotted yarn, to beguile and cheat the time.
They say that when Achilles was robbed of Briseïs, he lessened	15
his grief by strumming on the lyre,
and while Orpheus, singing, magnetized rocks and forests,
he was mourning his twice-lost wife. I too
have been cheered by the Muse en route to my appointed
Black Sea abode: she was my only true	20
steadfast companion, she alone feared no route, no ambush,
no barbarous swordsman, neither sea nor wind.
She knows what error it was undid me at my downfall —
that there was fault in my case, but no crime.
That, surely, is why she’s fair to me now — the damage	25
she did me before, co-indicted on a joint charge.
If I’d known the harm I’d suffer from her and her sisters
I’d never have set my hand to their holy game —
but what to do now? I’m hooked. Creative inspiration
has got me. Though verse-ruined, I’m mad enough	30
to love verse still. When Ulysses’ companions savoured
the exotic lotus, their palates relished the taste
that undid them. Often a lover recognizes his own destruction
yet clings to it, hunts down
the stuff of his doom. So I relish the books that have hurt me,	35
love the weapon that inflicted my wounds.
Perhaps this obsession may be seen as madness;
but the madness has some utility, it forbids
the mind to be always brooding over its troubles,
makes it oblivious of present ills. Just as	40
the wounded maenad, howling in high ecstatic frenzy
on Ida’s ridges, feels no pain, so when
my heart is stirred and warmed by the green-fuse thyrsus
its spirit soars up beyond
mere human troubles, is conscious neither of exile	45
nor of this Black Sea coast, nor of the gods’ wrath.
As though I were drinking a draught from soporific Lethe
I lose all sense of adverse days.
So I’m right to revere the goddesses who have lightened my burden,
comrades from Helicon in my anxious flight,	50
who by ship and on foot, now overland, now sailing,
followed wherever I led. May they, at least,
go easy on me, I pray — for the rest of the pantheon’s
taken great Caesar’s side, ganged up in a pack
to load me with troubles as myriad as sand-grains	55
on the shore, as fish in the deep, as eggs in fish:
you’ll sooner count flowers in spring or wheat-ears in summer,
apples in autumn, snowflakes in wintertime
than the ills I suffered, miserably driven all over
the world en route to the Black Sea’s left-hand shore.	60
Yet since I’ve arrived, the tenor of my misfortunes
has known no relief: here too Fate’s dogged my path,
here too I discern the threads of my natal pattern,
threads spun from a black fleece!
Not to mention the ambuscades here, the constant peril	65
to life and limb (true, and yet grim beyond
believable truth), how wretched to live among tribal natives
for him whose name was once a household word!
How wretched to seek protection from gate and rampart
and find them a bare defence! When young	70
I avoided the rough-and-tumble of military service,
handled arms only for sport;
but now, growing old, I strap on sword and buckler,
clap a helmet on my grey hairs —
The moment we’re warned of a raid by the guard in his look-out	75
I must, with trembling hands, go arm myself,
while the raiders, bows at the ready, arrows envenomed,
horses snorting, fiercely circle the wall;
and just as a sheep that can’t reach the fold is dragged off
through field and wood by the rapacious wolf,	80
so it goes with any peasant caught by these savage
foes in the open still, beyond the gates:
either he follows his captor, neck bound and shackled,
or he’s shot with a poisoned arrow, and so dies.
Here, then, is where I lie, new colonist of a troubled	85
frontier-post: the too-slow days of my fate
drag on, and though my Muse (a guest despite misfortune)
still contrives to return to verse, to her old rites,
there’s no one to whom I can recite my poems, no one
whose ears are attuned to Latin verse,	90
so I write, and read, for myself (there’s no other option) —
am my own judge: my work is safe with me.
Yet I’ve often asked myself what’s the point of such labour —
will the Sarmatians or Getae read my work?
Often, too, I’ve dissolved in tears while writing,	95
a rain that dampened the words, my heart
felt the old wounds as though they were fresh-inflicted,
grief drizzled into my lap;
and when I recall just who, through change of fortune,
I am — and was; when it strikes me whither Fate	100
has brought me — and whence; then often my hand, in fury
at my, and its, efforts, maddened, has cast
my poems into the fire. So since few out of many
survive, my unknown reader, scan them, I pray,
with indulgence; and you too, Rome, my forbidden city,	105
take in good part verse no better than my lot.

2

Already fierce Germany, like all the world, confronted
by the Caesars, may well have bent her knee
in surrender: perhaps by now the lofty Imperial palace
is garlanded, incense crackling in the flames
and smoking the sunlight, the blood of the axed white victim	5
pulsing purple to earth, the promised gifts
for friendly gods’ temples being readied by both Caesars
after their victory, and by those youths
who, growing to manhood, now bear the Caesarean
name to ensure this house’s perpetual rule;	10
now — as often hereafter — Livia and her grandsons’
good wives may be offering gifts, well-earned, to the gods
for her son’s safety; so too married ladies, and stainless Vestals,
their lifelong virginity guarding the sacred fire;
there’ll be cheers from the loyal commons, from the Senate,	15
and from the Knights, of whom but lately I
was a humble member. (But in this distant exile
I miss all such public rejoicing: only vague
rumours get this far.) The spectacle of their triumphs
will delight the whole populace, they’ll read the tags	20
of captured commanders and towns, see chain-laden monarchs
shambling along before the horses with their wreathed
manes, catch some with heads bowed in befitting dejection,
others, blind to their downfall, terrible still.
Some bystanders will try to find out their names, the causes	25
they fought for, their records; others will provide
ill-informed answers: ‘That fellow up there, all in purple,
was their general; that other one his next in command;
the man with his eyes fixed hangdog on the ground had
a very different expression when up in arms;	30
that wild brute, still looking daggers of fiery hatred,
was the one who urged them onward, planned their campaigns;
the character whose long hair now masks his stubbled features
set up a treacherous ambush, trapped our troops.
Behind him’s a priest. They say he sacrificed dozens	35
of prisoners — but his god too often turned down
such offerings. Look at the floats: lakes, rivers, mountains,
castles: all brimming with slaughter, gore-topped.
(In this land Drusus well earned his German title,
most worthy scion of a noble sire.)	40
And there, horns broken, patched with green sedge, discoloured
by his own blood, goes Rhine; now, her loose locks
dishevelled, Germany too is trundled past in mourning,
huddled beneath our unconquered leader’s feet,
proud neck outstretched to the Roman axe, and shackles	45
clipping the hand that lately grasped a sword.’
High above these, Caesar, in your victory carriage
you’ll ride, purple-clad, through the crowd
as ritual demands, and wherever you go your subjects’
plaudits will greet you, flowers be strewn in your path;	50
while your soldiers, their brows encircled with laurel, ‘Io,
io triumphe!’ will sing out, loud and bold.
Often you’ll find your horses skittish, rearing
at the din, the cheering, the applause.
Thence you’ll proceed to the Capitol, the shrines that favour	55
your prayers, present Jove with the laurel-wreath
he’s earned. All this, though exiled, I’ll see in my mind’s eye:
it’s entitled to go where I cannot,
can freewheel over enormous distances, reaches
heaven in its swift course, conveys my gaze	60
to the heart of the City, will not ever let it
be deprived of so great a good: will find the means
whereby in spirit I’ll watch your ivory chariot —
a brief return, at least, to my native land!
It’s the lucky populace, though, that will enjoy the real	65
spectacle, the mob will be there to rejoice
with their Leader, while I must visualize these pleasures
in fancy alone, hearken with distant ears,
and there’ll be scarcely one soul dispatched here, so far from Latium,
to tell me the story I long to hear. But even he	70
will bring stale news of a long-concluded triumph —
though however late I learn it, I shall rejoice,
and on that day I’ll lay by my personal sorrows: the public
issue will far outstrip the merely private case.

3

You Greater and Lesser Bears, one a guide to Phoenician steersmen,
the other to Greek, both riding dry, high up
over the northern pole, all-seeing stars, who never
sink beneath the waters of the western seas,
whose orbit, ringing in its embrace the empyrean, circles	5
clear of the earth — look down,
I beseech you, on those ramparts which once (so goes the story)
Ilia’s son Remus jumped over — to his loss:
turn your glistening faces on my lady, and tell me
whether she thinks of me or not. Alas,	10
why seek the answer to what’s only too apparent? why do
my hopes slide into fear and doubt? Believe
what’s as you would want, quit agonizing over
what’s secure: bet safe on a safe bet,
and what the gleaming pole stars cannot tell you,	15
now tell yourself, in veridic utterance:
That she, who’s your prime concern, has never forgotten
your memory, that she cherishes your name
(all that’s left her of you), dwells ever on your features
as though you were present; and, though far away,	20
if you still live, still loves you. Ah, when your heart in anguish
broods over your just grief, does soft sleep vacate
your memory-crowded breast? Are you assailed by sorrow
at the sight of our bed, my pillow, the blank space
that never lets you forget me? Do your feverish night-hours	25
stretch out to eternity? Do you toss and turn
till your weary bones are aching? That you suffer such symptoms
I have no doubt, that your love betrays sorrow’s pain,
that your crucifixion surely matches Andromache watching
Hector dragged in his blood at Achilles’ chariot-tail.	30
Yet what prayer to utter I know not, I cannot determine
just what attitude I’d wish you to take.
Are you sad? I’m angry at being the cause of your heartache.
Not sad? Yet your husband’s loss
should affect you. Ah yes, lament your bereavement, sweetest	35
of wives, live through a season’s grief
for my troubles, bewail my lot — there’s some pleasure in weeping,
sorrow’s worked out and relieved by tears. Yet I wish
it was not my life you had to lament now, but rather
my death, that it was by death you’d been left alone.	40
Then my passing spirit would surely have been wafted
to my native air, loving tears would have bedewed
my breast, my eyes would have had you there to close them
as they gazed their last at a familiar sky;
the ancestral vault would have claimed my ashes, I’d lie in	45
ground that I’d touched at birth,
and — last but not least — I’d have died, as I lived, without scandal:
now my life is shamed by its very ordeal.
It cuts me to the quick if being spoken of as an exile’s
wife makes you blush and turn your face aside;	50
it cuts me to the quick if you feel that to have our marriage
known, now, brings you disgrace, if you’re ashamed,
now, of being mine! Gone, gone are the days when you boasted
about your husband, never hiding his name;
gone are the days when you (do you mind being reminded?)	55
were glad (I recall) to be, to be known as, mine.
As befits a true wife, you loved my every talent, your partial
love added many to the true ones. I
ranked so high in your eyes that there was no man living
you set above me, more coveted for your own.	60
Don’t, even now, feel shame at being wedded to me:
grief may have its place here, but not shame.
When rash Capaneus was felled by that sudden assailant
did his wife Evadne blush for her lord? Because
the Lord of the Universe quelled fire with fire, Phaëthon	65
was not deserted by his friends; because
ambitious Semele’s prayers brought about her destruction
did not mean she was estranged
from Cadmus her father: nor, because I’ve been stricken
by Jupiter’s fiery bolts, have you cause to blush.	70
No: rather rise up in defence of me, make it your business
to be, for me, the model of a dutiful wife,
imbue these unhappy circumstances with your virtues:
high-striving glory climbs the steepest paths.
Had Troy been more fortunate, who would have heard of Hector?	75
With public calamities the hero’s path is paved.
In a sealess world, what scope for a fine steersman?
What scope, where men are in health, for the healer’s art?
Unseen, unacknowledged in good times, in hardship courage
stands apparent, asserts itself.	80
My misfortune gives you a chance for fame, it offers
your loyalty room to raise its head, to make
itself conspicuous. Use this crisis — your gift, your godsend:
How wide a field lies open for your praise!

4

O you who with your high birth and ancestral titles
in nobility of character still outshine
your clan, whose mind mirrors your father’s brilliance
while retaining a brilliance all your own,
whose genius embraces your father’s gift of language,	5
an eloquence unmatched at the Roman bar:
against all my wishes I’ve tagged you with this description
instead of your name. Forgive the praise you’re due.
I’m in no way to blame: you’re betrayed by your known virtues —
no fault of mine if you appear what you are.	10
Nor do I think the homage done you by my verses
can cause you harm in the eyes of so just a prince.
Why, he himself, our Fatherland’s Father (indulgent
to a fault) doesn’t mind that his name
crops up in my work so often — nor can he prevent it,	15
for Caesar’s public matter, and of that common good
I too have my share. Jove gives the nod to poetic
talent, allows any mouth to sing his praise.
The example of two deities — one a god manifest,
the other an object of faith — safeguards your cause.	20
And though I need not, I’ll accept one accusation —
my letter came independent of your will.
It’s no new wrong I commit in speaking to you
with whom — in more fortunate days — I so often spoke;
you need not fear being charged with the fact of my friendship —	25
the odium, if any, lies with its true
begetter — and yours: from my earliest years (no concealment
of this, please!) I honoured your father; he esteemed
my talent — you may remember — even more highly
than in my own opinion I deserved, and would	30
discourse of my verses with that rounded eloquence
in which one element of his nobility lay.
It’s not you who today have been cheated by accepting
me into your house, but your father. Yet there was no
deception, believe me: except for the very latest	35
my life will stand scrutiny in all its acts.
Even the fault that undid me you’ll agree was no villainy
if you’ve heard the tale of my troubles — either fear
or error more truly, error first and foremost —
ah, let me forget my fate!	40
Don’t let me strain open these half-healed cicatrices
that rest has scarce sufficed to heal!
So though I am justly punished, there was no criminal action
or enticement involved in my offence,
and this the God knows: that’s why my life was spared, my possessions	45
not confiscated for another’s use. Perhaps —
if I live so long — when time has alleviated his anger
he may cancel this exile too:
but for now all I ask of him, if such a prayer’s not lacking
in modest respect, is to send me somewhere else:	50
a milder exile, not quite so remote, but further
away from those hostile savages — that’s what I want,
and, such is Augustus’ mercy, were someone to petition
for this favour on my behalf, perhaps he’d say ‘Yes’.
The Black Sea’s ‘hospitable’ waters, its freezing coastline	55
pen me in: by men of old time it was known
as inhospitable because of its tearing gales, its monstrous
waves, its lack of safe ports for foreign ships.
The tribes around here are hot for plunder and bloodshed,
dry land’s as much to be feared	60
as the treacherous sea. Those cannibals you hear tell of,
who delight in raw human flesh, live hereabouts,
and it’s not so far away here from that Crimean altar
sacred to quivered Artemis, splashed with the gore
of murder: here once, they say, was Thoas’s kingdom,	65
shunned by no villain, sought by no good man;
here, in thanks for the doe that replaced her, Iphigeneia
performed whatever rites the goddess might demand;
and hither Orestes — who knows whether loyal son or murderous
criminal? — came driven by his own	70
Furies, with Pylades, that model of perfect devotion —
two bodies, but minds as one.
Together, chained, they were led to the grim altar
that stood, all bloody, before the temple-doors.
Yet neither feared for his own death; each one sorrowed	75
over the other’s fate. Already, knife drawn,
the priestess was there and ready, Greek tresses banded
back in barbarian style — but then
after a few words spoken she recognized her brother,
refrained from killing him, gave him a hug instead.	80
Overjoyed, she bore away the statue of the goddess
(who detested these cruel rites) to a better place.
This region, then, almost the wide world’s furthest,
by gods and men abandoned, lies a close
neighbour to me: near my land (if barbary is Ovid’s	85
own soil) lurk the rites of death. May the same winds
that bore Orestes away, with a deity placated
waft my sails home once more!

5

Holder of first place among my dear companions,
proved the sole altar for my fortunes, at whose
words this moribund soul revived, as the ever-burning
lamp flares up when oil’s poured in, who dared
in fearless loyalty to open a harbour of refuge	5
to my bolt-smitten vessel, through whose wealth
I should not have felt myself in want, had Caesar stripped me
of my inherited fortune — while I’m borne on
by this impetus, forgetful of my present condition,
how nearly, alas, have I let slip your name!	10
Yet you recognize this, the desire for praise has touched you,
you’d like, if you could, to go public, say ‘I am the man.’
If you’d let me, it’s true, I’d be eager to bring you glory,
praise your rare loyalty, add that to your fame.
But I fear my grateful verse may harm you, that this untimely	15
honouring of your name could stand in your way.
Do what you safely can: rejoice in your heart that I’m mindful
of you, that you’ve been loyal to me; still bend,
as now, to your oars to bring me succour, until the
God is appeased, and a softer breeze shall blow;	20
rescue a life that none can save unless he who plunged it
in Stygian waters raise it again; still give
yourself — how rare a gesture! — with constancy to every
act of unswerving friendship. So may your good
fortune achieve perennial growth, may you need no assistance,	25
but yourself assist your own;
may your wife equal her husband in unfailing virtue,
and your bed witness few complaints;
may your blood-brother ever bear you such loyal affection
as Pollux displays for Castor; may your young son	30
increase in likeness to you, be stamped by his character
as yours for all to see;
and may your daughter’s marriage-torch make you a father-
in-law, and soon a grandfather, in your prime!

6

Time will inure the bullock to the earthbound ploughshare,
bow his neck beneath the weight of the curved yoke;
time breaks the mettlesome horse to a pliant bridle, makes his
mouth yield to the hard bit; time curbs
the fury of African lions, their old fierce spirit	5
dwindles away; the monstrous Indian beast
that resists its mahout’s warnings in time is conquered,
submits to servitude. Time makes the grape
swell up in spreading clusters that can barely
contain the bursting must within; time swells	10
seed into ripe white wheat-ears, burgeons and sweetens
sour green fruit; time thins
the ploughshare’s edge as it renews good farmland,
wears down the hardest flint or adamant,
little by little lessens even the fiercest anger,	15
reduces grief, relieves the sorrowing heart.
So the silent passage of time can diminish by its onset
everything save my cares. Twice now
since I lost my homeland the threshing-floor’s been trodden,
twice naked feet have trampled out the must,	20
yet the years have endowed me with neither patience nor resignation,
my mind still feels the blow of a fresh hurt.
Even veteran oxen, it’s true, are often yoke-resistant,
even a broken horse often fights the bit.
My present distress, though never changing its nature,	25
has grown harsher with time, augmented by long delay.
I know my troubles far better than I once did: now through
familiarity they weigh the more.
It makes a difference to bring fresh strength to your problems,
not to be worn out already by time’s ills.	30
Stronger the novice wrestler in that sanded arena
than some old sweat, muscles weary from their years,
and a wound-free gladiator in shining gear eclipses
the one whose armour’s splashed with his own blood.
Your newly-handselled vessel will ride out a hurricane	35
while an old tub founders in the first squall.
So now I can scarcely bear (what I once bore with more patience)
these ills compounded by unending time.
Believe me, I’m failing: to judge from my physical condition
I’d say my troubles have a scant	40
future remaining — I lack my old strength and colour,
there’s barely enough skin to cover my bones;
yet sick though my body is, my mind is sicker
from endless contemplation of its woes.
Absent the city scene, absent my dear companions,	45
absent (none closer to my heart) my wife:
what’s here is a Scythian rabble, a mob of trousered Getae —
troubles seen and unseen both prey on my mind.
One hope alone in all this brings me some consolation —
that my troubles may be soon cut short by death.	50

7

Twice has the Sun approached me after the chills of icy
winter, twice rounded his journey off
through the sign of the Fish. In all that time why hasn’t
your hand bestirred itself, even to write
me a brief line or two? When I’m getting letters from casual	5
acquaintances, why has your loyalty fallen off?
Why, every time that I broke the seal on a missive
did I hope it contained your name?
Gods grant that you’ve written me often, but of all your letters
not one has reached me! This prayer	10
must surely be true — I’d sooner believe in the Gorgon
Medusa, snaking hair and the rest,
or in Scylla’s dog-clustered groin, or in the Chimaera
(serpent and lioness separated by fire),
or in quadrupeds joined at the chest with a human torso,	15
or in three-bodied men or three-headed dogs, or in
Sphinxes and Harpies and snakefooted Giants, or Gyas
the hundred-handed, or the man who’s half-bull: all this
I’d sooner credit than think that you, my dearest comrade,
have changed, have set aside your love for me.	20
Between us lie countless mountains, plains and rivers,
roads, and no few seas: oh, there exist
a thousand reasons why a whole spate of letters written
by you should seldom reach my hands —
But defeat those thousand reasons by writing me, and often:	25
I’m tired of making excuses for you myself.

8

Already my temples are mimicking swans’ plumage,
and hoary age bleaching my once-dark hair;
already the frail years are on me, the age of inertia,
already my infirm self finds life too hard.
Now is the time when I should have ended my labours,	5
had a life undisturbed by fear,
enjoying the leisure my temperament always favoured,
relaxed in my favourite pursuits,
tending my modest home and ancestral house-gods, the family
estate now bereft of its master, growing old	10
with my loving wife and trusted friends, quite carefree,
in my own country. There was once a time
I dreamed of this happy conclusion, saw myself as worthy
to pass my latter years in such a way;
but the gods decreed otherwise: over land and sea they drove me,	15
and cast me forth on this Sarmatian shore.
Battered vessels are dry-docked to stop them going to pieces,
needlessly, in mid-voyage; it’s the same
with a racehorse — you retire him, put him out to pasture
before, strength lost, he spoils his record, falls	20
and fails; when at last the old soldier’s years of service
put him over the hill, he hangs up the arms he bore
in his old family shrine. I too, now age is sapping
my strength, should qualify for the wooden sword.
At my time of life I shouldn’t be breathing this alien	25
air, or easing my thirst at Getic wells,
but dividing my days between those peaceful country gardens
I once possessed, and the pleasures of city life,
the human round. When I prayed for a quiet retirement
I could not foresee what the future in fact would bring;	30
the Fates were against me, they brought my green years comfort
but oppress me in my old age.
Now, after half a century’s blameless existence, I’m done for
in the worst stretch of my life:
so close to the finishing-line, when I almost seemed to have it	35
within my reach, my chariot came to wreck.
How was I crazy enough to provoke his wrath against me,
when in the whole wide world there’s none more mild?
Though his very mercy was eclipsed by my faults, my error
did not cost me my life —	40
a life to be spent, now, far from my native country,
under the northern pole, in the land that lies
on the Black Sea’s sinister side. If Delphi, if Dodona
had foretold me this, I’d have lost faith in them both.
Nothing, though hooped with adamant, is fully armoured	45
to withstand the swift fire of Jove;
nothing’s so lofty, so high above all danger,
that it isn’t lower than, subject to, the God.
For though it was my offence provoked part of my troubles,
I suffered worse from the God’s anger. So, my friends,	50
take warning from my fate, strive to make yourselves worthy
of this man who’s the high gods’ peer!

9

If possible, if you allow it, I’ll leave your name and action
unspoken, let Lethe’s water enfold your deeds;
the tardy tears you shed shall elicit my mercy —
provided always you make your repentance plain,
provided you stand self-condemned, are eager and willing	5
to erase from your life — if you can —
those Fury-charged days. If not, if your heart still burns with hatred
against me, then luckless sorrow will perforce
take arms: though I be banished to the world’s last outpost
my wrath can still reach out its hands from there!	10
All civic rights (did you know this?) Caesar has left me,
loss of country is my sole punishment,
and even my country — if he lives — I have hopes of from him:
the oak scorched by Jove’s bolt often sprouts green.
But if I get no chance for vengeance, then the Muses	15
will give me strength and their own weapons. Although
I’m sequestered in this wasteland where the northern stars circle
high and dry above my gaze, nevertheless
my clarion message will go forth to countless peoples,
my complaint shall be known world-wide;	20
whatever I say shall travel from sunrise to sunset,
the East shall witness the West’s words.
Over continents I shall be heard, across deep waters;
my lamentation shall find a mighty voice.
It’s not your own age alone that will know you guilty —	25
posterity will accuse you for evermore.
I’m being drawn into battle already, though my horns aren’t sharpened
and I wish I’d no cause to fight:
the arena’s still quiet, but the swart bull’s already scattering
sand and stamping the ground with angry hoof.	30
Even this is more than I wanted. Sound the retreat, Muse,
while this fellow still has a chance to hide his name!

10

Who was this I you read, this trifler in tender passions?
You want to know, posterity? Then attend: —
Sulmo is my homeland, where ice-cold mountain torrents
make lush our pastures, and Rome is ninety miles off.
Here I was born, in the year both consuls perished	5
at Antony’s hands; heir (for what that’s worth)
to an ancient family, no brand-new knight promoted
just yesterday for his wealth.
I was not the eldest child: I came after a brother
born a twelvemonth before me, to the day	10
so that we shared a birthday, celebrated one occasion
with two cakes, in March, at the time
of that festival sacred to armed Minerva — the first day in it
stained by the blood of combat. We began
our education young: our father sent us to study	15
with Rome’s best teachers in the liberal arts.
My brother from his green years had the gift of eloquence,
was born for the clash of words in a public court;
but I, even in boyhood, held out for higher matters,
and the Muse was seducing me subtly to her work.	20
My father kept saying: ‘Why study such useless subjects?
Even Homer left no inheritance.’ Convinced
by his argument, I abandoned Helicon completely,
struggled to write without poetic form;
but a poem, spontaneously, would shape itself to metre —	25
whatever I tried to write turned into verse.
The years sped silently by: we arrived at manhood,
my brother and I, dressed for a freer life,
with the broad stripe and the purple draped from our shoulders,
each still obsessed by his own early pursuits.	30
But when he was barely twenty years old, my brother
died — and from then I lost a part of myself.
I did take the first step up the governmental ladder,
became a member of the Board of Three;
the Senate awaited me; but I chose to narrow my purple	35
stripe: there lay a burden beyond my strength.
For such a career I lacked both endurance and inclination:
the stress of ambition left me cold,
while the Muse, the creative spirit, was forever urging on me
that haven of leisure to which I’d always leaned.	40
The poets of those days I cultivated and cherished:
for me, bards were so many gods.
Often the ageing Macer would read me what he’d written
on birds or poisonous snakes or healing herbs;
often Propertius, by virtue of that close-binding	45
comradeship between us, would recite
his burning verses. Ponticus, noted for epic, and Bassus,
pre-eminent in iambics, both belonged
to my circle; Horace, that metrical wizard, held us
spellbound with songs to the lyre.	50
Virgil I only saw, while greedy fate left Tibullus
scant time for our friendship. He
came after Gallus, then Propertius followed:
I was next, the fourth in line.
And as I looked up to my elders, so a younger generation	55
looked up to me: my reputation soon spread.
When first I recited my earliest poems in public
my beard had only been shaved once or twice:
she fired my genius, who now is a Roman byword
because of those verses, the girl to whom I gave	60
the pseudonym of ‘Corinna’. My writing was prolific,
but what I thought defective, I myself
let the flames claim for revision. On the brink of exile,
raging against my vocation, my poems, I burnt work
that could have found favour. My heart was soft, no stronghold	65
against Cupid’s assaults, prey to the lightest pang.
Yet, despite my nature, though the smallest spark would
ignite me, no scandal ever smeared my name.
When I was scarce past boyhood I was briefly married
to a wife both worthless and useless; next	70
came a bride you could not find fault with, yet not destined
to warm my bed for long; third and last
there’s the partner who’s grown old with me, who’s learnt to shoulder
the burden of living as an exile’s wife.
My daughter, twice pregnant (but by different husbands) made me	75
a grandfather early on, while she was still
just a slip of a girl. By then my father had completed
his lifespan of ninety years. For him I wept
just as he would have done had I been the one taken.
Then, next, I saw my mother to her grave.	80
Ah, lucky the pair of them, so timely dead and buried,
before the black day of my disgrace!
And lucky for me, that they are not still living
to witness my misery, that they felt no grief
on my account. Yet if there survives from a life’s extinction	85
something more than a name, if an insubstantial wraith
does escape the pyre, if some word, my parental spirits,
has reached you about me, if charges stand to my name
in the Stygian court, then understand, I implore you
— and you I may not deceive — that my exile’s cause	90
was not a crime, but an error. So much for the dead. I return now
to you, my devoted readers, who would know
the events of my life. Already my best years were behind me —
age had brindled my hair, and ten times since my birth,
head wreathed with Pisan olive, the victorious Olympic	95
charioteer had carried off the prize
when the wrath of an injured prince compelled me to make my way to
Tomis, on the left shore of the Black Sea.
The cause (though too familiar to everyone) of my ruin
must not be revealed through testimony of mine.	100
Why rake up associates’ meannesses, harm done me by house-slaves,
and much further suffering, not a whit less harsh
than the exile itself? Yet my mind disdained to yield to trouble,
showed itself invincible, drew on its strength,
till I, forgetting myself and my old leisured existence,	105
took arms on occasion with unpractised hand;
by sea and land I suffered as many misfortunes
as the stars between the unseen and the visible poles.
Through long wanderings driven, I at length made landfall
on this coast, where native bowmen roam; and here,	110
though the din of neighbouring arms surrounds me, I still lighten
my sad fate as best I can
with the composition of verse: though there is none to listen
this is how I spend, and beguile, my days.
So the fact that I live still, to grapple with such grim hardships,	115
unwearied, yet, of the light and all it brings,
I owe, my Muse, to you: it’s you who afford me solace,
who come as rest, as medicine to my cares;
you my guide and comrade, who spirit me from the Danube
to an honoured seat on Helicon; who have	120
offered me that rare benefit, fame while still living,
a title rarely granted till after death.
Nor has Envy, belittler of all that’s present, sunk her
malignant fangs into any work of mine:
for although our age has produced some classic poets,	125
Fame has not grudged my gifts renown.
There are many I’d rank above me: yet I am no less quoted
than they are, and most read throughout the world.
So if there’s any truth in poetic predictions, even
should I die tomorrow, I’ll not be wholly earth’s.	130
Which I was it triumphed? True poet or fashion’s pander?
Either way, generous reader, it is you I must thank.