The thre first bookes of Ouids De Tristibvs translated into Englishe [by Thomas Churchyard] |
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To his wyfe.
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 | The thre first bookes of Ouids De Tristibvs |  |
To his wyfe.
Elegia. 5.
Calimachus did not so burne, wyth loue to Lyda lent,Nor yet so sore Phylates had, his hart on Battis bent.
As the (O mate most true) my brest, wythin I deepely graue,
Which worthy art a better not, but happier husband haue.
I falling fast by the do hould, as by abootfull beame,
Thy gift it is, that I haue scapt, a part of troubles streame.
Thou art the cause, I am no may, to such as seeke to see,
The letters brought that might declare, the wofull wracke of mee,
Like as the wolfe that bloud desyres, when hunger hard do pricke,
Of seely sheepe that be vnkept, the flesh ful fayne would licke.
Or as the greedy Gripe vpon, the careful corps doth stare,
When on the grounde he sees it lye, and left vnburned bare.
So one there was I know not who, my hard hap did mistrust,
Uppon my goodes if thou lets not, his hands had layde vniust.
But him thy vertue did wythstand, by force of frends ful true,
To whom no thancke we render may, as to their deedes is due.
7
If witnes do perchaunce preuayle, in these our dolefull dayes.
In vertuous life Andromacha, thy name doth not distaine,
Nor Laodamia who did leaue, her life wyth husbande slaine.
If Homer thou had hapt vppon, thy fame should farre exceede,
Aboue the chast Penelopeis, of whom in him we reade.
But if these maners meeke the Gods, did geeue thee all vntaught,
And in the daye of blissefull byrth, of nature thou them caught.
Or els the matrone most to prayse, on whom thou waightest longe,
A myrror did thee make to be, all honest wyues amonge.
And to her selfe with custome longe, hath causde thee like to seeme,
By greater thinges of matters small, we doubt not for to deeme.
Full woo I am my verse hath not, more force in such a case,
And that my tongue doth not suffice, thy faythfull factes to blase.
For loke what liuelye strents of minde, afore in mee there spronge,
Is quenched quite and fallen away, wyth sorrowes sore and longe.
The cheefe amonge the Ladyes of, great fame thou mightest sit,
And of all men be lokt vppon, for vertue and for wit.
And so what power my penne maye haue, when verse I do indyte,
From time to time thou shalt aye liue, in verse that I can wryte.
| The thre first bookes of Ouids De Tristibvs | |