The Works of Tibullus Containing his Love-Elegies. Translated by Mr Dart. To which is added, The Life of the Author; with Observations on the Original Design of Elegiack Verse; and the Characters of the most Celebrated Greek, Latin and English Elegiack Poets |
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 | The Works of Tibullus |  |
ELEGY V.
You to th' Etrurian pleasing Baths retreat;
Baths dangerous in the sult'ry Summer's Heat,
But now prefer'd to Baja's, when his Wing
The Winter spreads, and yields to purple Spring.
Baths dangerous in the sult'ry Summer's Heat,
But now prefer'd to Baja's, when his Wing
The Winter spreads, and yields to purple Spring.
192
For me, Persephone, with doubtless Power,
Denounces Death, and marks th' oblivious Hour.
Spare! Goddess, spare! and grant a longer Date
To Youth unworthy of so hard a Fate.
The Rites for Ceres, and for thee ordain'd,
Were never by my daring Tongue prophan'd:
My Hands ne'er charg'd the Cup with deadly Juice,
No Land gave pois'nous Simples for my Use;
Nor did I ever impious raise my Hands
To fire the sacred Fanes with flaming Brands.
Nor have my Thoughts injurious Ills design'd,
Nor meditated Mischiefs stain'd my Mind.
No Blasphemies did e'er my Lips distain,
Nor has my Tongue been us'd to talk prophane.
I'm Young, nor do my Jetty Locks give way
To the fair Hue of venerable Grey;
Nor bending Age has made me stoop as yet,
Nor giv'n his stagg'ring Motion to my Feet.
What Pleasure is there in the rash Design,
Of plucking unripe Clusters from the Vine?
Or with rough Hands the Apple-tree invade,
Soon as the Fruit is set, and Blossoms fade?
Spare, O! ye Pow'rs, who hold the livid Floods,
Tenants of dusky Shades, and gloomy Woods.
You to whom Lots decisive did ordain
The third Division, and Infernal Reign.
May I to Meads below my Journey take,
To fill the Boat, and cross the dreary Lake;
When Age has rifled my becoming Grace,
And scatter'd Paleness o'er my wrinkl'd Face.
When I, an ancient Sire, shall teach the Young,
And talk pass'd Actions to the list'ning Throng.
Denounces Death, and marks th' oblivious Hour.
Spare! Goddess, spare! and grant a longer Date
To Youth unworthy of so hard a Fate.
The Rites for Ceres, and for thee ordain'd,
Were never by my daring Tongue prophan'd:
My Hands ne'er charg'd the Cup with deadly Juice,
No Land gave pois'nous Simples for my Use;
Nor did I ever impious raise my Hands
To fire the sacred Fanes with flaming Brands.
Nor have my Thoughts injurious Ills design'd,
Nor meditated Mischiefs stain'd my Mind.
No Blasphemies did e'er my Lips distain,
Nor has my Tongue been us'd to talk prophane.
I'm Young, nor do my Jetty Locks give way
To the fair Hue of venerable Grey;
Nor bending Age has made me stoop as yet,
Nor giv'n his stagg'ring Motion to my Feet.
193
Of plucking unripe Clusters from the Vine?
Or with rough Hands the Apple-tree invade,
Soon as the Fruit is set, and Blossoms fade?
Spare, O! ye Pow'rs, who hold the livid Floods,
Tenants of dusky Shades, and gloomy Woods.
You to whom Lots decisive did ordain
The third Division, and Infernal Reign.
May I to Meads below my Journey take,
To fill the Boat, and cross the dreary Lake;
When Age has rifled my becoming Grace,
And scatter'd Paleness o'er my wrinkl'd Face.
When I, an ancient Sire, shall teach the Young,
And talk pass'd Actions to the list'ning Throng.
Pray Heaven these Apprehensions may be vain,
Though I have languish'd fifteen Days in Pain.
Though I have languish'd fifteen Days in Pain.
But you the sacred Deities revere,
And Nymphs who make the Tuscan Baths their Care;
And swiming while at Ease, your Limbs you lave
With easy Hand, disturb the smiling Wave.
Live happy, and your Days in Pleasure spend,
Always remembring of your absent Friend;
Whether we live and breath the Vital Air,
Or whether Fates will have it said we were;
Mean while, in Hopes my Illness may decrease,
Offer to Dis a Sheep with Sable Fleece;
And for Libation give the Pow'r divine,
A Bowl of snowy Milk, and ruddy Wine.
And Nymphs who make the Tuscan Baths their Care;
194
With easy Hand, disturb the smiling Wave.
Live happy, and your Days in Pleasure spend,
Always remembring of your absent Friend;
Whether we live and breath the Vital Air,
Or whether Fates will have it said we were;
Mean while, in Hopes my Illness may decrease,
Offer to Dis a Sheep with Sable Fleece;
And for Libation give the Pow'r divine,
A Bowl of snowy Milk, and ruddy Wine.
| The Works of Tibullus | |