The Elegies of Tibullus | Page 7

on blood. Her festive bowls Should be rank gall: and round her haunted room Wild, wailing ghosts and monitory owls Should flit forever shrieking death and doom.
Made hunger-mad, may she devour the grass That grows on graves, and gnaw the bare bones down Which wolves have left! Stark-naked may she pass, Chased by the street-dogs through the taunting town!
My curse comes fast. Unerring signs are seen In stars above us. There are gods who still Protect unhappy lovers: and our Queen Venus rains fire on all who slight her will.
O cruel girl! unlearn the wicked art Of that rapacious hag! For everywhere Wealth murders love. But thy poor lover's heart Is ever thine, and thou his dearest care.
A poor man clings close to thy lovely side, And keeps the crowd off, and thy pathway free; He hides thee with kind friends, and as his bride From thy dull, golden thraldom ransoms thee.
Vain is my song. Her door will not unclose For words, but for a hand that knocks with gold. O fear me, my proud rival, fear thy foes! Oft have the wheels of fortune backward rolled!

ELEGY THE SEVENTH
A DESPERATE EXPEDIENT
Thou beckonest ever with a face all smiles, Then, God of Love, thou lookest fierce and pale. Unfeeling boy! why waste on me such wiles? What glory if a god o'er man prevails?
Once more thy snares are set. My Delia flies To steal a night--with whom I cannot tell. Can I believe when she denies, denies-- I, for whose sake she tricked her lord so well?
By me, alas! those cunning ways were shown To fool her slaves. My skill I now deplore! For me she made excuse to sleep alone, Or silenced the shrill hinges of her door.
"Twas I prescribed what remedies to use If mutual passion somewhat fiercely play; If there were tell-tale bite or rosy bruise, I showed what simples take the scars away.
Hear me! fond husband of the false and fair, Make me thy guest, and she shall chastely go! When she makes talk with men I shall take care, Nor shall she at the wine her bosom show.
I shall take care she does not nod or smile To any other, nor her hand imbue With his fast-flowing wine, that her swift guile May scribble on the board their rendez-vous.
When she goes out, beware! And if she hie To Bona Dea, where no males may be, Straight to the sacred altars follow I, Who only trust her if my eyes can see.
Oh! oft I pressed that soft hand I adore, Feigning with some rare ring or seal to play, And plied thee with strong wine till thou didst snore, While I, with wine and water, won the day.
I wronged thee, aye! But 'twas not what I meant. Forgive, for I confess. 'Twas Cupid's spell O'er-swayed me. Who can foil a god's intent? Now have I courage all my deeds to tell.
Yes, it was I, unblushing I declare. At whom thy watch-dog all night long did bay:-- But some-one else now stands insistent there, Or peers about him and then walks away.
He seems to pass. But soon will backward fare Alone, and, coughing, at the threshold hide. What skill hath stolen love! Beware, beware! Thy boat is drifting on a treacherous tide.
What worth a lovely wife, if others buy Thy treasure, if thy stoutest bolt betrays, If in thy very arms she breathes a sigh For absent joy, and feigns a slight _malaise?_
Give her in charge to me! I will not spare A master's whip. Her chain shall constant be. While thou mayst go abroad and have no care Who trims his curls, or flaunts his toga free.
Whatever beaux accost her, all is well! Not the least hint of scandal shall be made. For I will send them far away, to tell In some quite distant street their amorous trade.
All this a god decrees; a sibyl wise In prophet-song did this to me proclaim; Who when Bellona kindles in her eyes, Fears neither twisted scourge nor scorching flame.
Then with a battle-axe herself will scar Her own wild arms, and sprinkle on the ground Blood, for Bellona's emblems of wild war, Swift-flowing from the bosom's gaping wound.
A barb of iron rankles in her breast, As thus she chants the god's command to all: "Oh, spare a beauty by true love possessed, Lest some vast after-woe upon thee fall!
"For shouldst thou win her, all thy power will fail, As from this wound flows forth the fatal gore, Or as these ashes cast upon the gale, Are scattered far and kindled never more."
And, O my Delia, the fierce prophetess Told dreadful things that on thy head should fall:-- I know not what they were--but none the less I pray my darling may escape them all.
Not for thyself do I forgive thee,