Book II
Book II Elegy I: The Readership He Desires
Book II Elegy II:
Bagoas the Servant
Book II Elegy IV:
His Susceptibility
Book II Elegy VI:
The Death of Corinna’s Pet Parrot
Book II Elegy
VII: Her Jealousy
Book II Elegy
IXa: A Reproach to Cupid
Book II Elegy
IXb: His Addiction
Book II Elegy XI:
Corinna’s Voyage
Book II Elegy
XII: His Triumph
Book II Elegy
XIII: The Abortion
Book II Elegy
XIV: Against Abortion
Book II Elegy
XVII: His Slavery
Book II Elegy
XVIII: The Death of Tragedy
Book II Elegy
XIX: Make Her Hard to Get
I, that poet Naso, born by
Pelignian waters,
also composed these, my
naughtinesses.
Here too Love commands – go
far, stay far, you puritans!
You’re not fit audience for
the erotic mode.
Let the virgin who’s not
frigid, who’s betrothed, read me,
and the inexperienced boy
unused to the touch of love:
and let some other youth,
now I’m wounded by the bow,
acknowledge the shared sign
of his passion,
and gazing long at it say:
‘what betrayal has he learnt,
this poet, that he’s written
about my misfortunes?’
I remember, I dared to speak
about celestial war
and hundred-handed Gyas –
that was enough effrontery –
with Earth herself’s fell
vengeance, and Ossa
and steep Pelion piled on
high Olympus.
And I had Jupiter, with
thunder and lightning, in hand,
the things he throws with
such effect through the sky –
my lover closed the door! I
dropped Jove and the lightning:
my genius let fall Jupiter
himself.
Jupiter, forgive me! Your
weapons were no help:
her entrance was even closed
to your mightier bolt.
I resumed my weapons, light
flattering elegies:
gentle words can soften
harsh doors.
Songs can draw down the
blood-red moon,
and call the sun’s white
stallions from their journey:
Serpents’ jaws are forced
apart by song,
and fountains flow backwards
to their source.
Doors yield to song, and the
bolt rammed home,
however hard it is, is
conquered at last by charms.
What does it profit me to
sing of swift Achilles?
what use to me one or the
other Atrides,
whoever that was who wasted
years on war and wandering,
or sad Hector dragged behind
the Thessalian horses.
but her face often praised,
the beautiful girl herself
comes for the poet, the
reward for song.
A great prize won! Bright
heroic names farewell:
your rewards are not
adequate for me!
Songs bring the beautiful
girls to my shining face,
songs that Love dictates to
me!
While I’m passing a brief,
appropriate, moment with you,
Bagoas, how anxious your
mistress is at being watched!
I saw the girl yesterday in
the light, walking there
where the portico displays
the line of Danaids.
Straightaway, since she
pleased me, I sent her a proposition.
She wrote back nervously:
‘It’s not allowed!’
And, querying why it wasn’t,
I got the reply
that your excessive annoying
care is the girl’s trouble.
O watchman, believe me, if
you’re wise, you’ll desist
from incurring hatred: we
wish those we fear would vanish.
Her husband’s also not wise:
why labour to watch
something when nothing’s
lost if you don’t?
But it humours the madman to
think that his love
who delights many, is in
fact chaste:
let your girl be given
liberty in secret,
what you give her, she’ll
repay you.
You choose to know – then
the lady’s in debt to the servant:
you’re afraid to know – it’s
alright to dissimulate.
She reads a note by herself
– think that her mother sent it!
Some unknown comes – he’ll
soon become known to you.
She pretends to go to see a
friend who isn’t ill,
it’s fine! Your judgement is
she’s ill.
If she’s late, don’t weary
yourself waiting forever,
you can snore with your head
between your knees.
Don’t ask what happens in
the temple of linen-clad Isis,
and don’t be worried by the
theatre’s arch!
One in the know constantly
takes away gains he gathers –
equally how much less is the
labour of the silent?
He pleases and lives in the
house and doesn’t feel the lash:
he’s powerful – the others
lie there a squalid crowd.
Concoct idle things to hide
true motivations:
and what satisfies her will
satisfy them both.
While her husband pulls a
face and frowns,
the lovely woman does what
she’d like to do.
Still now and then she needs
to pick a quarrel with you too,
and simulate tears and call
you a scoundrel.
You bring a charge against
her, that she can wholly explain,
and with a false accusation
you’ll hide the truth.
So your esteem and your
savings grow.
Do this and you’ll be free
in no time at all.
You see the informers with
chains around their necks?
There’s a squalid prison for
disloyal hearts.
His garrulous tongue left
Tantalus searching
for water amongst the waters
and fruit that fled.
Juno’s watchman guarded Io
too well,
and died before his time:
while she’s a goddess!
I’ve seen fetters worn on
livid legs,
from a husband’s being made
to learn of un-chastity.
The crime deserved no less.
Bad tongues are doubly evil:
the husband grieves, the
girl’s reputation is harmed.
Believe me, crimes like this
don’t please a husband,
they’re no help to you, even
if he listens.
If he’s indifferent, you
speak your words to heedless ears:
if he’s in love, your
officiousness will sadden him.
Most crime however obvious
is unproven:
his judgement always comes
to favour her.
Though he sees it himself,
he’ll believe her denials
and condemn his own
eyesight, and fool himself.
Seeing the woman’s tears,
he’ll weep himself,
and say: ‘Punish that
informer!’
Why start an unequal fight?
Beaten, you’ll be lashed,
and she’ll be sitting on the
judge’s lap.
We’re not taking to crime,
we’re not uniting to mix
poisons, no drawn dagger gleams
in my hand.
We’re looking for some safe
love-making thanks to you.
What could be more innocuous
than our prayers?
Ah me, that you, neither man
nor woman, serve the lady
you who can’t know the
mutual delights of Venus!
Whoever first cut off a
boy’s genitals, that one,
who made the wound, should
suffer it himself.
You’d be more gently
compliant, facilitate my requests,
if you’d ever glowed with
love before.
You weren’t born to ride a
horse, or use heavy weapons:
a warlike spear would not be
fitting in your hand.
Let men handle that: you can
forget manly hopes.
your camp is with your lady.
Work your service there,
you’ll benefit from her thanks:
What use would you be if you
didn’t have her?
She’s lovely, the right age
for play:
a disgrace to waste that
beauty through sheer neglect.
She could have deceived you,
however irksome you are:
Two, who want to, won’t fail
to achieve it.
Still as it was fitting to
try a request, so I’m asking,
while you’ve a good chance
of gaining a reward.
I wouldn’t dare defend my
suspect morals
or falsely move to protect
my vices.
I confess – if it’s any use
to confess a sin:
I acknowledge the foolish
guilt now in myself.
I hate to desire, but can’t
not be what I hate:
ah, what a painful burden to
throw off what you love!
I lack all power and
authority to control myself:
carried away like a boat,
swept swiftly through the water.
It’s not one kind of beauty
that excites my desires –
there’s a hundred reasons
why I’m always in love.
If it’s one with modest eyes
cast on the ground,
I burn, and her shyness sets
a trap for me:
or if it’s one who’s bold,
I’m taken, sophisticated,
giving hope of being sweetly
nimble in bed.
If she looks severe, and
strict as a Sabine,
I think she wants it, but
hides it, being noble.
If you’re learned, you
please me with rare arts:
if you’re naive, your
innocence pleases.
Then there’s the girl who
says that Callimachus’s songs
are rough beside mine – she
who I please soon pleases me.
Even she who castigates me
and my poems –
I long to endure her
critical thighs.
She walks sweetly – I like
the motion: another’s hard –
but she could be sweeter at
a man’s touch.
This one who sings divinely
and smoothly alters pitch,
I want to give stolen kisses
as she sings:
She who strikes plaintive
chords with practised fingers –
who could not love such
knowledgeable hands?
She who pleases with her
postures, and waves her arms
in rhythm, and twists her
tender body with sweet art? –
Be silent about me, who’s
enticed by everything,
but put chaste Hippolytus by
her, and he’d be Priapus!
You, who are so tall, are
like the ancient heroines
and can lie the full length
of the bed.
This one’s small size is
manageable. I’m ruined by both:
tall and short agree with my
desire.
She’s not cultured – come,
she could take up culture:
she’s well-equipped - she can display her gifts herself.
Fair ones capture me: I’m
captured by golden girls,
but Venus is still pleasing
when darkly coloured.
If dark tresses hang on a
snowy neck,
then Leda was famed for her
black hair:
If they’re golden, Aurora’s
saffron hair pleases.
My desire adapts itself to
all the stories:
Young girls entice me: older
ones move me:
she pleases with her body’s
looks, she with its form.
In short, whichever girls
one might approve of in the city,
my desire has ambitions on
them all.
No love is worth this –
away, Cupid’s quiver! –
so that death has often been
my greatest wish.
Death is my wish, when I recall your deceptions,
O girl born to be my eternal misfortune!
It wasn’t a half-erased
tablet that laid bare your acts,
no furtive gifts gave away
your crime.
Oh I wish if I were to argue
my case I couldn’t win it!
Woe is me! Why’s my story so
good?
Happy the man who can
strongly defend what he loves,
whose little friend can say
‘I didn’t do it!’
He’s harsh and exercises his
grief too much
who seeks the victor’s palm
drenched in blood.
I saw your crime myself you
wretch, sober,
when you thought I was
asleep with wine.
I saw the many messages from
those flickering eyebrows:
a good part of your speech
was in your nods.
Your eyes never silent, nor
letters under your fingers,
writing on the table with
your wine.
Effecting secret messages,
that go unseen,
the words prescribed meaning
definite things.
And then the crowd of guests
had left the table:
a few boys there left laid
out together.
Then I truly saw her locked
in sinful kisses –
tongues were entwined, that
was clear to me –
not like a sister greeting
her sober brother,
but an eager lover greeting
his sweet friend:
It’s not credible that
Phoebus would kiss Diana that way,
but Mars often does that
with his Venus.
‘What are you up to?’ I
cried, ‘spreading my joys around?
I claim jurisdiction over my
girl!
What’s yours is shared with
me, what’s mine with you –
Why has some third come into
our property?’
I said this with a sorrowful
tongue:
and a blush of shame came to
her guilty face,
as the sky is tinged red by
Tithonus’s bride,
or like a young girl seeing
her betrothed:
like roses glowing bright
among the lilies,
or when the Moon labours
with charmed horses,
or as Lydian women stain
oriental ivory
so that it’s not yellowed by
the years.
That was the colour of her
face or something like it,
and she had never looked
more beautiful.
She looked at the ground –
it became her to look down:
Sadness was in her face –
sadness was becoming.
It was as if I wanted to
tear her hair, all done up as it was,
and tear her tender cheeks,
with anger, in my passion –
But I saw her beauty, and the
strength of my arm abated:
the girl’s the weapon of her
own defence.
I who was savage a moment
ago, begged her as a suppliant
to give me no worse a set of
kisses.
She laughed, and gave them
with true spirit – such as can
counter the triple-forked
bolt of angry Jove:
I was tormented, unhappy,
lest that other felt such joy,
and I wished their quality
wasn’t as good as it was.
Also these were so much better, where had she learnt?
And something new seemed to
be added to them.
is admitted by my lips, and
mine by yours.
Nor do I grieve at that
alone – I don’t just lament
at mouths being so joined, I
lament what else is joined too:
She could have been taught
nowhere but in bed.
I don’t know which grand
master has his reward.
Parrot, the mimic, the
winged one from India’s Orient,
is dead – Go, birds, in a
flock and follow him to the grave!
Go, pious feathered ones,
beat your breasts with your wings
and mark your delicate
cheeks with hard talons:
tear out your shaggy
plumage, instead of hair, in mourning:
sound out your songs with
long piping!
Philomela, mourning the
crime of the Thracian tyrant,
the years of your mourning
are complete:
divert your lament to the
death of a rare bird –
Itys is a great but ancient
reason for grief.
All who balance in flight in
the flowing air,
and you, above others, his
friend the turtle-dove, grieve!
All your lives you were in
perfect concord,
and held firm in your
faithfulness to the end.
What the youth from Phocis
was to Orestes of Argos,
while she could be, Parrot,
turtle-dove was to you.
What worth now your loyalty,
your rare form and colour,
the clever way you altered
the sound of your voice,
what joy in the pleasure
given you by our mistress? –
Unhappy one, glory of birds,
you’re certainly dead!
You could dim emeralds
matched to your fragile feathers,
wearing a beak dyed scarlet
spotted with saffron.
No bird on earth could
better copy a voice –
or reply so well with words in
a lisping tone!
You were snatched by Envy –
you who never made war:
you were garrulous and a
lover of gentle peace.
Behold, quails live fighting
amongst themselves:
perhaps that’s why they
frequently reach old age.
Your food was little,
compared with your love of talking
you could never free your
beak much for eating.
Nuts were his diet, and
poppy-seed made him sleep,
and he drove away thirst
with simple draughts of water.
Gluttonous vultures may live
and kites, tracing spirals
in air, and jackdaws, informants
of rain to come:
and the raven detested by
armed Minerva lives too –
he whose strength can last
out nine generations:
but that loquacious mimic of
the human voice,
Parrot, the gift from the
end of the earth, is dead!
The best are always taken
first by greedy hands:
the worse make up a full
span of years.
Thersites saw Protesilaus’s
sad funeral,
and Hector was ashes while
his brothers lived.
Why recall the pious prayers
of my frightened girl for you –
prayers that a stormy south
wind blew out to sea?
The seventh dawn came with
nothing there beyond,
and Fate held an empty spool
of thread for you.
Yet still the words from his
listless beak astonished:
dying his tongue cried:
‘Corinna, farewell!’
A grove of dark holm oaks
leafs beneath an Elysian slope,
the damp earth green with
everlasting grass.
If you can believe it, they
say there’s a place there
for pious birds, from which
ominous ones are barred.
There innocuous swans browse
far and wide
and the phoenix lives there,
unique immortal bird:
There Juno’s peacock
displays his tail-feathers,
and the dove lovingly bills
and coos.
Parrot gaining a place among
those trees
translates the pious birds
in his own words.
A tumulus holds his bones –
a tumulus fitting his size –
whose little stone carries
lines appropriate for him:
‘His grave holds one who
pleased his mistress:
his speech to me was
cleverer than other birds’.
So I’m always to be accused
of some new crime?
Even if I win I hate
fighting my case so often.
If I glance up at the
heights of the marbled theatre,
you pick someone out, so you
can choose to be pained:
If some lovely girl looks at
my expressionless face,
secret messages are deduced
from its lack of expression.
If I praise someone, you try
to tear my hair out:
if I damn her, you think I’m
covering up a crime.
If my colour’s good, I’m
also cold towards you,
if pale, pronounced to be
dying for another.
And I wish I had some guilty
secret!
Those who merit punishment
take it calmly:
but you accuse me rashly
and, groundlessly believe it all,
you stop your own anger
carrying weight.
Look, pity the long-eared
ass’s fate,
continually beaten to tame
him, he goes slow!
Behold a new crime! With
that clever dresser Cypassis,
I’m reproached for defiling
the bed of our mistress.
Think better of me than
that, if I wronged you in passion,
than to joy in a common girl
with a contemptible fate!
What free man would want to
take up with a slave,
and embrace the scars on her
whipped back?
Added to which she takes
pains to dress your hair,
and a well-taught servant is
dear to you –
Of course, I’d beg it of a
maid so faithful to you!
What! So she could tell you
she’d spurned my offer?
I swear by Venus, and the
bow of her winged boy,
I won’t allow myself to be
accused of crime!
Cypassis, expert at setting
hair in a thousand styles,
worthy to adorn none but the
goddesses,
and in no way naive as I
know from our stolen meetings
suited to your mistress, but
more suited to me –
who was it informed on our
entwined bodies?
How did Corinna know about
our union?
I didn’t blush? Surely no
loose word at all
gave away knowledge of our
secret coupling?
Why did I say anyone would
be lacking in wits
if he could commit the
offence with a maidservant?
Achilles burnt for the beauty
of Briseis his slave,
Agamemnon made love to
captive Cassandra.
I’m no greater than Achilles
or Atrides:
Why should I think what
suited those heroes a crime?
Anyway, when she fixed angry
eyes on you,
I saw you blush all over
your cheeks:
if by chance you recall, it
was my great presence of mind,
to swear faithfulness by the
vast power of Venus!
You, goddess, prescribe that
the perjury of my chaste spirit
be blown out to sea on a warm southerly from the Aegean.
For my service to you repay me, with a sweet reward,
and sleep with me today, dark Cypassis!
Why, ungrateful girl do you refuse, and find new fears?
Only one of us is satisfied with your service.
If you say no, foolish girl, I’ll say what we’ve done before,
and become the betrayer of my own crime,
and the place where we were, and how often, Cypassis:
I’ll tell your mistress how many times, and in what ways!
O nothing can express my
indignation enough Cupid,
at the way you idle around
in my heart –
Why annoy me, a soldier
who’s never left your standard,
and let me be injured in my
own camp?
Why does your torch blaze,
your bow bend against friends?
There’s more glory in
beating those who fight.
What of Achilles helping
Telephus, struck by his spear,
healing his wounds quickly
with its power?
The hunter chases what runs:
leaves what he’s captured
and often searches for
another quarry.
It’s we, the crowd dedicated
to you, who feel your weapons:
your hand’s slack against
enemies that fight.
What joy has a
barbed arrow in being blunted on bone?
Love’s left my
bones stripped naked of flesh.
There are so many
men without love, so many girls! –
There you can
triumph with the greatest praise.
If Rome had not
spread her power to the wide world
she’d still to
this day be just huts roofed with straw,
The weary soldier
retires to the fields he’s given:
free of the
starting line the racehorse is put out to grass:
after long
service the warship is secretly beached,
the discharged
man’s sword is safely laid away.
Me too, who’ve
earned it so often, by loving girls:
time for me to be
discharged and live in peace.
If a god said ‘Live, and set
love aside’ I’d say ‘no’!
Girls are such sweet
misfortune.
When I’m truly weary, and
ardour has died in my spirit,
I’m driven on by who knows
what force in my poor mind.
It’s like a hard-mouthed
horse carrying off its rider
headlong, as he hauls on the
foaming bit in vain:
or a ship, suddenly, on the
point of touching land,
when a squall in harbour
drags it into the deep –
That’s how Cupid’s
inconstant winds drive me back,
and noble Love takes up his
familiar arrow.
Pierce me, boy! I’m offered
naked to your weapons:
this is your power, this is
what your strength does:
as if your arrows came here
now fired by themselves –
their quiver is scarcely
more familiar than me!
Unhappy, the man who spends
the night in slumber,
and calls sleep itself the
greatest of gifts!
Foolish, what’s sleep but
the image of frozen death!
The grave grants us enough
time for sleep.
Now my girl’s lying words
deceive me:
I still live in hope of
great delight.
Now she flatters me: now she
contrives to quarrel:
I often enjoy my girl: I’m
often shut out.
Mars gets inconstancy from
you, Cupid, his stepson:
your stepfather wields his
arms by your example.