POETRT. 



ovid's epistle to his wife from pontus* 



BOOK J. rPISTLE iv. 



Timt's Iron hsnd ploughs furrows down my face. 

 The fiost of ag^ hath silver'd o'er my brew; 



Sorrow hath robb'd me of each manly grace, 



And sports which lately pleas'd me, please net now. 



Did you but see me thus to care conslgn'd, 



Did you but mark each ruinous decay. 

 Your Ovid scarcely could you call to mind, . 



Kis well known form no semblance would betray. 



Time, it is true, the brightest blofsom sears, 



But toil and grief have rurn'd these temples hoar; 

 For by my troubles did you count my years, 

 / Not Pylian N«stor could have number'd more. 



Yon ox, — though late the sturdiest of his breed. 



The constant labour of the field impairs j 

 And where succefsive harvests quick succeed, 

 ' E'en earth grows weak beneath the load (he bears, 



The fleetest steed that e'er the stadium crofs'd. 



Must fairer, if to ev'ry contest driv'n; 

 The bulkiest vefsel ocean ever tost, 



Not ay can bear the storms of angry heav'n. 



Thus lengthen'd woes, in sad succtfsion join'd, 

 Long, ere his date, have turn'd your lover gray J 



Rest chears the body, solaces the mind, 

 But toil unceasing wears then? both away. 



See how the son of ^son's growing fame. 

 To distant ages brighter seems to Ihine j 



But far inferior was his plausive claim. 



His boasted toils far lefs severe than mine. 



Pelias indeed to Pontus made him flee. 



Hoping himself to wear Thefsalia's crown* s 



But CsESar's mightier anger exiles me, 



Cxsar, before whose nod a woild bows down! 



Long was my voyage, distant was my port, 

 A swifter pafsage youthful glory sped; 



The chiefs of Greece to ^son's heir resort. 

 While all my friends in base desertion fled. 



* A liberty is here taken with the text, but not with the itorft 



