No one can hide that lover’s nod from me
those soft words spoken with a gentle sound.
Yet I’ve no lots or entrails that show gods’ will,
birdsongs don’t call to me of things to come:
Venus herself tied my arms with magic knots
and taught it me, and not without many blows.
Stop your pretence: the god inflames more fiercely
those he sees have succumbed to him unwillingly.
What use now to groom your soft tresses
and alter the shape of your hair continually,
beautify your cheeks with shining rouge,
have your nails cut by an artist’s skilled hand?
Now your dresses, your clothes are changed in vain
and in vain the tight strap squeezes the narrow feet.
She pleases him, though she comes with face untouched,
hasn’t dressed her shining hair with lingering art.
Has some old woman bewitched you with her chants,
or pallid herbs, in the silent hours of night?
Spells draw the harvest from a neighbour’s fields,
spells stop the path of the angry snake,
spells try to draw the moon down from her course,
and would, were it not for the sound of echoing bronze.
Why do I, in misery, complain that chanting harms,
alas, or herbs? Beauty needs no help from magic:
but touching of bodies hurts us, and giving
drawn-out kisses, and thigh twining with thigh.
Yet remember not to be harsh with the boy:
Venus follows sad deeds with punishment.
Don’t ask for gifts: let an ageing lover give gifts,
so that tender arms might fondle his frozen limbs.
A young man’s dearer than gold, whose bright face shines
and no harsh beard to prickle in your embrace.
Place your shining arms beneath his shoulders,
and look down on all the treasures of a king.
Venus has contrived your sleeping secretly with the boy
while he fears, and ceaselessly entwines your tender breasts,
giving wet kisses with panting breath and writhing tongues,
and printing marks on his neck with your teeth.
No stones or gems delight the girl who sleeps cold
and alone, and who’s desirable to no one.
Ah, we call back love too late and call back youth
when white-haired old age has bleached our head.
Then looks are studied: then the hair’s altered
dyes hide the years, stains from the nut’s green shell:
then we’re careful to pluck out white hairs by the root
and take away a new face with old skin removed.
Then use your time of youth while it’s in flower:
the feet aren’t slow on which it slips away.
Don’t torment Marathus: what glory in power over a boy?
Girl, be hard on the old, on the aged.
Spare the tender lad, I beg you: he’s no grave illness,
but excess of passion makes his complexion muddy.
Or, wretched, he often directs mournful complaints
at the absent one, and moistens all round with tears!
“Why scorn me? The guard could have been evaded”
he says, “the god himself gives lovers the power to deceive.
Secret love’s known to me, how to breathe quietly,
how stolen kisses are snatched without a sound:
and I can steal in, though its midnight,
and open the door noiselessly, unknown.
What use is art, if she scorns her wretched lover
and, cruel girl, flees from the bed itself?
Or if she promises, but suddenly deceives faithlessly,
and night to me is a vigil of many sorrows.
While I imagine she’s coming to me, whatever stirs
I credit with being the sound of her footfall.”
Cease to weep, boy: she’s unmoved,
and your weary eyes are swollen now with weeping.
I warn you, Pholoe, the gods hate pride,
and it’s useless feeding incense to their holy fires.
This Marathus once jeered at wretched lovers,
not knowing the god of vengeance was at his back:
they even say he often laughed at tears of grief,
and kept his lover waiting with false delays.
Now he hates all disdain, now it displeases him
whenever the door is bolted shut against him.
And you’ll be punished too, girl, unless you forsake pride.
Then how you’ll wish prayers could recall the day!
—Albius Tibullus
Tibullus 1.8, translated by A. S. Kline
