If you were to wound my wretched love, why did you give
me your word before the gods, only to break it secretly?
Ah sadly, even if perjury is hidden at first,
punishment will come later, on silent feet.
Spare him, gods: it’s right that beauty should offend
your divinity, once, and go unpunished.
The farmer yokes his bulls to the useful plough
and works the land hard in search of profit:
fixed stars guide the swaying ships, through seas
obedient to the winds, in search of profit.
My lad’s captivated by gifts. But may the god
turn those gifts to ashes or running water.
Soon he’ll make amends: dust will take his beauty
and his hair will be entangled by the winds:
his face will be burned, his tresses burned by the sun,
and the long road will blister his tender feet.
How many times have I warned him: “Don’t let gold
sully your beauty: many evils often lurk beneath the gold.
Venus is bitter and difficult with anyone
who violates love, captivated by wealth.
Scorch my head with fire instead, attack my body
with steel, and scar my back with the twisted lash.
Don’t hope to conceal it when you’re planning sin:
the god knows, who forbids wrongs to be hidden.
The god himself has often allowed a silent servant
to babble freely due to strong drink.
The god himself has ordered a voice subdued by sleep
to speak and tell unwillingly of things better buried.”
This I said to you: now I’m ashamed that I wept
as I spoke, and stretched myself out at your tender feet.
Then you swore to me you’d not sell your loyalty
for measures of rich gold nor for jewels,
not if Campania’s land was given you as a prize,
or the Falernian fields that Bacchus cares for.
Those words could have robbed me of thinking the stars
shine in the sky, and rivers flow down to the sea.
You even wept: but I unskilled in deceit, fondly
wiped the wetness continually from your cheeks.
What might I do if you were not yourself in love
with a girl: I beg she might be fickle, given your example.
Oh how often, your friend indeed, I carried the bright light
at night, so no one should be aware of your words.
Often, through my doing, she came when unexpected
and hid herself, veiled, behind the closed doors.
Then I was lost, sad wretch, foolishly trusting in love:
now I might be warier of your snares.
My stunned heart even sang your praises:
but now I’m ashamed for myself and the Muses.
May Vulcan scorch those songs now, with swift fire,
and the river wash them away in its clear waters.
Go far off from here, you whose aim is to sell your beauty
and to return with a great handful of gifts.
And you who dare to corrupt the boy with rewards,
let your wife, unpunished, mock with her constant intrigues,
and when she’s tired her lover with their secret doings,
let her lie sleepily with you, with the sheet between.
Let there always be strange traces in your bed
and your house always be wide open to lovers:
don’t let it be said her wanton sister drinks more
in her cups, or wears out more men.
They say she often leads on the party with wine
till the wheels of Lucifer rise to call up the day:
no one spends the night better than she does,
or better arranges the various modes of leisure.
And your wife has learnt it all: and you don’t notice,
idiot, when she moves her body with unusual art.
Do you think she dresses her hair for you,
combs her fine tresses with the thin-toothed steel?
Is it your beauty persuades her to circle her arms with gold
and appear abroad dressed in Tyrian robes?
She wants to seem beautiful for a certain boy, not you:
she’d give up all your house and things for him.
She does it not from vice, but the sensitive girl shrinks
from a body marred by gout and an old man’s arms.
Yet my boy has slept with him: now I’ll believe
the lad could join in union with a savage beast.
Mad boy, did you dare to sell my caresses to others,
and carry my kisses to other men as well?
Weep then when another lad has captivated me
and spends his proud reign in your kingdom.
I’ll joy then in your punishment. And to deserving Venus
a golden-palm tree shall be raised, marking my fate:
TIBULLUS WHOM THE GODDESS FREED FROM FAITHLESS LOVE
OFFERS THIS AND ASKS HER TO BE GRATEFUL TO HIM IN SPIRIT
—Albius Tibullus
Tibullus 1.9, translated by A. S. Kline
