Great Marius! with much want and more disgrace, In a foul marsh was glad to hide his face. A Divine hand sways all mankind, and we Of one short hour have not the certainty. Hadst thou one day told me the time should be When the Getes' bows, and th' Euxine I should see, I should have check'd thy madness, and have thought Th' hadst need of all Anticyra in a draught. And yet 'tis come to pass! nor, though I might Some things foresee, could I procure a sight Of my whole destiny, and free my state From those eternal, higher ties of fate. Leave then thy pride, and though now brave and high, Think thou mayst be as poor and low as I. [OVID,] TRISTIUM, LIB. III. ELEG. III. TO HIS WIFE AT ROME, WHEN HE WAS SICK. Dearest! if you those fair eyes--wond'ring--stick On this strange character, know I am sick; Sick in the skirts of the lost world, where I Breathe hopeless of all comforts, but to die. What heart--think'st thou?--have I in this sad seat, Tormented 'twixt the Sauromate and Gete? Nor air nor water please: their very sky Looks strange and unaccustom'd to my eye; I scarce dare breathe it, and, I know not how, The earth that bears me shows unpleasant now. Nor diet here's, nor lodging for my ease, Nor any one that studies a disease; No friend to comfort me, none to defray With smooth discourse the charges of the day. All tir'd alone I lie, and--thus--whate'er Is absent, and at Rome, I fancy here. But when thou com'st, I blot the airy scroll, And give thee full possession of my soul. Thee--absent--I embrace, thee only voice. And night and day belie a husband's joys. Nay, of thy name so oft I mention make That I am thought distracted for thy sake. When my tir'd spirits fail, and my sick heart Draws in that fire which actuates each part, If any say, th'art come! I force my pain, And hope to see thee gives me life again. Thus I for thee, whilst thou--perhaps--more blest, Careless of me dost breathe all peace and rest, Which yet I think not, for--dear soul!--too well Know I thy grief, since my first woes befell. But if strict Heav'n my stock of days hath spun, And with my life my error will be gone, How easy then--O Caesar!--were't for thee To pardon one, that now doth cease to be? That I might yield my native air this breath, And banish not my ashes after death. Would thou hadst either spar'd me until dead, Or with my blood redeem'd my absent head! Thou shouldst have had both freely, but O! thou Wouldst have me live to die an exile now. And must I then from Rome so far meet death, And double by the place my loss of breath? Nor in my last of hours on my own bed --In the sad conflict--rest my dying head? Nor my soul's whispers--the last pledge of life,-- Mix with the tears and kisses of a wife?