|While thou art tracing thy poem onwards [479] to the wrath of Achilles, and art giving their first arms to the heroes, after taking the oaths; I, Macer, [480] am reposing in the shade of Venus, unused to toil; and tender Love attacks me, when about to attempt a mighty subject. Many a time have I said to my mistress, "At length, away with you:" _and_ forthwith she has seated herself in my lap. Many a time have I said, "I am ashamed _of myself:" when,_ with difficulty, her tears repressed, she has said, "Ah wretched me! Now you are ashamed to love." And _then_ she has thrown her arms around my neck: and has given me a thousand kisses, which _quite_ overpowered me. I am overcome: and my genius is called away from the arms it has assumed; and I _forthwith_ sing the exploits of my home, and my own warfare. Still did I wield the sceptre: and by my care my Tragedy grew apace; [481] and for this pursuit I was well prepared. Love smiled both at my tragic pall, and my coloured buskins, and the sceptre wielded so well by a private hand. From this pursuit, too, did the influence of my cruel mistress draw me away, and Love triumphed over the Poet with his buskins. As I am allowed _to do_, either I teach the art of tender love, (alas! by my own precepts am I myself tormented:) or I write what was delivered to Ulysses in the words of Penelope, or thy tears, deserted Phyllis. What, _too_, Paris and Macareus, and the ungrateful Jason, and the parent of Hip-polytus, and Hippolytus _himself_ read: and what the wretched Dido says, brandishing the drawn sword, and what the Lesbian mistress of the Æolian lyre. How swiftly did my friend, Sabinus, return [482] from all quarters of the world, and bring back letters [483] from different spots! The fair Penelope recognized the seal of Ulysses: the stepmother read what was written by her own Hippolytus. Then did the dutiful Æneas write an answer to the afflicted Elissa; and Phyllis, if she only survives, has something to read. The sad letter came to Hypsipyle from Jason: the Lesbian damsel, beloved _by Apollo_, may give the lyre that she has vowed to Phoebus. [484] Nor, Macer, so far as it is safe for a poet who sings of wars, is beauteous Love unsung of by thee, in the midst of warfare. Both Paris is there, and the adultress, the far-famed cause of guilt: and Laodamia, who attends her husband in death. If well I know thee; thou singest not of wars with greater pleasure than these; and from thy own camp thou comest back to mine. ELEGY XIX. _He tells a husband who does not care for his wife to watch her a little more carefully._