For spoils, with double risk of death the threatening seas we sail, And climb the steel-beaked ship-of-war, so mighty and so frail! The spoilers proud to boundless lands their bloody titles read, And see innumerable flocks o'er endless acres feed Fine foreign marbles they will bring; and all the city stare, While one tall column for a house a thousand oxen bear. They bind with bars the tameless sea; behind a rampart proud Their little fishes swim in calm, when wintry storms are loud. Ah! Love! Will not a Samian bowl hold all our mirth and wine? And pottery of poor Cuman clay, with love, seem fair and fine? Nay! Woe is me! Naught now but gold can please our ladies gay; And so, since Venus asks for wealth, the spoils of war must pay. My Nemesis shall roll in wealth; and promenade the town, All glittering, with my golden gifts upon her gorgeous gown. Her filmy web of Coan weave with golden broidery gleams; Her swarthy slaves the Indian sun touched with its burning beams. In rival hues to make her fair all conquered regions vie, Afric its azure must bestow, and Tyre its purple dye. O look--I tell what all men know--on that most favored lover! Once in the market-place he sat, with both his soles chalked over. BOOK III ELEGY THE FIRST THE NEW-YEAR'S GIFT Now the month of Mars beginning brings the merry season near, By our fathers named and numbered as the threshold of the year. Faithfully their custom keeping, through the wide streets to and fro, Offered at each friendly dwelling, seasonable gifts must go. O what gifts, Pierian Muses, may acceptably be poured On my own adored Neaera?--or, if not my own, adored! Song is love's best gift to beauty; gold but tempts the venal soul; Therefore, 'tis a song I send her on this amateurish scroll. Wind a page of saffron parchment round the white papyrus there, Polish well with careful pumice every silvery margin fair: On the dainty little cover, for a title to the same Let her bright eyes read the blazon of a love-sick poet's name. Let the pair of horn-tipped handles be embossed with colors gay, For my book must make a toilet, must put on its best array. By Castalia's whispering shadow, by Pieria's vocal spring, By yourselves, O listening Muses, who did prompt the song I sing,-- Fly, I pray you, to her chamber, and my pretty booklet bear, All unmarred and perfect give it, every color fresh and fair: Let her send you back, confessing, if our hearts together burn; Or, if she but loves me little, or will nevermore return. Utter first, for she deserves it, many a golden wish and vow; Then deliver this true message, humbly, as I speak it now. 'Tis a gift, O chaste Neaera, from thy husband yet to be. Take the trifle, though a "brother" now is all he seems to thee.