This translation has been done in the play-time of many busy years. I have used what few helps I could find, especially the Mirabeau, above alluded to. The text is often doubtful. But in so rambling a writer it has not seemed to me that the laborious transpositions of later German editors were important. I have rejected as probably spurious all of the fourth book but two short pieces. While I agree with those who find the third book doubtful, I have included it. But from scholars I must ask indulgence. I have translated with latitude, considering whole phrases rather than single words. But I have always been faithful to the thought and spirit of the original, except in the few passages where euphemism was required. If the reader who has no Latin, gets a pleasing impression of Tibullus, that is what I have chiefly hoped to do. In my forth-coming translations of the _Aeneid_ I have kept stricter watch upon verbal accuracy, as is due to an author better-known and more to be revered. THEODORE C. WILLIAMS. New York, 1905. CONTENTS Preface BOOK I I. The Simple Life II. Love and Witchcraft III. Sickness and Absence IV. The Art of Conquest V. Country-Life with Delia VI. A Lover's Curses VII. A Desperate Expedient VIII. Messala IX. To Pholoe and Marathus X. To Venal Beauty XI. War is a Crime BOOK II I. A Rustic Holiday II. A Birthday Wish III. My Lady Rusticates IV. On His Lady's Avarice V. The Priesthood of Apollo VI. Let Lovers All Enlist VII. A Voice from the Tomb [Transcriber's Note: Elegy VII listed in Contents, but not in text.] BOOK III I. The New-Year's Gift II. He Died for Love III. Riches are Useless IV. A Dream from Phoebus V. To Friends at the Baths VI. A Fare-Well Toast BOOK IV XIII. A Lover's Oath _Ovid's Lament for Tibullus' Death_ BOOK I ELEGY THE FIRST THE SIMPLE LIFE Give, if thou wilt, for gold a life of toil! Let endless acres claim thy care! While sounds of war thy fearful slumbers spoil, And far-off trumpets scare! To me my poverty brings tranquil hours; My lowly hearth-stone cheerly shines; My modest garden bears me fruit and flowers, And plenteous native wines. I set my tender vines with timely skill, Or pluck large apples from the bough; Or goad my lazy steers to work my will, Or guide my own rude plough. Full tenderly upon my breast I bear A lamb or small kid gone astray; And yearly worship with my swains prepare, The shepherd's ancient way. I love those rude shrines in a lonely field Where rustic faith the god reveres, Or flower-crowned cross-road mile-stones, half concealed By gifts of travellers. Whatever fruit the kindly seasons show, Due tribute to our gods I pour; O'er Ceres' brows the tasseled wheat I throw, Or wreathe her temple door.