Vnto Caesar he excuses
Himselfe, and condemnes his Muses:
And many Poets doth recite,
Who in their times did loosely write;
Yet in that age were never sent,
Though like in fault, to banishment.
WHat have I to doe with you my unhappy book?
On whō as on my ruine I must look.
Why doe I returne unto my Muse againe,
[...] not enough one punishment to obtaine?
It was my verse that first did overthrow me,
And made both men and women wish to know me.
It was my verse that made great Caesar deeme
My life to be such as my verse did seeme.
Amongst my chiefest faults I must rehearse,
My love of studdy, and my looser verse:
In which while I my fruitlesse labour spent,
I gained nothing but sad banishment.
Those learned Sisters I should therefore hate,
Who their adorers still doe ruinate.
Yet such my madnesse is, that folly armes me
To strike my foore against that store that harmes me;
Even as some beaten fencer after tries
To regaine honour by a second prize.
Or as some torne ship that newly came
To shoare, yet after stands to Sea againe;
[Page]Perhaps as
Telephus was healed by a sword,
So that which hurt me shall like helpe affoord:
And that my Verse his mov'd wrath may appease,
Since verses have great power the gods to please.
Caesar hath bidden each Italian Dame,
To sing some verses to great Opis name:
And unto Phoebus when he set forth playes
To him, once seene within an age of dayes;
So may my verse, great Caesars now obtaine,
By examples to appease thy wrath againe.
Iust is thy wrath, which I will ne're deny,
Such shamefull words, from my mouth do not fly:
And this offence makes me for pardon cry,
Since faults are objects of thy clemency.
Iove would be soone disarm'd, if he should send
His thunderbolts as oft as men offend.
Now though his thunders make the world to feare,
It breakes the Clouds, and makes the ayre more cleare:
Whom therefore father of the gods we name,
Than Iove none greater doth the world containe.
Thou Pater patriae too art call'd, then be
Like to those gods in name and clemencie:
And so thou art, for no more moderate hand,
Could hold the raines of Empire and command.
Thy enemy once overcome in field
Thou pardonst, which he victor would not yeeld.
And some thou didst with honours dignifie,
That have attempted gainst thy Majestie.
Thy warres on one day did begin and cease,
While both sides brought their offerings unto peace:
That as the Victor in the vanquisht Foe,
The vanquisht in the Victor gloried so.
My case is better, since I ne're did joyne
With those who did in armes gainst thee combine:
[Page]Yet now this house which by my Muse was rais'd,
Is by one fault of mine againe disgrac'd:
Yet fallen so as it it selfe may reare,
If Caesars wrath would once more mild appeare:
Whose mercy in my sentence was exprest,
[...]a [...]e short of that my feare did first suggest.
Whose anger reacht not to this life of ours,
But with great mildnesse us'd thy Princely powers:
And thou my forfeit goods to me didst give,
And with my life didst grant me meanes to live.
Nor by the Senates sentence was I sent,
Or private judgement into banishment:
But didst thy selfe pronounce those heavy words,
Whose execution full revenge affords.
Besides, thy edict forcing my exile,
[...]id with great favour my late fault enstile:
Whereby I am not banisht, but confind,
And misery is in gentle words assignd.
For there's no punishment though ne're so strickt,
Can more than thy displeasure me afflict.
Yet sometimes angry gods appeased are,
And when the clouds are gon, the day is faire.
I have seene the Ealme loaden with Vines againe,
That had before beene strooken by Ioves flame.
Therefore Ile hope, since thou canst not deny,
To grant me this even in my misery.
Thy mercy makes me hope, till I reflect
Vpon my fault which doth all hope reject.
And as the rage of seas by winds incens'd,
Is not with equall fury still commenc'd:
But that sometimes a quiet calme it hath,
And seemes to have laid by his former wrath:
Even so my various thoughts doe make me fare,
Now calm'd by hope, then troubled with despaire.
[Page]By those same gods that grant thee long to raigne,
That thou mayst still maintaine the Roman [...] name:
And by thy Countrey happy in thy fate,
Where I a subject were of thine of late:
May so the City render thee due love,
For thy great acts which do thy mind approve.
So may thy Livia live here many yeares,
Who onely worthy of thy love appeares:
Whom nature kept for thee, else there had beene,
None worthy to have beene thy Royall Queene.
So may thy Sonne grow up, and with his Father,
Rule this same Empire happily together.
And by his acts and thine which time can't hide,
May both your ofsprings so be stellified.
May victory so accustom'd to thy Tent,
Come to his colours, and herselfe present:
And fly about him with displayed wings,
While she a Lawrell wreath to crowne him brings.
To whom thou dost thy warres command resigne,
And givest him that fortune that was thine:
While thou thy selfe at home in peace dost raigne,
Thy other selfe doth forraine warres maintaine.
May he returne a victor o're his foe,
And on his plumed horse in tryumph goe.
Oh spare me therefore, and do now lay by,
Thy thunder which hath bred my misery.
Spare me thou Pater patriae, let that name,
Give me some hope to please thee once againe.
I sue not to repeale my banishment,
Though unto greater sutes the gods assent.
For if thou wouldst some milder place assigne
Of exile, it would ease this griefe of minde.
For here I suffer even the worst of woes,
While I do live amongst the barbarous foes:
Being sent unto Danubius sevenfold streame,
[Page]Of vices knowledge she may learne the skill.
Let her the Annales take (though most severe)
The fault of Ilia will thereby appeare.
And in the Aeneads reade as in the other,
How wanton Venus was Aeneas mother.
And I will shew beneath in every kind,
That there's no verse but may corrupt the mind.
Yet every booke is not for this to blame,
Since nothing profits, but may hurt againe.
Than fire what better? yet he that doth desire,
To burne a house, doth arme himselfe with fire.
Health giving physicke, health doth oft empaire,
Some hearbs are wholesome, and some poyson are.
The theefe and traveller swords weare, to the end,
Th'one may assault, the other may defend.
Though eloquence should pleade the honest cause,
It may defend the guilty by the lawes.
So if my verse be read with a good mind,
Thou shalt be sure in it no hurt to finde.
He therefore erres who led by selfe conceit,
Doth misinterpret what so e're I write,
Why are there Cloisters? wherein maids do walke,
That with their Lovers they may meete and talke.
The Temple though most sacred, let her shunne,
That with an evill mind doth thither come.
For in Ioves temple her thoughts will suggest,
How many maids by Iove have beene opprest:
And thinke in Iunoe's temples when she's praying,
How Iuno injur'd was by Ioves oft straying,
And Pallas seene, she thinkes some faulty birth,
Made her to hide Ericthon borne of earth:
If she come to Marses temple, o're the gate,
There standeth Venus with her cunning Mate.
In Isis temple she revolveth how,
[Page]Poore
Io was transform'd into a Cow.
And something then her wandring fancy moves,
To thinke of Venus and Anchises loves.
Iasus and Ceres next her thoughts encite,
And pale Endimion the Moones favorite:
For though these statues were for prayer assign'd,
Yet every thing corrupts an evill mind:
And my first leafe bids them not to reade that Art,
Which I to Harlots onely did impart.
And since in maydens it is thought a crime,
For to presse farther than the Priests assigne:
Is she not faulty then, who not forbeares
To reade my verses, prohibited chast eares?
Matrons to view those pictures are content,
Which various shapes of venery present:
And Vestall Virgins do peruse the same,
For which the Author doth receive no blame.
Yet why did I that wanton veine approve?
Why doth my Booke perswade them unto love?
It was my fault which I do here confesse,
My wit and judgement did therein transgresse.
Why did not I of Troyes sad ruine tell,
(That vexed theame) which by the Graecians fell.
Or Thebes seven Gates which severally kept,
Where by mutuall wounds those brothers dye and slept.
An ample subject warlike Rome afforded,
Whose acts I might have piously recorded.
And though great Caesars deeds abroad are knowne,
Yet by my verse some part I might have showne:
For as the Sunnes bright rayes do draw the sight,
So might thy acts my willing Muse encite.
Yet 'twas no fault to plough a little field,
Knowing that theame doth fertile matter yeeld.
For though the Cock-boate through the Lake do rowe.
[Page]Whose treacherous Hostesse sought his life in vaine.
What of Hermione or the Arcadian maid,
Phoebe whose course the Latmian Lover staid.
Or what of Danae, by Iove a mother growne,
And Hercules got in two nights joynd in one.
To these adde Iole, Pyrrhus, and that boy,
Sweete Hylas, with Paris, firebrand unto Troy.
And should I here recite loves tragicke flames,
My booke would scarce containe their very names.
Thus Tragedies to wanton laughter bend,
And many shamefull words in them they blend.
Some blamelesse have Achilles acts defac't,
And by soft measures have his deeds disgrac't.
Though Aristides his owne faults compil'd,
Yet Aristides was not straight exil'd.
Eubius did write an impure history,
And does describe unwholesome venerie:
Nor he that Sybarin luxuries composed,
Nor he that his owne sinfull acts disclosed.
These in the libraries by some bounteous hand,
To publike use doe there devoted stand.
By strangers pens I neede not seeke defence,
Our owne bookes with such liberty dispence:
For though grave Ennius of warres tumults writ,
Whose artlesse workes doe shew an able wit:
The cause of fire Lucretius doth explaine,
And how three causes did this world frame:
Wanton Catullus yet his Muse did taske,
To praise his mistris, whom he then did maske.
Vnder the name of Lesbia, and so strove,
In verse to publish his owne wanton love.
And with like licence Calvus too assaies,
For to set forth his pleasure divers wayes,
Why should I mention Memn [...]as wanton vaine?
[Page]Who to each filthy act doth give a name;
And Cinna striving by his verse to please:
Cornificus may be well rankt with these,
And he that did commend to after fame,
His love disguised by Metellus name.
And he that sailed for the Fleece of gold,
His secret thefts of love doth oft unfold.
Hortensius too, and Servius writ as bad,
Who'd thinke my fault so great examples had?
Sisenna, Aristides workes translates,
And oft in wanton jests expatiates.
For praising Lycoris none doth Gallus blame,
If that hls tongue in wine he could containe.
Tibullus writes that womens oathes are wind,
Who can with outward shewes their husbands blind.
Teaching them how their keepers to beguile,
While he himselfe is cosen'd by that wile.
That he would take occasion for to try
Her ring, that he might touch her hand thereby.
By private tokens he would talke sometime,
And on the table draw a wanton signe:
Teaching what oyles that blewnesse shall expell,
Which by much kissing on their lips doth dwell.
And unto husbands does strickt rules commend,
If they be honest, wives will not offend.
And when the dog doth barke, to know before,
That 'tis their Lover that stands at the doore.
And many notes of love-thefts he doth leave,
And teacheth wives their husbands to deceave.
Yet is Tibullus read and famous growne,
And unto thee (great Caesar) he was knowne.
And though Propertius did like precepts give,
Yet his cleere fame doth still unstained live.
To these did I succeede, for Ile suppresse,
[Page]Than where he brings him to Queene
Dido's bed.
Yet in his youth he did commend faire Phillis,
And sports himselfe in praising Amorillis.
And though I formerly in that same vaine
Offended, yet I now do beare the blame.
I had writ verses, when before thee I,
Amongst the other horsemen passed by:
And now my age doth even beare the blame,
Of those things which my younger yeeres did frame.
My faulty bookes are now reveng'd at last,
And I am punisht for a fault that's past.
Yet all my workes are not so light and vaine,
Sometimes I lanch'd into the deeper maine.
And in six bookes Romes Holydayes have shew'd,
Where with the Month each Volumne doth conclude.
And to thy sacred name did dedicate
That worke, though left unperfect by my fate.
Besides, I stately Tragedies have writ,
And with high words the Tragicke stile did fit.
Besides, of changed shapes my Muse did chant,
Though they my last life-giving hand did want.
And would thy anger were but so appeas'd,
As that to reade my verse thou wouldst be pleas'd:
My verse, where from the infant birth of things,
My Muse her worke unto thy owne time brings.
Thou shouldst behold the strength of every line,
Wherein I strive to praise both thee and thine.
Nor are my verses mingled so with gall,
As that my lines should be Satyricall.
Amongst the vulgar people none yet found,
Themselves once toucht; my Muse my selfe doth wound,
Therefore each generous mind I do beleeve,
Will not rejoyce, but at my ill fate grieve:
No [...] yet will triumph o're my wretched state,
[Page]Who ne're was proud even in my better fate.
O therefore let these reasons change thy minde,
That in distresse I may thy favour finde:
Not to returne, though that perhaps may be,
When thou in time at last maist pardon me.
But I intreat thee to remove me hence,
To safer exile fitting my offence.