_He tells Macer that he ought to write on Love._
|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.