alse closet more; nay, thou wilt not
So much as let me know I am forgot.
If thou wilt say thou didst not love me, then
Thou didst dissemble: or if love again,
Why now inconstant? Came the crime from me
That wrought this change? Sure, if no justice be
Of my side, thine must have it. Why dost hide
Thy reasons then? For me, I did so guide
Myself and actions, that I cannot see
What could offend thee, but my misery.
'Las! if thou wouldst not from thy store allow
Some rescue to my wants, at least I know
Thou couldst have writ, and with a line or two
Reliev'd my famish'd eye, and eas'd me so.
I know not what to think! and yet I hear,
Not pleas'd with this, th'art witty, and dost jeer.
Bad man! thou hast in this those tears kept back
I could have shed for thee, shouldst thou but lack.
Know'st not that Fortune on a globe doth stand,
Whose upper slipp'ry part without command
Turns lowest still? the sportive leaves and wind
Are but dull emblems of her fickle mind.
In the whole world there's nothing I can see
Will throughly parallel her ways but thee.
All that we hold hangs on a slender twine,
And our best states by sudden chance decline.
Who hath not heard of Cr[oe]sus' proverb'd gold,
Yet knows his foe did him a pris'ner hold?
He that once aw'd Sicilia's proud extent
By a poor art could famine scarce prevent;
And mighty Pompey, ere he made an end,
Was glad to beg his slave to be his friend.
Nay, he that had so oft Rome's consul been,
And forc'd Jugurtha and the Cimbrians in,
Great Marius! with much want and more disgrace,
In a foul marsh was glad to hide his face.
A Divine hand sways all mankind, and we
Of one short hour have not the certainty.
Hadst thou one day told me the time should be
When the Getes' bows, and th' Euxine I should see,
I should have check'd thy madness, and have thought
Th' hadst need of all Anticyra in a draught.
And yet 'tis come to pass! nor, though I might
Some things foresee, could I procure a sight
Of my whole destiny, and free my state
From those eternal, higher ties of fate.
Leave then thy pride, and though now brave and high,
Think thou mayst be as poor and low as I.

[OVID,] TRISTIUM, LIB. III. ELEG. III.

TO HIS WIFE AT ROME, WHEN HE WAS SICK.

Dearest! if you those fair eyes--wond'ring