Ovid, De Trist. Book I. El. XI. Complaining of Three Years Banishment

Condemn'd to Pontus, tir'd with endless toil, Since banish'd Ovid left his native soil, Thrice has the frozen Ister stood, and thrice The Euxine sea been cover'd o'er with ice. Ten tedious years of siege the Trojans bore; But count my sorrow, I have suffer'd more: For me alone old Chronus stops his glass, For years, like ages, slowly seem to pass: Long days diminish not my nightly care, Both night and day their equal portion share. The course of nature sure is chang'd with me, And all is endless as my misery. Do Time and Heaven their common motion keep? Or are the Fates, that spin my thread, asleep? In Euxine Pontus here I hide my face, How good the name! but, oh, how bad the place! The people round about us threaten war, Who live by spoils, and thieves or pirates are: No living thing can here protection have, Nay scarce the dead are quiet in their grave, For here are birds as well as men of prey, That swiftly snatch, unseen, the limbs away. Darts are slung at us by the neighbouring foe, Which oftentimes we gather as we go. He who dares plough (but few there are who dare) Must arm himself as if he went to war. The shepherd puts his helmet on, to keep, Not from the wolves, but enemies, his sheep: While mournfully he tunes his rural Muse, One foe the shepherd and his sheep pursues. The castle, which the safest place should be, Within from cruel tumults is not free. Oft dire contentions put me in a fright, The rude inhabitants with Grecians fight. In one abode amongst a barbarous rout I live, but when they please they thrust me out: My hatred to these brutes takes from my fear, For they are like the beasts whose skins they wear. Ev'n those who as we think were born in Greece Wrap themselves up in rugs and Persian frize; They easily each other understand, But I, alas, am forc'd to speak by hand! Ev'n to these men (if I may call them so) Who neither what is right or reason know, I a Barbarian am; hard fate to see, When I speak Latin, how they laugh at me! Perhaps they falsely add to my disgrace, Or call me wretched exile to my face. Besides, the cruel sword 'gainst Nature's laws Cuts off the innocent without a cause. The market-place, by lawless arms possest, Has slaughter-houses both for man and beast. Now, O ye Fates, 'tis time to stop my breath, And shorten my misfortunes by my death. How hard my sentence is, to live among A cut-throat, barbarous, and unruly throng! But to leave you, my friends, a harder doom, Though banish'd here, I left my heart at Rome, Alas, I left it where I cannot come! To be forbid the city, I confess, That were but just, my crime deserves no less. A place so distant from my native air Is more than I deserve, or long can bear. Why do I mourn! the fate I here attend Is a less grief than Caesar to offend!