The Poet deliberates whether he shall continue to write Elegies, or whether he shall turn to Tragedy.

There stands an ancient grove, and one uncut for many a year; 'tis worthy of belief that a Deity inhabits that spot. In the midst there is a holy spring, and a grotto arched with pumice; and on every side the birds pour forth their sweet complaints. Here, as I was walking, protected by the shade of the trees, I was considering upon what work my Muse should commence. Elegy came up, having her perfumed hair wreathed; and, if I mistake not, one of her feet was longer than the other. 501 Her figure was beauteous; her robe of the humblest texture, her garb that of one in love; the fault of her foot was one cause of her gracefulness.

Ruthless Tragedy, too, came with her mighty stride; on her scowling brow were her locks; her pall swept the ground. Her left hand held aloft the royal sceptre; the Lydian buskin 502 was the high sandal for her feet. And first she spoke; "And when will there be an end of thy loving? O Poet, so slow at thy subject matter! Drunken revels 503 tell of thy wanton course of life; the cross roads, as they divide in their many ways, tell of it. Many a time does a person point with his finger at the Poet as he goes along, and say, 'That, that is the man whom cruel Love torments.' Thou art talked of as the story of the whole City, and yet thou dost not perceive it; while, all shame laid aside, thou art boasting of thy feats. 'Twere time to be influenced, touched by a more mighty inspiration; 505 long enough hast thou delayed; commence a greater task. By thy subject thou dost cramp thy genius; sing of the exploits of heroes; then thou wilt say, 'This is the field that is worthy of my genius.' Thy Muse has sportively indited what the charming fair may sing; and thy early youth has been passed amidst its own numbers. Now may I, Roman Tragedy, gain a celebrity by thy means; thy conceptions will satisfy my requirements."

Thus far did she speak; and, supported on her tinted buskins, three or four times she shook her head with its flowing locks. The other one, if rightly I remember, smiled with eyes askance. Am I mistaken, or was there a branch of myrtle in her right hand? "Why, haughty Tragedy," said she, "dost thou attack me with high-sounding words? And canst thou never be other than severe? Still, thou thyself hast deigned to be excited in unequal numbers! 506 Against me hast thou strived, making use of my own verse. I should not compare heroic measures with my own; thy palaces quite overwhelm my humble abodes. I am a trifler; and with myself, Cupid, my care, is a trifler too; I am no more substantial myself than is my subject-matter. Without myself, the mother of wanton Love were coy; of that Goddess do I show myself the patroness 507 and the confidant. The door which thou with thy rigid buskin canst not unlock, the same is open to my caressing words. And yet I have deserved more power than thou, by putting up with many a thing that would not have been endured by thy haughtiness.

"Through me Corinna learned how, deceiving her keeper, to shake the constancy of the fastened door, 508 and to slip away from her couch, clad in a loose tunic, 509 and in the night to move her feet without a stumble. Or how often, cut in the wood, 510 have I been hanging up at her obdurate doors, not fearing to be read by the people as they passed! I remember besides, how, when sent, I have been concealed in the bosom of the handmaid, until the strict keeper had taken his departure. Still further—when thou didst send me as a present on her birthday 511 —but she tore me to pieces, and barbarously threw me in the water close by. I was the first to cause the prospering germs of thy genius to shoot; it has, as my gift, that for which she is now asking thee."

They had now ceased; on which I began: "By your own selves, I conjure you both; let my words, as I tremble, be received by unprejudiced ears. Thou, the one, dost grace me with the sceptre and the lofty buskin; already, even by thy contact with my lips, have I spoken in mighty accents. Thou, the other, dost offer a lasting fame to my loves; be propitious, then, and with the long lines unite the short.

"Do, Tragedy, grant a little respite to the Poet. Thou art an everlasting task; the time which she demands is but short." Moved by my entreaties, she gave me leave; let tender Love be sketched with hurried hand, while still there is time; from behind 514 a more weighty undertaking presses on.