Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, METAMORPHOSES: BOOK 1. DAPHNE AND APOLLO, by PUBLIUS OVIDIUS NASO


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

METAMORPHOSES: BOOK 1. DAPHNE AND APOLLO, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Abate, fair fugitive, abate thy speed, / dismiss thy fears
Last Line: May thy good-will be equal to thy pow'r!
Alternate Author Name(s): Ovid
Subject(s): Apollo; Daphne (mythology); Mythology - Classical


A. ABATE, fair fugitive, abate thy speed,
Dismiss thy fears, and turn thy beauteous head;
With kind regard a panting lover view;
Less swiftly fly, less swiftly I'll pursue.
Pathless, alas! and rugged is the ground,
Some stone may hurt thee, or some thorn may wound.
D. This care is for himself, as sure as death:
One mile has put the fellow out of breath,
He'll never do, I'll lead him t'other round;
Washy he is, perhaps not over-sound.
A. You fly, alas! not knowing whom you fly;
Nor ill-bred swain, nor rusty clown, am I:
I Claros isle and Tenedos command—
D. Thank you: I would not leave my native land.
A. What is to come, by certain art I know.
D. Pish! Partridge has as fair pretence as thou.
A. Behold the beauties of my locks—
D. —A fig!—
That may be counterfeit, a Spanish wig.
Who cares for all that bush of curling hair,
Whilst your smooth chin is so extremely bare?
A. I sing—
D. —That never shall be Daphne's choice:
Syphacio had an admirable voice.
A. Of ev'ry herb I tell the mystic pow'r;
To certain health the patient I restore;
Sent for, caressed—
D. —Ours is a wholesome air;
You'd better go to town, and practise there.
For me, I've no obstructions to remove:
I'm pretty well, I thank your father Jove;
And physic is a weak ally to love.
A. For learning famed, fine verses I compose.
D. So do your brother quacks and brother beaux.
Memorials only, and reviews, write prose.
A. From the bent yew I send the pointed recd,
Sure of its aim and fatal in its speed.—
D. Then, leaving me, whom sure you wouldn't kill,
In yonder thicket exercise your skill:
Shoot there at beasts; but for the human heart,
Your cousin Cupid has the only dart.
A. Yet turn. O beauteous maid! yet deign to hear
A love-sick deity's impetuous pray'r;
O let me woo thee as thou wouldst be wooed!
D. First, therefore, don't be so extremely rude:
Don't tear the hedges down, and tread the clover
Like a hobgoblin, rather than a lover.
Next, to my father's grotto sometimes come;
At ebbing-tide he always is at home.
Read the Courant with him, and let him know
A little politics, how matters go
Upon his brother rivers, Rhine and Po.
As any maid or footman comes or goes,
Pull off your hat, and ask how Daphne does:
These sort of folks will to each other tell
That you respect me; that, you know, looks well.
Then, if you are, as you pretend, the god
That rules the day, and much upon the road,
You'll find a hundred trifles in your way,
That you may bring one home from Africa:
Some little rarity, some bird or beast,
And now and then a jewel from the east,
A lacquered cabinet, some china ware,
You have them mighty cheap at Pekin fair.
Next, nota bene, you shall never rove,
Nor take example by your father Jove.
Last, for the ease and comfort of my life,
Make me your—Lord! what startles you?—your wife.
I'm now, they say, sixteen, or something more;
We mortals seldom live above fourscore:
Fourscore—you're good at numbers—let us see,
Seventeen, suppose remaining sixty-three;
Aye, in that span of time you'll bury me.
Meantime, if you have tumult, noise and strife
(Things not abhorrent to a married life),
They'll quickly end, you see; what signify
A few odd years to you that never die?
And, after all, you're half your time away,
You know your business takes you up all day;
And, coming late to bed, you need not fear,
Whatever noise I make, you'll sleep, my dear;
Or, if a winter evening should be long,
E'en read your physic-book, or make a song.
Your steeds, your wife, diaculum, and rhyme,
May take up any honest godhead's time.
Thus, as you like it, you may love again,
And let another Daphne have her reign.
Now love or leave, my dear; retreat or follow:
I Daphne, this premised, take thee, Apollo.
And may I split into ten thousand trees,
If I give up on other terms than these.

She said; but what the am'rous god replied,
So Fate ordains, is to our search denied;
By rats, alas! the manuscript is eat,
O cruel banquet! which we all regret.
Bavius, thy labours must this work restore;
May thy good-will be equal to thy pow'r!





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