What you read, o greatest poet of great kings, comes all the way from the unshorn Getis, Severus.
Whose name until now that my books have kept silent, if only you permit to speak the truth, I am ashamed.
§4.2.5orba tamen numeris cessavit epistula numquam §4.2.6ire per alternas officiosa vices, §4.2.7carmina sola tibi memorem testantia curam §4.2.8non data sunt.
Yet a letter, bereft of meters, never ceased to go in dutiful turn through reciprocal exchanges, only poems testifying to my mindful care for you were not given.
quid enim, quae facis ipse, darem?
For why should I give what you yourself make?
Who would give honey to Aristaeus, who Falernian wines to Bacchus, grains to Triptolemus, fruits to Alcinous?
You have a fertile heart, and among those who inhabit Helicon that harvest comes forth more abundantly to no one.
§4.2.13mittere ad hunc carmen, frondes erat addere silvis §4.2.14haec mihi cunctandi causa. Severe, fuit.
To send a poem to such a man was to add leaves to the woods; this was the cause of my delaying, Severus.
Yet my talent does not respond to me as before, but I plow a dry shore to be spread by the plowshare.
§4.2.17scilicet ut limus venas excaecat in undis, §4.2.18laesaque suppresso fonte resistit aqua, §4.2.19pectora sic mea sunt limo vitiata malorum, §4.2.20et carmen vena pauperiore fluit.
Just as mud blinds the veins in the waters, and the damaged water stops when its spring is suppressed, so my heart has been spoiled by the mud of misfortunes, and my poem flows from a poorer vein.
§4.2.21si quis in hac ipsum terra posuisset Homerum, §4.2.22esset, crede mihi, factus et ille Getes.
If anyone had placed Homer himself in this land, believe me, even he would have been made a Getan.
Grant pardon to me who confesses: I have also loosened the reins on my studies, and letters are rarely drawn by my fingers.
§4.2.25impetus ille sacer, qui vatum pectora nutrit, §4.2.26qui prius in nobis esse solebat, abest, §4.2.27vix venit ad partes, vix sumptae Musa tabellae §4.2.28inponit pigras paene coacta manus,
That sacred impulse which nourishes the hearts of poets, which previously used to be in me, is absent; the Muse scarcely comes to her part, and, almost forced, she scarcely places her sluggish hands upon the tablets she has taken up.
§4.2.29parvaque, ne dicam scribendi nulla voluptas §4.2.30est mihi, nec numeris nectere verba iuvat, §4.2.31sive quod hinc fructus adeo non cepimus ullos, §4.2.32principium nostri res sit ut ista mali: §4.2.33sive quod in tenebris numerosos ponere gestus, §4.2.34quodque legas nulli scribere carmen, idem est.
And I have little, not to say no, pleasure in writing, nor does it please me to bind words in meters, whether because we have received no fruits from this source, so that that activity is the beginning of my misfortune, or because to perform rhythmic gestures in the dark, and to write a poem for no one to read, is the same thing.
A listener excites study, and praised talent grows, and glory has an immense spur.
§4.2.37hic mea cui recitem nisi flavis scripta Corallis, §4.2.38quasque alias gentes barbarus Hister habet?
To whom should I recite my writings here, except to the blond Coralli, and whatever other tribes the barbarian Hister holds?
But what should I do alone, and with what material should I destroy my unhappy leisure, and steal away the day?
§4.2.41nam quia nec vinum, nec me tenet alea fallax, §4.2.42per quae clam tacitum tempus abire solet, §4.2.43nec me, quod cuperem, si per fera bella liceret, §4.2.44oblectat cultu terra novata suo, §4.2.45quid, nisi Pierides, solacia frigida, restant, §4.2.46non bene de nobis quae meruere deae?
For since neither wine nor the deceitful die holds me, through which silent time is accustomed to pass away secretly, nor does the land renewed by its cultivation delight me, which I would desire if it were permitted through fierce wars, what remains except the Pierides, cold consolations, goddesses who have not deserved well of me?
§4.2.47at tu, cui bibitur felicius Aonius fons, §4.2.48utiliter studium quod tibi cedit ama, §4.2.49sacraque Musarum merito cole, quodque legamus, §4.2.50huc aliquod curae mitte recentis opus.
But you, by whom the Aonian spring is drunk more happily, love the study which turns out usefully for you, and duly worship the sacred rites of the Muses, and that we may read, send here some work of your recent care.