Mappemonde mettant en évidence la Roumanie et l’Italie.

The Tristia and the Epistulae ex Ponto, or Rome on the Shores of the Black Sea

Trans­lated from French

Once upon a time, dur­ing the reign of Au­gus­tus, there lived a man who could be­lieve him­self blessed: Pub­lius Ovid­ius Naso, known as Ovid. A fash­ion­able poet in the golden age of Latin po­et­ry, lu­sor amo­rum (singer of loves), his play­ful pen had con­quered Rome and his fa­cil­ity in verse-mak­ing bor­dered on the prodi­gious: “I tried to write in prose, but the words came to fit the me­ter so per­fectly that what I wrote was verse.” For­tune, birth, il­lus­tri­ous friends, a house ad­join­ing the Capi­tol—noth­ing was lack­ing for this Ro­man knight who en­joyed a life more se­cure and com­fort­able than ev­er.

Yet one morn­ing in the year 8 of our era, when Rome awoke, sin­is­ter news coursed through the streets: the cher­ished child of the mus­es, then fifty years old, had just de­parted un­der im­pe­rial es­cort. Not for some golden re­treat on a clement shore, but for a relegatio (house ar­rest)1The relegatio (house ar­rest), though re­sem­bling exilium (ex­ile), was legally dis­tinct: it en­tailed nei­ther loss of cit­i­zen­ship nor con­fis­ca­tion of prop­er­ty. Ovid, who had been granted mercy on both counts, was care­ful to spec­ify that it was by abuse that his con­tem­po­raries called him an ex­ile: quippe rel­e­ga­tus, non ex­ul, di­cor in illo (it is not said that I am ex­iled, but only rel­e­gat­ed). But what good was ob­serv­ing a dis­tinc­tion he made only as a point of hon­or? He him­self freed him­self from it: a pa­tria fugi vic­tus et exul ego (van­quished and fugi­tive, I see my­self ex­iled from my home­land); exul eram (I was in ex­ile). in Tomis2Pre­sen­t-day Con­stanța in Ro­ma­nia., a glacial town at the ex­treme edge of the em­pire, on the in­hos­pitable shores of the Black Sea.3Bid­ding a fi­nal farewell to the Capi­tol, the ex­ile pro­nounced these adieus that Goethe would make his own at the mo­ment of his de­par­ture from the Eter­nal City: “Great Gods who in­habit this au­gust tem­ple so near to my home, and whom my eyes shall see no more; […] you whom I must leave, […] dis­charge me, I be­seech you, from Cae­sar’s ha­tred; this is the only grace I ask in de­part­ing. Tell that di­vine man what er­ror se­duced me, and make him know that my fault was never a crime”.

The Mystery of His Disgrace

What was the cause of this relegatio with­out tri­al, by Au­gus­tus’s will alone, and what rea­son did this prince have for de­priv­ing Rome and his court of so great a poet to con­fine him among the Getae? This is what we do not know and shall never know. Ovid evokes a car­men et er­ror (a poem and an im­pru­dence), mur­mur­ing enig­mat­i­cal­ly:

“Ah! why did I see what I should not have seen? Why have my eyes be­come guilty? Why, fi­nal­ly, through my im­pru­dence, have I come to know what I should never have known?”

Ovid. Les Élé­gies d’O­vide pen­dant son exil [t. I, Élé­gies des Tris­tes] (The Ele­gies of Ovid dur­ing his ex­ile [vol. I, Ele­gies of the Tris­ti­a]), trans. from Latin by Jean Marin de Kervil­lars. Paris: d’Houry fils, 1723.

If The Art of Love, pub­lished a decade ear­lier, was the carmen or of­fi­cial pre­text, the error or true fault re­mains an enigma sealed in the po­et’s tomb:

“Ovid’s crime was in­con­testably to have seen some­thing shame­ful in Oc­tavius’s fam­ily […]. The learned have not de­cided whether he saw Au­gus­tus with a young boy […]; or whether he saw some equerry in the arms of the em­press Livia, whom Au­gus­tus had mar­ried when preg­nant by an­oth­er; or whether he saw this em­peror Au­gus­tus oc­cu­pied with his daugh­ter or grand­daugh­ter; or fi­nally whether he saw this em­peror Au­gus­tus do­ing some­thing worse, torva tuen­tibus hir­cis [un­der the fierce gaze of goat­s].”

Voltaire. Œu­vres com­plètes de Voltaire, vol. 45B, […] D’Ovide, de Socrate […] (Com­plete Works of Voltaire, vol. 45B, […] On Ovid, on Socrates […]). Ox­ford: Voltaire Foun­da­tion, 2010.

So let us for­get the nu­mer­ous and strange hy­pothe­ses of those who wish at any cost to di­vine a se­cret two mil­len­nia old. It suf­fices to know that, in the throes of ex­ile, in the sobs of iso­la­tion, Ovid found no other re­source than his po­et­ry, and that he em­ployed it en­tirely to mol­lify an em­peror whose ran­cor he had at­tract­ed. “The Gods some­times al­low them­selves to be moved,” he told him­self. From this were born the Tristia4Re­jected forms:
The Five Books of Sor­rows.
Tris­tium libri quinque (V).
De Tristibus libri quinque (V). and the Epis­tu­lae ex Ponto5Re­jected forms:
Let­ters from Pon­tus.
Ele­gies writ­ten in the prov­ince of Pon­tus.
The Four Books of Epis­tles writ­ten in the prov­ince of Pon­tus.
Pon­ti­cae epis­to­lae.
De Ponto libri quatuor (IV)..

Chronicle of an Eternal Winter: The Drama of Tomis

Ovid’s ele­gies dur­ing his ex­ile are the jour­nal of a man lost far from his own, far from a civ­i­liza­tion of which he was once the most ami­able rep­re­sen­ta­tive; a long lamen­ta­tion ad­dressed to his wife, to his friends re­main­ing in Rome, and to an im­pla­ca­ble power from which he awaits clemency in vain. Tomis presents it­self in the guise of a “land full of bit­ter­ness,” for­ever bat­tered by winds and hail of an eter­nal win­ter, and where even wine, “pet­ri­fied by cold,” freezes into ice that must be cut with an axe. The poet feels him­self an ab­so­lute stranger there; a pris­oner un­learn­ing Latin amid bar­barous words and the fright­ful cries of the Getae:

“they con­verse with one an­other in a lan­guage com­mon to them; but I can make my­self un­der­stood only through ges­tures and signs; I pass here for a bar­bar­ian, and [the­se] im­per­ti­nent Getae laugh at Latin words.”

Ovid. Les Élé­gies d’O­vide pen­dant son exil [t. I, Élé­gies des Tris­tes] (The Ele­gies of Ovid dur­ing his ex­ile [vol. I, Ele­gies of the Tris­ti­a]), trans. from Latin by Jean Marin de Kervil­lars. Paris: d’Houry fils, 1723.

Facing Adversity

Where did Ovid draw the nec­es­sary courage to bear such cruel ad­ver­si­ty? In writ­ing:

“[If you] ques­tion me about what I do here, I will tell you that I oc­cupy my­self with stud­ies ap­par­ently of lit­tle use, and which nev­er­the­less have their util­ity for me; and if they served only to make me for­get my mis­for­tunes, it would not be a medi­ocre ad­van­tage: too happy if, in cul­ti­vat­ing so ster­ile a field, I de­rive from it at least some fruit.”

Ovid. Les Élé­gies d’O­vide pen­dant son ex­il, t. II, Élé­gies pon­tiques (The Ele­gies of Ovid dur­ing his ex­ile, vol. II, Pon­tic Elegies), trans. from Latin by Jean Marin de Kervil­lars. Paris: d’Houry, 1726.

More­over, the for­mer Ro­man dandy has not en­tirely dis­ap­peared: el­e­gance, re­fined traits, com­par­isons more in­ge­nious than solid per­sist, some­times to ex­cess. Quin­til­ian al­ready judged him less oc­cu­pied with his own mis­for­tunes than as an am­a­tor in­genii sui (lover of his own ge­nius). Ac­cord­ing to Seneca the El­der, Ovid knew “what was ex­u­ber­ant in his verses,” but ac­com­mo­dated him­self to it: “He said that a face was some­times made much pret­tier by a beauty mark.” This con­stancy in giv­ing some turn to his thoughts, some “beauty mark,” in the French man­ner—“one would al­most say he was born among us,” notes the trans­la­tor Jean Marin de Kervil­lars—is the ul­ti­mate mark of his per­son­al­i­ty, the avowed re­fusal to let dis­tance from the cap­i­tal an­ni­hi­late the artist. And af­ter hav­ing so of­ten de­scribed this re­mote­ness as a kind of death, he ends by find­ing Rome on the shores of the Black Sea, con­clud­ing: “the coun­try where fate has placed me must serve as Rome for me. My un­for­tu­nate muse con­tents her­self with this the­ater […]: such is the good plea­sure of a pow­er­ful God.”6More re­signed than re­solved, he did not go so far as to in­scribe on his door­way’s lin­tel, as Hugo would, EX­IL­IUM VITA EST (EX­ILE IS LIFE or LIFE IS AN EX­ILE).

To Go Further

Around the Epistulae ex Ponto

Citations

“Cer­nis ut in duris – et quid bove fir­mius? – arvis
For­tia tau­ro­rum cor­pora fran­gat opus.
Quae numquam vacuo solita est ces­sare no­vali
Fructibus ad­siduis lassa senescit hu­mus.
Oc­cidet, ad circi si quis cer­tam­ina sem­per
Non in­ter­mis­sis cursibus ibit equ­us.
Firma sit illa licet, sol­ve­tur in ae­quore navis
Quae numquam liq­uidis sicca carebit aquis.
Me quoque de­bil­i­tat se­ries in­mensa mal­o­rum
Ante meum tem­pus cogit et esse sen­em.”

Epis­tu­lae ex Ponto on Wik­isource lati­na, [on­line], con­sulted No­vem­ber 2, 2025.

“See how oxen who have long la­bored in strong lands fi­nally suc­cumb to such hard work: yet, what is stronger than an ox? A land that has never rested fi­nally ex­hausts it­self from bear­ing ev­ery year. A horse that one makes serve con­tin­u­ously and with­out respite in the com­bats of the cir­cus will fi­nally suc­cumb in the midst of its race. A ves­sel, how­ever good it may be, if it is al­ways in the wa­ter, fi­nally opens and de­stroys it­self. Thus a long suc­ces­sion of evils ex­hausts me, weak­ens me and makes me grow old be­fore my time.”

Ovid. Les Élé­gies d’O­vide pen­dant son ex­il, t. II, Élé­gies pon­tiques (The Ele­gies of Ovid dur­ing his ex­ile, vol. II, Pon­tic Elegies), trans. from Latin by Jean Marin de Kervil­lars. Paris: d’Houry, 1726.

“See how hard field work breaks the ro­bust body of ox­en; and yet, what is stronger than an ox? The earth, whose bo­som is al­ways fer­tile, ex­hausts it­self, tired of pro­duc­ing cease­less­ly; he will per­ish, the steed that one makes strug­gle with­out respite in the com­bats of the cir­cus; and the ves­sel whose flanks al­ways hu­mid have never dried on the shore, how­ever solid it may be, will split open in the midst of the waves. Thus weak­ened my­self by an in­fi­nite se­ries of evils, I feel my­self aged be­fore my time.”

Ovid. Œu­vres com­plètes. […] Les Tris­tes; Les Pon­tiques […] (Com­plete Works. […] The Tris­tia; The Epis­tu­lae ex Ponto […]), trans. from Latin by Charles Nis­ard. Paris: J.-J. Dubo­chet and Co., coll. “Col­lec­tion des au­teurs latin­s,” 1838.

“Don’t you see how hard labors in the fields wear out the pow­er­ful body of bulls? What, how­ev­er, is more re­sis­tant than an ox? For lack of pe­ri­od­i­cally en­joy­ing the rest of fal­low, the land tired by con­tin­u­ous har­vests knows ag­ing it­self. Sim­i­lar­ly, the horse will die who takes part in all the com­pe­ti­tions of the cir­cus with­out ever omit­ting a race, and how­ever solid it may be, the ship will open at sea if it is never re­moved from the liq­uid el­e­ment and placed in dry dock. And me, sim­i­lar­ly, this in­fi­nite suc­ces­sion of evils wears me down and makes me an old man be­fore my time.”

Ovid. Les Tris­tes; Les Pon­tiques; Ibis; Le Noy­er; Halieu­tiques (The Tris­tia; The Epis­tu­lae ex Pon­to; Ibis; The Wal­nut Tree; Halieu­ti­ca), trans. from Latin by Émile Ripert. Paris: Gar­nier frères, coll. “Clas­siques Gar­nier,” 1937.

“You see how, in dif­fi­cult lands, work de­feats the ro­bust bod­ies of bulls – and what is more re­sis­tant than an ox? The land that has never known the rest of fal­low ages, ex­hausted by in­ces­sant pro­duc­tion. He will die, the horse who takes part in all the com­pe­ti­tions of the cir­cus with­out omit­ting a race. How­ever solid it may be, it will break apart at sea, the ship that has never been with­drawn from the liq­uid el­e­ment and left dry. Me too, an in­fi­nite se­ries of mis­for­tunes ex­hausts me and makes me an old man be­fore my time.”

Ovid. Pontiques (Epis­tu­lae ex Pon­to), trans. from Latin by Jacques An­dré. Paris: Les Belles Let­tres, coll. “Col­lec­tion des Uni­ver­sités de France,” 1977.

“You see how, in dif­fi­cult lands, fa­tigue breaks the ro­bust body of ox­en; and yet, what is stronger than an ox? The land that one never leaves idle, never fal­low, ex­hausts it­self, tired of pro­duc­ing cease­less­ly. He will per­ish the steed who, with­out respite, with­out in­ter­val, will al­ways take part in the com­bats of the cir­cus. How­ever solid a ves­sel may be, it will per­ish if it is never dry, if it is al­ways wet by the waves. And me too, an in­fi­nite se­ries of evils weak­ens me and ages me be­fore my time.”

Ovid. Œu­vres com­plètes d’Ovide, t. X, [Pon­tiques] (Com­plete Works of Ovid, vol. X, [Epis­tu­lae ex Pon­to]), trans. from Latin by Marie Nico­las Joseph Caresme. Paris: C.-L.-F. Panck­oucke, coll. “Bib­lio­thèque latine-française,” 1836.

“You see how oxen who are the strong­est of an­i­mals tire them­selves at plow­ing, and how fields that one does not let rest, but which are al­ways sown, fi­nally tire of bear­ing grain. One fi­nally breaks a horse, if one makes it run at the games of the cir­cus, with­out giv­ing it respite. How­ever good a ship may be, it will not fail to take on wa­ter if it is never put to dry. I am like­wise weak­ened by the in­fi­nite evils I suf­fer, and I have aged from them be­fore my time.”

Ovid. Les Œu­vres (The Work­s), trans. from Latin by Éti­enne Al­gay de Mar­tignac. Ly­on, 1697.

“You know that, when the lands are hard, oxen with vig­or­ous bod­ies
(And what is more vig­or­ous than an ox?) ex­haust them­selves at the task;
A soil that has never been put fal­low ages,
Ex­hausted by con­stant har­vests;
If a horse fre­quently par­tic­i­pates in cir­cus con­tests
With­out spac­ing the races, it will die;
A ship may be solid, it will wreck if it has never been
Put to dry, away from hu­mid­i­ty.
Me too, I am par­a­lyzed by a long chain of mis­for­tunes
That make me se­nile be­fore my time.”

Ovid. Les Tris­tes; Les Pon­tiques (The Tris­tia; The Epis­tu­lae ex Pon­to), trans. from Latin by Danièle Robert. Ar­les: Actes Sud, coll. “Ba­bel,” 2020.

“You know how an­i­mals ex­haust them­selves in the fields
(And beasts of bur­den, how­ev­er, are hard to evil)
The land ex­ten­u­ated by fre­quent har­vests
With­out fal­low ages
And the horse will die
If it par­tic­i­pates in all the races of the cir­cus
So much does the oar go to wa­ter, that fi­nally it breaks

For my part, it’s the same
Mis­for­tune with­out respite
This se­ries of evils
Have made your hus­band an old man be­fore his time”

Ovid. Tris­tes; Pon­tiques (Tris­tia; Epis­tu­lae ex Pon­to), trans. from Latin by Marie Dar­rieussecq. Paris: P.O.L, 2008.

“Don’t you see how the work of plow­ing tires ox­en, how­ever ro­bust they may be? A land that never be­comes fal­low again, be­cause it never rests, fi­nally tires from bear­ing. A horse will suc­cumb in the cir­cus, if one gives it no respite for run­ning and for com­bats. Let a ship be built in such a way that it holds firm, nev­er­the­less it will split open in the wa­ter, if one never puts it to dry. Al­so, I can say that the length of my pains has prodi­giously weak­ened me; and I find my­self con­strained to be­come old be­fore my time.”

Ovid. De Ponto libri IV, cum in­ter­pre­ta­tione gal­lica – Les Qua­tre Livres des épîtres d’Ovide, écrites à plusieurs de ses amis, du lieu de son exil dans la prov­ince de Pont (De Ponto libri IV, with French in­ter­pre­ta­tion – The Four Books of Ovid’s epistles, writ­ten to sev­eral of his friends, from the place of his ex­ile in the prov­ince of Pon­tus), trans. from Latin by Michel de Marolles. Paris: L. Bil­laine, 1661.

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Around the Tristia

Citations

“Parve – nec in­video – sine me, liber, ibis in Urbem:
Ei mi­hi, quod domino non licet ire tuo!
Vade, sed in­cul­tus, qualem de­cet ex­ulis es­se;
In­fe­lix habi­tum tem­po­ris hu­jus habe.
Nec te pur­pureo ve­lent vac­cinia fuco –
Non est con­ve­niens luctibus ille color”

Tristia on Wik­isource lati­na, [on­line], con­sulted No­vem­ber 1, 2025.

“My book, you will go to Rome, and you will go to Rome with­out me: I am not jeal­ous of it; but alas! why is it not per­mit­ted for your mas­ter to go there him­self. De­part, but with­out ap­pa­ra­tus, as be­fits the book of an ex­iled au­thor. Un­for­tu­nate work! let your at­tire con­form to the time in which we are. Be not cov­ered with pur­ple-col­ored mo­roc­co; all this bril­liance does not suit well in a time of mourn­ing and tears.”

Ovid. Les Élé­gies d’O­vide pen­dant son exil [t. I, Élé­gies des Tris­tes] (The Ele­gies of Ovid dur­ing his ex­ile [vol. I, Ele­gies of the Tris­ti­a]), trans. from Latin by Jean Marin de Kervil­lars. Paris: d’Houry fils, 1723.

“Come, I con­sent, lit­tle book: with­out me you will go to the City,
There where your mas­ter, alas! has not the right to go.
Go, then, but ne­glect­ed, such as be­fits my ex­ile;
Put on, un­for­tu­nate one, the liv­ery of my fate.
No bil­berry to rouge you with pur­ple –
That is not the color that suits my dis­tress”

Ovid. Les Tris­tes: poèmes choi­sis (The Tris­tia: Se­lected Po­em­s), trans. from Latin by Do­minique Poirel. Paris: La Dif­férence, coll. “Or­phée,” 1989.

“Go, lit­tle book, I con­sent, go with­out me to that city where, alas! it is not per­mit­ted for me to go, me who am your fa­ther; go, but with­out or­na­ments, as be­fits the son of an ex­ile; and un­happy one, adopt the in­signia of mis­for­tune. Let not the bil­berry rouge you with its pur­ple dye; that color is not the color of mourn­ing”

Ovid. Œu­vres com­plètes. […] Les Tris­tes; Les Pon­tiques […] (Com­plete Works. […] The Tris­tia; The Epis­tu­lae ex Ponto […]), trans. from Latin by Charles Nis­ard. Paris: J.-J. Dubo­chet and Co., coll. “Col­lec­tion des au­teurs latin­s,” 1838.

“Lit­tle book, I am quite will­ing, with­out me you will go away to the city where I, your mas­ter, alas! can­not go. Go, but with­out or­na­ment, as be­fits a son of ex­ile. Un­happy one, take the garb of the days in which you live. No bil­berry to rouge you with pur­ple: that color does not suit mourn­ing.”

Ovid. Les Tris­tes; Les Pon­tiques; Ibis; Le Noy­er; Halieu­tiques (The Tris­tia; The Epis­tu­lae ex Pon­to; Ibis; The Wal­nut Tree; Halieu­ti­ca), trans. from Latin by Émile Ripert. Paris: Gar­nier frères, coll. “Clas­siques Gar­nier,” 1937.

“Lit­tle book – I am not jeal­ous – you will go with­out me to Rome. Alas! it is for­bid­den for your mas­ter to go there. Go, but with­out or­na­ment, as be­fits the book of an ex­ile. Un­happy one, take the garb of cir­cum­stances! No bil­ber­ries to rouge you with their pur­ple dye – that color ill suits sad­ness”

Ovid. Tristes (Tris­ti­a), trans. from Latin by Jacques An­dré. Paris: Les Belles Let­tres, coll. “Col­lec­tion des Uni­ver­sités de France,” 1968.

“Lit­tle book, I do not op­pose your hap­pi­ness: you will go to Rome with­out me, to Rome, alas! where your fa­ther can­not go. De­part, but with­out or­na­ment, as be­fits the son of an ex­ile; un­happy one, take the liv­ery of mis­for­tune: no bil­berry to clothe you with its pur­ple dye; that color ill suits sad­ness”

Ovid. Œu­vres choisies, t. II. […] Les Tristes (S­e­lected Works, vol. II. […] The Tris­ti­a), trans. from Latin by Ar­mand-Balt­haz­ard Ver­nadé, re­vised by Émile Pes­son­neaux. Paris: Gar­nier frères, 1861.

“Lit­tle vol­ume, I do not op­pose your hap­pi­ness: you will go to Rome with­out me, to Rome, alas! where your fa­ther can­not go. De­part, but with­out or­na­ment, as be­fits the work of an ex­ile; un­for­tu­nate one, keep the liv­ery of mis­for­tune: no bil­berry to clothe you with its pur­ple dye; that rich hue ill suits sad­ness”

Ovid. Œu­vres com­plètes d’Ovide, t. IX, [Tris­tes] (Com­plete Works of Ovid, vol. IX, [Tris­ti­a]), trans. from Latin by Ar­mand-Balt­haz­ard Ver­nadé. Paris: C.-L.-F. Panck­oucke, coll. “Bib­lio­thèque latine-française,” 1834.

“You want then to go with­out me to Rome, my book? I do not envy your hap­pi­ness. Alas! why is it not per­mit­ted for your mas­ter to ac­com­pany you. Go there, but with­out or­na­ment as an ex­ile should be. Cover your­self ac­cord­ing to the state to which your mis­for­tune has re­duced you, not with a cover dyed in pur­ple and vi­o­let, for that color ill suits mourn­ing.”

Ovid. Les Œu­vres (The Work­s), trans. from Latin by Éti­enne Al­gay de Mar­tignac. Ly­on, 1697.

“It is with­out me, lit­tle book (and I don’t hold it against you), that you will go to Rome;
Alas! to me, your mas­ter, it is not per­mit­ted to go there!
Go there, but with­out prepa­ra­tions, as be­fits ex­iles;
Put on the ap­pear­ance, un­for­tu­nate one, of my sit­u­a­tion.
No bil­ber­ries to cover you with a pur­ple dye:
That color does not suit af­flic­tion”

Ovid. Les Tris­tes; Les Pon­tiques (The Tris­tia; The Epis­tu­lae ex Pon­to), trans. from Latin by Danièle Robert. Ar­les: Actes Sud, coll. “Ba­bel,” 2020.

“Lit­tle book
Alas
Go with­out me to the city where I am for­bid­den

Go all sim­ple
With­out learned or­na­ments
As be­fits ex­iles

An ev­ery­day out­fit
The dis­in­her­ited do not wear pur­ple
Mourn­ing is not done in red”

Ovid. Tris­tes; Pon­tiques (Tris­tia; Epis­tu­lae ex Pon­to), trans. from Latin by Marie Dar­rieussecq. Paris: P.O.L, 2008.

“Lit­tle book, I do not say no: you will go to Rome with­out me – to Rome, alas, where your mas­ter no longer has the right to go! Go there, but poorly dressed, as be­fits the book of an ex­ile. Take, un­happy one, the out­fit of this sad sea­son of my life. I do not want you rouged with the pur­ple dye of bil­ber­ries: such bril­liance does not suit mourn­ing.”

Ovid. L’Exil et le Salut: Tristes et Pon­tiques (Ex­ile and Sal­va­tion: Tris­tia and Epis­tu­lae ex Pon­to), trans. from Latin by Chan­tal Labre. Paris: Ar­léa, coll. “Re­tour aux grands tex­tes,” 1991.

“My lit­tle book, it will there­fore be with­out me that you will make the jour­ney to Rome (I bear you no envy for it), but I have great re­gret that it is not per­mit­ted for your mas­ter to make it as well as you. Well then! I give you leave; but go­ing to Rome, let it be with­out equipage. Carry no or­na­ment there, and be such as a poor ex­ile should be, with a garb of the sea­son, which is pro­por­tioned to your mis­for­tune. Let not an ob­scure vi­o­let mixed with pur­ple en­rich your cov­er; that color is not seemly for mourn­ing.”

Ovid. Tris­tium libri V, cum in­ter­pre­ta­tione gal­lica – Les Tristes d’O­vide (Tris­tium libri V, with French in­ter­pre­ta­tion – The Tris­tia of Ovid), trans. from Latin by Michel de Marolles. Paris: L. Bil­laine, 1661.

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Bibliography

  • Car­copino, Jérôme. “L’exil d’Ovide” (“Ovid’s Ex­ile”) in Ren­con­tres de l’his­toire et de la lit­téra­ture ro­maines (En­coun­ters of Ro­man His­tory and Lit­er­a­ture). Paris: Flam­mar­i­on, 1963.
  • Cuvil­lier-Fleury, Al­fred-Au­guste. “Ovide” (“Ovid”). Re­vue de Paris, vol. XVI, 1830, p. 200-216. (Google Book­s).
  • Goudot, Marie. Tris­tia: fig­ures d’exil (Tris­tia: Fig­ures of Ex­ile). Ren­nes: La Part com­mune, coll. “L’É­tranger fam­i­lier,” 2006.
  • La Mothe Le Vay­er, François de. De la pa­trie et des étrangers: et autres pe­tits traités scep­tiques (On the Home­land and For­eign­ers: and Other Small Skep­ti­cal Trea­tis­es). Paris: Desjon­quères, coll. “Col­lec­tion 17e siè­cle,” 2003.
  • Lau­rens, Pierre. His­toire cri­tique de la lit­téra­ture latine: de Vir­gile à Huys­mans (Crit­i­cal His­tory of Latin Lit­er­a­ture: From Vir­gil to Huys­man­s). Paris: Les Belles Let­tres, 2014.
  • Pfaf­f-Rey­del­let, Maud. “L’hiver éter­nel de Scythie: di­men­sion mé­tapoé­tique de l’évo­ca­tion des con­fins” (“The Eter­nal Win­ter of Scythia: Metapo­etic Di­men­sion of the Evo­ca­tion of the Con­fines”) in Segetis certa fides meae: hom­mages of­ferts à Gérard Frey­burger (Segetis certa fides meae: Homages Of­fered to Gérard Frey­burg­er). Turn­hout: Bre­pols, coll. “Recherches sur les rhé­toriques re­ligieuses,” 2021, p. 135-151.
  • Poga­ci­as, An­drei. “Ovide, un poète ro­main chez les Gètes” (“Ovid, a Ro­man Poet among the Getae”). Cour­rier in­ter­na­tional, no. 1633, Feb­ru­ary 17-23, 2022, p. 54.
  • Voltaire. Œu­vres com­plètes de Voltaire, vol. 45B, […] D’Ovide, de Socrate […] (Com­plete Works of Voltaire, vol. 45B, […] On Ovid, on Socrates […]). Ox­ford: Voltaire Foun­da­tion, 2010.
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