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OVID TO HIS WIFE.
O let him not be exil'd even in death!
Leſt mix'd with Scythian ſhades, a Roman ghoſt
Wander on this inhoſpitable coaſt.
Cæsar no more ſhall urge a wretch's doom;
The bolt of Jove purſues not in the tomb.
To thee, dear wife, ſome friend with pious care
All that of Ovid then remains ſhall bear;
Then will thou weep to ſee me ſo return,
And with fond paſſion claſp my ſilent urn.
O check thy grief, that tender boſom ſpare,
Hurt not thy cheeks, nor ſoil thy flowing hair.
Preſs the pale marble with thy lips, and give
One precious tear, and bid my memory live.
The ſilent duſt ſhall glow at thy command,
And the warm aſhes feel thy pious hand.
To
