Little book — no, I don’t begrudge it you — you’re off to the City
without me, going where your only begetter is banned!
On your way, then — but penny-plain, as befits an exile’s
sad offering, and my present life.
For you no purple slip-case (that’s a colour
goes ill with grief), no title-line picked out
in vermilion, no cedar-oiled backing, no white bosses
to set off those black
edges: leave luckier books to be dressed with such trimmings:
never forget my sad estate.
No smoothing off your ends with friable pumice — appear for inspection bristly, unkempt.
And don’t be embarrassed by blots. Anyone who sees them
will sense they were due to my tears.

Ovid, Tristia I.i, translated by Peter Green

Parue—nec inuideo—sine me, liber, ibis in urbem:
ei mihi, quod domino non licet ire tuo!
uade, sed incultus, qualem decet exulis esse;
infelix habitum temporis huius habe.
nec te purpureo uelent uaccinia fuco—
non est conueniens luctibus ille color—
nec titulus minio, nec cedro charta notetur,
candida nec nigra cornua fronte geras.
felices ornent haec instrumenta libellos:
fortunae memorem te decet esse meae.
nec fragili geminae poliantur pumice frontes,
hirsutus sparsis ut uideare comis.
neue liturarum pudeat; qui uiderit illas,
de lacrimis factas sentiat esse meis.

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