Tibull entstammte einer wohlhabenden römischen Ritterfamilie. Ovid erwähnt eine Schwester und eine Mutter, die den Dichter überlebten. Die fehlende Erwähnung des Vaters lässt darauf schließen, dass dieser früh starb. Als gesichert kann Tibulls Freundschaft zu Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus und die Teilnahme an dessen Feldzug nach Aquitanien im Jahre 31 v. Chr. gelten, die eine kurze Vita erwähnt. Das lyrische Ich der Elegien lehnt Messallas Aufforderung, ihn auf einem Feldzug in den Osten zu begleiten, zunächst ab, da ihn die Sehnsucht nach einem friedlichen Leben und die Liebe zu einer gewissen Delia zurückhält. Er entschließt sich letztlich zur Mitreise, muss aber, unterwegs erkrankt, auf Kerkyra zurückbleiben. Zurückgekehrt, findet er seine Geliebte mit einem reicheren Mann verheiratet. Den geliebten Knaben Marathus verliert er an einen älteren, ebenfalls reichen Rivalen. Weitere Liebesverstrickungen erlebt er mit einer neuen Geliebten namens Nemesis.
Tibull ist neben Properz und Ovid einer der drei erhaltenen Dichter der Augusteischen Liebeselegie, von deren „Begründer“ der Gattung in Rom, Gallus, nur wenige Fragmente überliefert sind. In den Elegien aller drei Dichter erscheint jeweils eine Geliebte: bei Properz eine Cynthia, bei Ovid eine Corinna und bei Tibull eine Delia. Während die Liebesgedichte des Properz und Ovid nur an diese Frauen gerichtet sind, erscheint bei Tibull in einigen Gedichten des ersten Buches ein junger Geliebter namens Marathus. Mit Delia bricht der Ich-Sprecher zudem am Ende des ersten Buches; im zweiten Buch erscheint eine neue Geliebte namens Nemesis.
How sweet it is while lying down to hear fierce winds
and hold a mistress with a tender grasp!
Or when cold Austral winds are spreading sleet, what joy
to slumber safely with a fire’s help!
Let this befall me: may wealth be earned by one
who bears grim rain and seas that froth and foam.
O how much better that our gold and gems be lost
than any girl be crying as we roam!
Messalla, it is right you fight on land and sea
so spoils of war may decorate your home!
Chains of a gorgeous girl restrain me, and I linger
like a doorman at her stubborn door.
I want no praise, my Delia, if I am with you,
I’m asking to be labelled weak and dull.
May I behold when my final hour comes;
as I die, let me hold you as hands fail.
Delia, when flames engulf my bier you’ll weep for me,
and then you’ll mix your kisses with sad tears.
You’ll weep, for stubborn iron doesn’t wrap your breast,
nor is there flint inside your tender heart.
Nobody, neither man nor maiden, could return
home from that funeral and be dry-eyed.
Do not do damage to my spirit! Delia, spare
your unbound hair and spare your tender cheeks.
Meanwhile, as long as fate allows, let’s join in love!
First Death will come his features cloaked in gloom,
then age will sneak up, and it won’t be right to love
or speak seductive words with snowy hair.
Lighthearted love must be indulged while there’s no shame
in breaking doors and brawling gives us pleasure.
I’m a good soldier and good leader here. You troops
and trumpets, move it! Bring harm to the greedy,
and bring their lucre! Made secure by stacks I stored,
I’ll hate starvation and I’ll hate great wealth.
Other Translation:
How fine it is to hear the winds
as I lie in my bed
my mistress held in gentle clasp
close to my happy heart
or, when the wind from out the south
lets go the winter showers,
to seek untroubled happy sleep,
the rain my lullaby.
This be my lot. Let him be rich
if he can bear the sea
with all it’s rage; deservedly
if he can bear the rains.
I wish that just as much of gold,
as many emeralds green
would perish, as fair maidens weep
if I should travel wide.
For you Massalla war is good,
by land as well by sea,
that you might hang some foriegn spoils
on th’front door of your home.
But I am held by a lovely girl
I’m wrapped up in her chains
and so I sit, a door keeper
outside this cruel gate.
I do not care, my Delia
to win myself some praise;
If I’m with you I would be called
a lazy sluggish man.
That I might see at my last hour
you, looking down at me
and hold you close as I sink down
in final dying clasp!
You will mourn, my Delia
When I lie on my bier
and give me kisses that are mixed
with bitter tears of grief.
You will mourn: your breast’s not bound
with bands of iron strong
nor does cold flint lie stubbornly
within your tender heart.
Dry-eyed no youth or girl can come
home from that funeral day.
Don’t wound my ghost. But little rip
young hair and cheeks, Delia.
Meantime, while fates let us do so
let’s join ourselves in love:
soon Death will come, take us away
his head in darkened cowl;
soon idle age will creep to us
and love will not look good,
and grey-haired talk of love
does not become a man.
Light Venus now must be pursued,
when breaking down of doors
and having fun will bring no shame
and fighting in the streets.
Thus do I well the part of duke
and that of man of war;
you trumps and standards go away
and take those wounds with you
and give them to those men of greed
and take to them riches:
I’ll be secure with harvest heaped,
Hate famine just like wealth.
ibullus’ First Elegy (translation) by John Richardson
