Amores

Ovid

Ovid. Ovid's Art of Love (in three Books), the Remedy of Love, the Art of Beauty, the Court of Love, the History of Love, and Amours. Dryden, John, et al., translator. New York: Calvin Blanchard, 1855.

  1. To give the billet in a leisure hour:
  2. Don't be content with her imperfect view,
  3. But make her, when she has it, read it through.
  4. I charge thee, as she reads, observe her eyes,
  5. Catch, if thou canst, her gentle looks and sighs;
  6. As these are sure presages of my joy,
  7. So frowns and low'rs my flattering hopes destroy.
  8. Pray her, when she has read it, to indite
  9. An answer, and a long epistle write.
  10. I hate a billet, where at once I view
  11. A page all empty, but a line or two.
  12. Let her without a margin fill it up,
  13. And crowd it from the bottom to the top.
  14. But why should I her pretty fingers tire?
  15. A word's enough, and all that I desire.
  16. Ah, Nape, let her only bid me come;
  17. The page is large, which for that word has room.
  18. Her letter, like a conqu'ror's, shall be bound
  19. With bays, for it with conquests shall be crown'd.
  1. Ah, pity me, my friends! the cruel fair
  2. Will neither read my just complaint, nor hear.
  3. The billet-doux I sent her she return'd,
  4. And e'en to ope the tender letter scorn'd
  5. Ill was the omen, for the slave I sent
  6. Trip'd at the sill as out of doors he went.
  7. If e'er you on an errand go for me,
  8. More careful, sirrah! how you stumble, be;
  9. Step soberly, and warily along;
  10. The end's ne'er right if the beginning's wrong.
  11. Sinee thus in vain her pity I implore,
  12. I'll ne'er to tablets trust my passion more;
  13. Nor with my wax for death my warrant seal;
  14. Worse than her scorn, what torture can I feel?
  15. From combs of Cosica the wax was ta'en,
  16. The latent poison was the lover's bane.
  17. Bees there from venom'd flow'rs their honey suck,
  18. And surely to my wax that venom stuck.
  19. Chance on the seal did my misfortune paint,
  20. And show'd my doom by the vermilion teint.
  21. Curse on the instruments of my disgrace !
  22. May you lie rotting in some filthy place;
  23. By carts run o'er may you to bits be torn,
  24. And your mishap revenge Corinna's scorn !
  25. The man that first to smooth your surface toil'd,
  26. The wooden work with hands impure defil'd;
  27. Gibbets and racks should of the wood be made,
  28. And the rough tools of all the murd'ring trade.
  29. Bats roosted in its branches as it grew,
  30. And birds of prey for shelter thither flew:
  31. The vulture, and all kind of rav'nous fowl,