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. The pilot by the stars his ship can guide,
  2. And in mid-sea a certain course pursue,
  3. As safe as when he has the sun in view.
  4. What pleasure in thy light should mortals take?
  5. Thou dost the weary traveller awake;
  6. Though to the down his heavy head reclines,
  7. Up he must lift it for the morning shines.
  8. The soldier braces on his brazen shield,
  9. Quits his warm tent, and fits him for the field:
  10. The lab'ring hind his harrow takes, and now
  11. The peasant yokes his oxen to the plough:
  12. The boy half wak'd, and rubbing still his eyes,
  13. Is loth alike to go to school, or rise;
  14. While o'er his task he does imperfect nod,
  15. He fears the ferula, he dreads the rod.
  16. The bridegroom, starting from his bride's embrace,
  17. Runs to his lawyer to consult his case;
  18. A word is wanting in the dower deed,
  19. And what to save the portion must he plead?
  20. Now hungry serjeants quit their tempting ease,
  21. To haunt the crowded courts and pick up fees.
  22. Thy rise brings labour to the female band,
  23. And puts the spindle in the spinster's hand:
  24. Light are these toils, and little is the pain
  25. To rise to work, and rest at night again;
  26. But who that e'er knew love's transporting joys,
  27. Could from the arms of youth and beauty rise?
  28. Oft have I wish'd that night would keep her ground,
  29. And all her stars be at thy rising found;
  30. Oft have I wish'd the winds would stop thy way,
  31. Repel thy car, or clouds involve the day.
  32. Dost thou in envy lash each lazy steed,
  33. And whirl thy chariot with unwonted speed?
  34. Black was thy son, and in his hue's express'd
  35. The gloomy passions of his parent's breats;
  36. He, born of Cephalus, his ravish'd sire,
  37. Is a known proof of thy adult'rous fire.
  38. Thou, by his colour, wouldst thy crime conceal;
  39. Ah, that to Tithon I the tale could tell!
  40. Search all the records of Heaven's lechers round,
  41. A fouler story cannot there be found.
  42. In Cephalus' embraces when you lay,
  43. And oft by theft renew'd your wanton play;
  44. When Tithon's impotence you made your sport,
  45. Did you not think the joyous moments short?
  46. Lock'd in his arms did you in transports lie,
  47. Ah! would you not, like me, to Phoebus cry,
  48. "Stop, stop thy rapid course? Am I to blame
  49. That Tithon's old, and cannot feel thy flame?
  50. See how the moon does her Endymion keep
  51. In night conceal'd, and drown'd in dewy sleep.
  52. As lovely is the moon, as fair as thou,
  53. Who freely, where she loves, her favours does bestow.
  54. Jove, when he rob'd Amphitryon of his joy,
  55. Did two whole nights in am'rous thefts employ;
  56. Unknown when in Alcmena's arms he lay,
  57. The night he doubles and suspends the day."
  58. The morning heard my railing, and for shame
  59. Blush'd that by force she must disturb my flame;
  60. Bright Phoebus rushing forth, the glorious day
  61. Drove the dear shades, that hid our joys, away.
  1. I us'd to warn you, not with so much care,
  2. And waste of ointment, to adorn your hair:
  3. That warning now is useless, you have none,
  4. And with your hair that trouble too is gone.
  5. Where are the silken tresses, which adown
  6. Your shoulders hung? A web was never spun
  7. So fine, but, ah! those flowing curls are gone.
  8. Ah fatal art! ah fatal care, and pains!
  9. That robb'd me of the dearest of my chains.
  10. Nor of a black, nor of a golden hue
  11. They were, but of a dye between the two.
  12. How could you hurt, or poison with perfume,
  13. Those curls that were so easy to the comb?
  14. That to no pains expos'd you, when you set
  15. Their shining tresses for young hearts a net?
  16. That ne'er provok'd you with your maids to war,
  17. For hurting you with your entangled hair?
  18. You ne'er were urg'd to some indecent fray,
  19. Nor in a fury snatch'd the comb away.
  20. The teeth ne'er touch'd you, and her constant care,
  21. Without ill arts, would have preserv'd your hair.
  22. Behind your chair I oft have seen her stand,
  23. And comb and curl it with a gentle hand:
  24. Oft have I seen it on your shoulders play
  25. Uncomb'd, as on your purple bed you lay.
  26. Your artless tresses with more charms appear,
  27. Than when adorn'd with all your cost and care.
  28. When on the grass the Thracian nymphs recline,
  29. Of Bacchus full, and weary of their wine,
  30. Less lovely are their locks, than yours, less fair
  31. The ringlets of their soft dishevell'd hair:
  32. Softer was thine, like fleecy down it felt,
  33. And to the finger did as freely yield,
  34. How didst thou torture it, the curls to turn,
  35. Now with hot irons at thy toilet burn?
  36. This rack, with what obedience did it bear?
  37. "Ah spare," I cried, "thy patient tresses spare!
  38. To hurt them is a sin: this needless toil
  39. Forbear, and do not, what adorns thee, spoil.
  40. 'Tis now too late to give your labour o'er,
  41. Those tortur'd ringlets are, alas ! no more.
  42. Ah, cease the cruel thought, and cease to pass
  43. Such irksome minutes at your faithful glass !
  44. In vain thou seek'st thy silken locks to find;
  45. Banish the dear remembrance from thy mind.
  46. No weeds destroy'd them with their pois'nous juice,
  47. Nor canst thou witches' magic charms accuse,
  48. Nor rival's rage, nor dire enchantment blame,
  49. Nor envy's blasting tongue, nor fever's flame.