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. Repel thy car, or clouds involve the day.
  2. Dost thou in envy lash each lazy steed,
  3. And whirl thy chariot with unwonted speed?
  4. Black was thy son, and in his hue's express'd
  5. The gloomy passions of his parent's breats;
  6. He, born of Cephalus, his ravish'd sire,
  7. Is a known proof of thy adult'rous fire.
  8. Thou, by his colour, wouldst thy crime conceal;
  9. Ah, that to Tithon I the tale could tell!
  10. Search all the records of Heaven's lechers round,
  11. A fouler story cannot there be found.
  12. In Cephalus' embraces when you lay,
  13. And oft by theft renew'd your wanton play;
  14. When Tithon's impotence you made your sport,
  15. Did you not think the joyous moments short?
  16. Lock'd in his arms did you in transports lie,
  17. Ah! would you not, like me, to Phoebus cry,
  18. "Stop, stop thy rapid course? Am I to blame
  19. That Tithon's old, and cannot feel thy flame?
  20. See how the moon does her Endymion keep
  21. In night conceal'd, and drown'd in dewy sleep.
  22. As lovely is the moon, as fair as thou,
  23. Who freely, where she loves, her favours does bestow.
  24. Jove, when he rob'd Amphitryon of his joy,
  25. Did two whole nights in am'rous thefts employ;
  26. Unknown when in Alcmena's arms he lay,
  27. The night he doubles and suspends the day."
  28. The morning heard my railing, and for shame
  29. Blush'd that by force she must disturb my flame;
  30. Bright Phoebus rushing forth, the glorious day
  31. 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,