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. Nor of a black, nor of a golden hue
  2. They were, but of a dye between the two.
  3. How could you hurt, or poison with perfume,
  4. Those curls that were so easy to the comb?
  5. That to no pains expos'd you, when you set
  6. Their shining tresses for young hearts a net?
  7. That ne'er provok'd you with your maids to war,
  8. For hurting you with your entangled hair?
  9. You ne'er were urg'd to some indecent fray,
  10. Nor in a fury snatch'd the comb away.
  11. The teeth ne'er touch'd you, and her constant care,
  12. Without ill arts, would have preserv'd your hair.
  13. Behind your chair I oft have seen her stand,
  14. And comb and curl it with a gentle hand:
  15. Oft have I seen it on your shoulders play
  16. Uncomb'd, as on your purple bed you lay.
  17. Your artless tresses with more charms appear,
  18. Than when adorn'd with all your cost and care.
  19. When on the grass the Thracian nymphs recline,
  20. Of Bacchus full, and weary of their wine,
  21. Less lovely are their locks, than yours, less fair
  22. The ringlets of their soft dishevell'd hair:
  23. Softer was thine, like fleecy down it felt,
  24. And to the finger did as freely yield,
  25. How didst thou torture it, the curls to turn,
  26. Now with hot irons at thy toilet burn?
  27. This rack, with what obedience did it bear?
  28. "Ah spare," I cried, "thy patient tresses spare!
  29. To hurt them is a sin: this needless toil
  30. Forbear, and do not, what adorns thee, spoil.
  31. 'Tis now too late to give your labour o'er,
  32. Those tortur'd ringlets are, alas ! no more.
  33. Ah, cease the cruel thought, and cease to pass
  34. Such irksome minutes at your faithful glass !
  35. In vain thou seek'st thy silken locks to find;
  36. Banish the dear remembrance from thy mind.
  37. No weeds destroy'd them with their pois'nous juice,
  38. Nor canst thou witches' magic charms accuse,
  39. Nor rival's rage, nor dire enchantment blame,
  40. Nor envy's blasting tongue, nor fever's flame.
  41. The mischief by thy own fair hands was wrought;
  42. Nor dost thou suffer for another's fault.
  43. How oft I bade thee, but in vain, beware
  44. The venom'd essence, that destroy'd thy hair?
  45. Now with new arts thou shalt thy pride amuse,
  46. And curls, of German captives borrow'd, use.
  47. Drusus to Rome their vanquish'd nation sends
  48. And the fair slave to thee her tresses lends.
  49. With alien locks thou wilt thy head adorn,
  50. And conquests gain'd by foreign beauties scorn.