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. Unlock the gate, the morning will not stay,
  2. Unlock the gate, and kindness past repay.
  3. Hark: or I dream, or on the hinge I hear
  4. The wicket turn, or bolts unloosen'd jar.
  5. I dream, indeed, the bolts as they were laid,
  6. Stand fix'd: the noise was by my fancy made.
  7. But all, alas! is hush'd, I hear no sound,
  8. All in the silence of the night is drown'd.
  9. Here, hopeless of admittance, I attend,
  10. While on my head the pearly dews descend.
  11. Unlock the gate, the morning will not stay,
  12. Unlock the gate, I will no longer pray,
  13. But force by sword and fire my readier way.
  14. What need of fire or sword? myself alone,
  15. More pow'rful, than or sword or fire am grown.
  16. Around your heads shall flaming torches fly,
  17. And Jove the house shall burn, as well as I.
  18. Night, love, and wine encourage and inflame:
  19. These triumph over fear, and that o'er shame.
  20. All ways I've tried, but all successless prove,
  21. Nor threats can fright thee, nor entreaties move;
  22. Deaf to my pray'rs as to my tears thou'rt blind,
  23. Thy gate is less obdurate than thy mind.
  24. But see, the ruddy morn begins to rise,
  25. And paints with rosy streaks the eastern skies,
  26. While crowing cocks the lab'rer's sloth revile,
  27. And summon wretches to their daily toil.
  28. Throw then, fond man, thy fragrant chaplet by,
  29. And let it at thy lady's threshold lie.
  30. When in the morn thy faded flow'rs she spies,
  31. Kind thoughts of me may in her bosom rise,
  32. Perhaps she may resent her porter's crime,
  33. And grieve that here so ill I spent my time.
  34. Against me though thou shut'st thy lady's gate,
  35. I cannot one, that serves my mistress, hate.
  36. You both who did against my hopes rebel,
  37. Ah, porter; and ah, cruel gate, farewell.
  1. Come, if ye're friends, and let these hands be bound,
  2. Which could with impious rage a mistress wound:
  3. What more did Ajax in his fury do,