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.

Tears, which suspense did for a while restrain,
Gush'd forth, and down her cheeks the deluge ran.
As when the sun does by a powerful beam
Dissolve the frost, it runs into a stream.
The lamentable objects struck me dead,
And tears of blood to quench those tears I shed;
Thrice at her feet the prostrate suppliant fell,
And thrice did she repulse the criminal.
What would I not your anger to abate,
Redeem your favour, or remove your hate?
To your revenge no means or method spare;
Revenge, alas! is easy to the fair.

There is a bawd renown'd in Venus' wars,
Aud dreadful still with honorable scars;
Her youth and beauty, craft and guile supply,
Sworn foe to all degrees of chastity.
Dypsas, who first taught love-sick maids the way
To cheat the bridegroom on the wedding-day,
And then a hundred subtle tricks devis'd,
Wherewith the am'rous theft might be disguis'd;
Of herbs and spells she tries the guilty force,
The poison of a mare that goes to horse.
Cleaving the midnight air upon a switch,
Some for a bawd, most take her for a witch.
Each morning sees her reeling to her bed,
Her native blue o'ercome with drunken red:
Her ready tongue ne'er wants a useful lie,
Soft moving words, nor charming flattery.
Thus I o'erheard her to my Lucia speak:
"Young Damon's heart wilt thou for ever break
He long has lov'd thee, and by me he sends
To learn thy motions, which he still attends;
If to the park thou go'st, the plays are ill;
If to the plays, he thinks the air would kill.
The other day he gaz'd upon thy face,
As he would grow a statue in the place;
And who indeed does not? like a new star,
Beauty like thine strikes wonder from afar.
Alas! methinks thou art ill-dress'd to-night;
This point's too poor; thy necklace is not right;
This gown was by some botching tailor made,
It spoils thy shape; this fucus is ill laid.
Hear me, and be as happy as thou'rt fair:
Damon is rich, and what thou wanst, can spare.
Like thine his face, like thine his eyes are thought.
Would he not buy, he might himself be bought."
Fair Lucia blush'd. "It is a sign of grace,
(Dypsas replied,) that red becomes thy face.
All lovers now by what they give are weighed,
And she is best belov'd that best is paid;
The sun-burnt Latins, in old Tatius' reign,
Did to one man perhaps their love restrain:
Venus in her Aeneas' city rules,
And all adore her deity but fools.
Go on, ye fair, chaste only let such live
As none will ask, and know not how to give.
Life steals away, and our best hours are gone
Ere the true use or worth of them be known.
Things long neglected, of themselves decay;
What we forbear, time rudely makes his prey.
Beauty is best preserv'd by exercise,
Nor for that task can one or few suffice.
Wouldst thou grow rich, thou must from many take:
From one 'twere hard continually to rake.
Without new gowns and coaches, who can live ?
What does thy poet but new verses give?
A poet, the last thing that earth does breed,
Whose wit, for sixpence, any one may read.
Hang the poor lover, and his pedigree;
The thriving merchant, or fat judge, give me.
Love truly none, but seem in love with all,
And at old friends to thy new lovers rail.
Sometimes deny, 'twill appetite procure;
The sharp-set hawks will stoop to any lure.
Then grant again, lest he a habit get
Of living from thee; but be sure thou let
No empty lover in; murmur sometimes,
And at first hurt, reproach him with thy crimes.
Seem jealous, when thou'st been thyself to blame;
'Twill stop his mouth, if thou the first complain.