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.

One to the walls makes his approach in form,
Pushes the siege, and takes the town by storm:
The other lays his close to Celia's fort,
Presses his point, and gains the wish'd-for port.
As soldiers, when the foe securely lies
In sleep, and wine dissolv'd, the camp surprise;
So when the jealous to their rest remove,
And all is hush'd, — the other steals to love.
You then, who think that love's an idle fit,
Know, that it is the exercise of wit.
In flames of love the fierce Achilles burns,
And, quitting arms, absent Briseis mourns:
From the embraces of Andromache
Went Hector arm'd for war, and victory.
As Agamemnon saw Cassandra pass
With hair dishevell'd, and disorder'd dress,
H' admir'd the beauties of the prophetess:
The god of war was caught in th' act of love;
A story know to all the court above.
Once did I pass my hours in sloth and ease,
Cool shades and beds of down could only please;
When a commanding beauty rais'd my mind,
I left all little trifling thoughts behind,
And to her service all my heart resign'd:
Since, like an active soldier, have I spent
My time in toils of war, in beauty's tent:
And for so sweet a pay all dangers underwent.
You see, my Atticus, by what I prove,
Who would not live in idleness-must love.

Poem 10, in which the poet complains that his mistress has asked him for money, is not here translated.

Nape, who know'st so well to set the hair,
And all the fashions of the modish fair,
Like thee no lady's woman in the town
Can forward an intrigue, or pin a gown;
No maid than thee can boast a quicker eye,
Nor sooner the sour husband's coming spy.
Here, Nape, take this billet-doux, and bear
My soul's soft wishes to the absent fair.
If I can guess, thy heart is not of flint,
Nor is there the least vein of iron in't;
I something in thy looks and manners see