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.

Ill as she is, I might endanger her.
By me, I must confess, she did conceive,
The fact is so, or else I so believe;
We've cause to think, what may so likely be,
So is, and then the babe belongs to me
Oh Isis, who delight'st to haunt the fields,
Where fruitful Nile his golden harvest yields,
Where with seven mouths into the sea it falls,
And hast thy walks around Canope's walls,
Who Memphis visit'st, and the Pharian tower,
Assist Corinna with thy friendly powers.
Thee by thy silver Sistra I conjure,
A life so precious by thy aid secure;
So mayst thou with Osiris still find grace:
By Anubis's venerable face,
I pray thee, so may still thy rights divine
Flourish, and serpents round thy offerings twine
May Apis with his horns the pomp attend,
And be to thee, as thou'rt to her, a friend.
Look down, oh Isis! on the teeming fair,
And make at once her life and mine thy care:
Have pity on her pains; the help you give
To her, her lover saves, in her I live.
From thee this favour she deserves; she pays
Her vows to thee on all thy solemn days;
And when the Galli at thy altars wait,
She's present at the feast they celebrate.
And thou, Lucina, who the labouring womb
Dost with compassion view, to her assistance come:
Nor dost thou, when to thee thy votaries pray
For speedy help, thy wanted help delay.
Lucina, listen to Corinna's pray'r;
Thy votary she, and worthy of thy care.
I'll with my off'rings to thy altar come,
With votive myrrh thy sacred fane perfume;
The vows I make that thou my fair mayst bless,
In words inscrib'd, I'll on thy shrine express:-
"Ovid, the servant of Corinna, pray'd
The goddess here, the teeming dame to aid."
Ah, goddess! of my humble suit allow;
Give place to my inscription and my vow.
If frighted as I am, I may presume
Your conduct to direct in time to come,
Corinna, since you've suffer'd thus before,
Ah, try the bold experiment no more!

What boots it that the fair are free from war,
And what that they're forbid the shield to bear,
Against themselves if they knew arms employ
And madly with new wounds their lives destroy?
The cruel mother who did first contrive
Her babe to butcher ere 'twas scarce alive,
Who thus from nature's tender dictates swerv'd,
To perish by her proper hands deserv'd.
Why do the sex forget their softness? why
Such projects for a foolish fancy try?
The belly must be smooth, no wrinkle there
To shock the lover's wanton glance appear;
His touch as well as sight they fain would please,
And the womb early of its burden ease.
Had woman sooner known this wicked trade,
Among the race of men what havock had they made.
Mankind had been extinct, and lost the seed,
Without a wonder to restore the breed,
As when Deucalion and his Purrha hurl'd
The stones that sow'd with men the delug'd world,
Had Thetis, goddess of the sea, refus'd
To bear the burden, and her fruit abus'd,
Who would have Priam's royal seat destroy'd?
Or had the vestal whom fierce Mars enjoy'd,
Stifled the twins within her pergnant womb,
What founder would have then been born to Rome?
Had Venus, when she with Aeneas teem'd,
To death, ere born, Anchises' son condemn'd,
The world had of the Caesars been depriv'd;
Augustus ne'er had reign'd, nor Julius liv'd.
And thou, whose beauty is the boast of fame,
Hadst perish'd, had thy mother done the same;
Nor had I liv'd love's faithful slave to be,
Had my own mother dealt as ill by me.
Ah, vile invention, ah, accurs'd design,
To rob of rip'ning fruit the loaded vine
Ah, let it grow for nature's use mature,
Ah, let it its full length of time endure;
'Twill of itself, alas! too soon decay,
And quickly fall, like autumn leaves, away
Why barb'rously dost thou thy bowels tear
To kill the human load that quickens there?
On venom'd drugs why venture, to destroy
The pledge of pleasure past, the promis'd boy?
Medea, guilty of her childrens' blood,
The mark of ev'ry age's curse has stood;
And Atys, murder'd by his mothers rage,
Been pitied since by each succeeding age;
Thy cruel parents by false lords abus'd,
Had yet some plea, tho' none their crime excus'd.
What, Jason, did your dire revenge provoke?
What, Tereus, urge you to the fatal stroke?
What rage your reason led so far away,
As furious hands upon yourself to lay?
The tigresses that haunt th' Armenian wood,
Will spare their proper young, though pinch'd for food;
Nor will the Libyan lionesses slay
Their whelps,—but woman are more fierce than they;
More barb'rous to the tender fruit they bear,
Nor nature's call, tho' loud she cries, will hear.
But righteous vengeance oft their crimes pursues,
And they are lost themselves, who would their
children lose;
The pois'nous drugs with mortal juices fill
Their veins, and, undesign'd, themselves they kill
Themselves upon the bier are breathless borne,
With hair tied up that was in ringlets worn,
Thro' weeping crowds that on their course attend;
Well may they weep for their unhappy end.
Forbid it, heaven, that what I say may prove
Presaging to the fair I blame and love;
Thus let me ne'er, ye pow'rs, her death deplore,
'Twas her first fault, and she'll offend no more;
No pardon she'll deserve a second time,
But, without mercy, punish then her crime.

Go, happy ring, who art about to bind
The fair one's finger; may the fair be kind.
Small is the present, tho' the love be great;
May she swift slip thee on thy taper seat.
As she and I, may thou with her agree,
And not too large, nor yet too little be.
To touch her hand thou wilt the pleasure have;
I now must envy what myself I gave.
O! would a Proteus or a Circe change
Me to thy form, that I like thee might range !
Then would I wish thee with her breasts to play,
And her left hand beneath her robes to stray.
Tho' straight she thought me, I will then appear
Loose and unfix'd, and slip I know not where.
Whene'er she writes some secret lines of love,
Lest the dry gum and wax should sticking prove,
He first she moistens : then sly care I take,
And but, when lines I like, impression make.
Of in her pocket fain she would me hide,
Close will I press her finger, and not slide;