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. Frankly my failings I with shame confess;
  2. To hide my errors would not make them less.
  3. My faults, whate'er I suffer by't, I own,
  4. That others, if they please, those faults may shun
  5. I hate myself, my follies, and would fain
  6. Be, were it in my pow'r, another man.
  7. How difficult it is, ye righteous Gods,
  8. Against our wills to bear such heavy loads.
  9. I have not strength to guard myself from ill,
  10. And, as I wish, to rule my wicked will.
  11. I'm hurry'd on, as by the boistrous sea
  12. The driving bark is swiftly borne away.
  13. No certain form inflames my am'rous breast,
  14. All beauty is alike to me the best;
  15. A hundred causes kindle my desires,
  16. And love ne'er wants a torch to light my fires.
  17. When on the earth the modest virgin looks,
  18. That very modesty of hers provokes;
  19. And if I chance to meet a forward fair,
  20. I'm taken with her frank and easy air:
  21. I figure to myself a thousand charms,
  22. A thousand raptures in her wanton arms.
  23. If, like the damsels of the Sabine race,
  24. She's rude, I look upon it as grimace;
  25. That sullen as she seems at first, 'tis art,
  26. That I the more may prize the conquest or her heart.
  27. New joys, if she's a wit, I hope to find;
  28. And with her body, to possess her mind:
  29. If foolish, I in that can see no harm,
  30. And in her very folly find a charm.
  31. I know a maid so very fond, and dull,
  32. To me she thinks Callimachus a fool.
  33. I soon am pleas'd with one that's pleas'd with me,
  34. Alike we in our taste and wish agree:
  35. But if the fair my verses don't approve,
  36. I bragging tell her, she will like my love;
  37. If with her tongue, or with her heel she's brisk,
  38. Her prattle pleases, and her gamesome frisk;
  39. But if she's heavy, I suppose at night
  40. She'll change, and prove, as I would have her, light,
  41. The fair that sings, enchants me with her voice;
  42. Oh, what a gust it gives a lover's joys!
  43. When her shrill shakes afresh his bosom wound,
  44. And from her lips he kisses off the sound;
  45. When her soft fingers touch the silver strings,
  46. And sweetly to the sounding lute she sings;
  47. Who can resist such strong redoubled charms?
  48. Her music melts me, as her beauty warms
  49. If in the dance the nimble nymph I find,
  50. And view how she her pliant limbs does wind,