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.

She cast her eyes down on the humble ground;
Her eyes, so cast, an unknown sweetness found.
Mournful her looks; her mournful looks became
Shining thro' grief, and beautiful in shame.
I rush'd, resolv'd her golden locks to tear,
And with mad violence disrobe the fair;
But as I viewed her face, th' extended hand
Shrunk back, nor hearken'd to the harsh command.
Others protection seek by dint of arms,
Her only safeguard was—her wondrous charms.
I, who but late look'd insolently brave,
Fell from my height, and couch'd a suppliant slave:
I rav'd no longer at another's bliss,
But begg'd the transport of as sweet a kiss.
Smiling she said, " How grateful thy request!
If e'er my kisses please thee, take the best."
Oh, with what gust as from her soul they came!
Such might melt Jove, and stop the vengeful flame;
I fear'd my rival too enjoy'd the same.
These, better than from me she learn'd I thought,
Something taught new, alas! I wish'd untaught;
What most gave pleasure, that now stings the most;
Why were our darting tongues entirely lost?
Nor fret I thou in kissing shouldst excel,
And yet 'tis strange to know to kiss so well;
But ah! such lectures only could be read
By youthful tutors, and imbib'd abed.
That sage who'er these large improvements made,
Was by his pupil preciously repay'd.

Alas! poor Poll, my Indian talker, dies!
Go, birds, and celebrate his obsequies;
Go, birds, and beat your breasts, your faces tear,
And pluck your gaudy plumes instead of hair;
Let doleful tunes the frighted forest wound,
And your sad notes supply the trumpet's sound.
Why, Philomel, dost mourn the Thracian rage?
It is enough, thy grief at last assuage;
His crimson faults are now grown white with age.
Now mourn this bird; the cause of all thy woe
Was great, 'tis true, but it was long ago.
Mourn, all ye wing'd inhabitants of air,
But you, my turtle, take the greatest share;
You too liv'd constant friends and free from strife
Your kindness was entire, and long as life:
What Pylades to his Orestes vow'd.
To thee, poor Poll, thy friendly turtle show'd,
And kept his love as long as fate allow'd.
But, ah! what did thy faith, thy plumes, and tail,
And what thy pretty speaking art, avail?
And what that thou wert giv'n, and pleas'd my miss,
Since now the bird's unhappy glory dies ?
A lovely verdant green grac'd ev'ry quill,
The deepest vivid red did paint thy bill;
In speaking thou didst ev'ry bird excel,
None prattled, and none lisp'd the words so well.
'Twas envy only sent this fierce disease;
Thou wert averse to war, and liv'dst in peace,
A talking harmless thing, and lov'dst thine ease.
The fighting quails still live 'midst all their strife,
And even that, perhaps, prolongs their life.
Thy meat was little, and thy prattling tongue
Would ne'er permit to make thy dinner long:
Plain fountain water all thy drink allow'd,
And nut and poppy-seed were all thy food.
The preying vultures and the kites remain,
And the unlucky crow still caws for rain;
The chough still lives 'midst fierce Minerva's hate,
And scarce nine hundred years conclude her fate;
But my poor Poll now hangs his sickly head,
My Poll, my present from the east, is dead.
Best things are sooner snatch'd by cov'tous fate,
To worse she freely gives a longer date;
Thersites brave Achilles' fate surviv'd,
And Hector fell, whilst all his brothers liv'd.
Why should I tell what vows Corinna made?
How oft she begg'd thy life, how oft she pray'd ?
The seventh day came, and now the Fates begin
To end the thread, they had no more to spin;
Yet still he talk'd, and when death nearer drew,
His last breath said, "Corinna, now adieu!"
There is a shady cypress grove below,
And thither (if such doubtful things we know)
The ghosts of pious birds departed go;
'Tis water'd well, and verdant all the year,
And birds obscene do never enter there;
There harmless swans securely take their rest,
And there the single Phoenix builds her nest;
Proud peacocks there display their gaudy train,
And billing turtles coo o'er all the plain:
To these dark shades my parrot's soul shall go,
And with his talk divert the birds below;
Whilst here his bones enjoy a noble grave,
A little marble, and an epitaph:-
"In talking I did ev'ry bird excel,
And my tomb proves my mistress lov'd me well."

And must I still be guilty, still untrue,
And when old crimes are purg'd, still charg'd with new?
What tho' at last my cause I clearly gain?
Yet I'm asham'd so oft to strive in vain,
And when the prize will scarce reward the pain.
If at the play I in fop-corner sit,
And with a squinting eye gloat o'er the pit,
Or view the boxes, you begin to fear,
And fancy straight some rival beauty there.
If any looks on me, you think you spy
A private assignation in her eye;