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. Mournful her looks; her mournful looks became
  2. Shining thro' grief, and beautiful in shame.
  3. I rush'd, resolv'd her golden locks to tear,
  4. And with mad violence disrobe the fair;
  5. But as I viewed her face, th' extended hand
  6. Shrunk back, nor hearken'd to the harsh command.
  7. Others protection seek by dint of arms,
  8. Her only safeguard was—her wondrous charms.
  9. I, who but late look'd insolently brave,
  10. Fell from my height, and couch'd a suppliant slave:
  11. I rav'd no longer at another's bliss,
  12. But begg'd the transport of as sweet a kiss.
  13. Smiling she said, " How grateful thy request!
  14. If e'er my kisses please thee, take the best."
  15. Oh, with what gust as from her soul they came!
  16. Such might melt Jove, and stop the vengeful flame;
  17. I fear'd my rival too enjoy'd the same.
  18. These, better than from me she learn'd I thought,
  19. Something taught new, alas! I wish'd untaught;
  20. What most gave pleasure, that now stings the most;
  21. Why were our darting tongues entirely lost?
  22. Nor fret I thou in kissing shouldst excel,
  23. And yet 'tis strange to know to kiss so well;
  24. But ah! such lectures only could be read
  25. By youthful tutors, and imbib'd abed.
  26. That sage who'er these large improvements made,
  27. Was by his pupil preciously repay'd.
  1. Alas! poor Poll, my Indian talker, dies!
  2. Go, birds, and celebrate his obsequies;
  3. Go, birds, and beat your breasts, your faces tear,
  4. And pluck your gaudy plumes instead of hair;
  5. Let doleful tunes the frighted forest wound,
  6. And your sad notes supply the trumpet's sound.
  7. Why, Philomel, dost mourn the Thracian rage?
  8. It is enough, thy grief at last assuage;
  9. His crimson faults are now grown white with age.
  10. Now mourn this bird; the cause of all thy woe
  11. Was great, 'tis true, but it was long ago.
  12. Mourn, all ye wing'd inhabitants of air,
  13. But you, my turtle, take the greatest share;