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. The ghosts of pious birds departed go;
  2. 'Tis water'd well, and verdant all the year,
  3. And birds obscene do never enter there;
  4. There harmless swans securely take their rest,
  5. And there the single Phoenix builds her nest;
  6. Proud peacocks there display their gaudy train,
  7. And billing turtles coo o'er all the plain:
  8. To these dark shades my parrot's soul shall go,
  9. And with his talk divert the birds below;
  10. Whilst here his bones enjoy a noble grave,
  11. A little marble, and an epitaph:-
  12. "In talking I did ev'ry bird excel,
  13. And my tomb proves my mistress lov'd me well."
  1. And must I still be guilty, still untrue,
  2. And when old crimes are purg'd, still charg'd with new?
  3. What tho' at last my cause I clearly gain?
  4. Yet I'm asham'd so oft to strive in vain,
  5. And when the prize will scarce reward the pain.
  6. If at the play I in fop-corner sit,
  7. And with a squinting eye gloat o'er the pit,
  8. Or view the boxes, you begin to fear,
  9. And fancy straight some rival beauty there.
  10. If any looks on me, you think you spy
  11. A private assignation in her eye;
  12. A silent soft discourse in ev'ry grace,
  13. And tongues in all the features of her face.
  14. If I praise any one, you tear your hair,
  15. Show frantic tricks, and rage with wild despair;
  16. If discommend, 0 then 'tis all deceit,
  17. I strive to cloak my passion by the cheat.
  18. If I look well, I then neglect your charms,
  19. Lie dull and lazy in your active arms;
  20. If weak my voice, if pale my looks appear,
  21. 0 then I languish for another fair.
  22. Would I did sin, and you with cause complain,
  23. For when we strive to shun, yet strive in vain,
  24. 'Tis comfort sure to have deserv'd the pain.
  25. But sure fond fancies now such heats engage,
  26. Your cred'lous peevish humour spoils your rage.
  27. In frequent chidings I no force can see,