Read Online The Art of Love by Ovid - Free Book Online

recite them,
    Rubbish or not,
con amore
. You’ll delight them.
    Lines dedicated to
her
, by a lover,
    That he’s sweated all night over,
    Blue-stocking or peasant
    She’ll treat them as a little token “present.”
        Whatever you’ve planned already and suits you best,
    Make that appear your mistress’s request.
    If you’ve promised one of your slaves manumission,
    See that he begs her for
her
permission;
    If you let one off a punishment or chains,
    Put her in your debt for your “mercy”—the gain’s
    All yours, the credit hers; never let slip
    A chance for her to play Her Ladyship.
    If you’re anxious to keep her, it’s your duty
    To make her think you’re staggered by her beauty.
    Notice her clothes.
    Tyrian purple? Praise that. Coan silks? Praise those.
    A gold-embroidered dress? Make it clear
    That the gold is far less dear
    Than the wearer. An outfit in wool?
    Exclaim, “Wonderful!”
    If she stands beside you in her slip, shout, “Fire!”
    But at the same time, in a shy voice, enquire,
    “Don’t you feel the cold?” If the girl’s
    Changed her hair-style, applaud the new curls
    Or the switched parting. Admire her charms—
    Her voice when she sings, when she dances her arms—
    And when she stops clamour for more.
    When making love, you should “madly adore”
    Her sensuousness and expertise,
    And tell her in words the delicious things that please
    You specially. She may be as rough and wild
    As Medusa in bed, but for you she’s “sweet and mild.”
    While serving up these compliments
    Don’t for a moment ruin the pretence
    By your expression. Hiding art is the name of the game:
    Detection brings embarrassment and shame
    And—serve you right—an eternity of blame.
    [L ATIN :
Saepe sub autumnum…
]
        In early autumn, of all seasons the most sweet,
    When grapes grow purple and juice-replete,
    When one day we’re gripped by cold and the next limp with heat,
    And the weather’s changeable mood
    Brings on lassitude,
    May your girl keep well. But if she does fall ill
    And takes to bed with a fever or a chill
    Caught from the morbid air,
    Now is the time to show your loving care.
    Be a shrewd cultivator—
    Sow now, and you’ll reap a bumper harvest later.
    If the invalid’s peevish, don’t let it upset you;
    Do for her with your own hands whatever she’ll let you.
    Weep in front of her, kiss her again and again,
    Let the rain
    Of your tearful grief
    Bring her parched lips and mouth relief.
    Make vows for her recovery—aloud so she can hear,
    Tell her your dreams when she feels like listening—ones of good cheer,
    Hire an old witch with tottery legs
    And trembling hands to bring round sulphur and eggs
    To purify the room and the bed.
    All this will prove your willing love (it’s a route that’s led
    To many legacies!). Zeal, though, should keep its bounds:
    Don’t fuss, or your ministrations may become the grounds
    Of her displeasure. Never ban food, and never concoct her
    Bitter medicines. Leave rivals to play doctor.
    [L ATIN :
Sed non cui…
]
        The wind that spread your sails just offshore
    Won’t serve you any more
    In the open sea. Young, toddling love gains strength
    Through exercise. Nourish it well, and at length
    It’ll prove sturdy. The bull you fear, you used to stroke
    As a calf; you stretch out under an oak
    That was a sapling once; a river begins
    From frail, small origins,
    But it gathers power as it flows,
    Acquiring tributaries. See that your girl grows
    Used to you: habit’s the master key,
    Daily familiarity.
    If boredom’s the price, then pay. Hang around, in her sight,
    Chat to her, show your face day and night;
    And when you’re strong and confident, when you know
    She’ll feel your absence, really miss you, go—
    Give her a rest.
    A field pays best
    If trusted to lie fallow, dry terrain
    More eagerly drinks up the rain.
    Phyllis was lukewarm while Demophoön was there—
    It was his sailing caused her love to flare;
    When clever Ulysses