OVID: THE ART OF LOVE - Book-I (Parts XI-XIX)
(ARS AMATORIA)
tkline.freeserve.co.uk
Translated by A. S. Kline ã2001 All Rights Reserved
Book I contd - Parts XI-XIX
Book I Part XI: Don’t Forget Her Birthday!
It’s a mistake to think that only farmers working the fields,
and sailors, need to keep an eye on the season:
Seed can’t always be trusted to the furrow,
or a hollow ship to the wine-dark sea,
It’s not always safe to capture tender girls:
often the time itself makes for success.
If her birthday’s here, or the April Kalends,
that delight in joining months, Venus’s to Mars,
or if the Circus is decorated, not as before
with clay figurines but with the wealth of kings,
delay the thing: then winter’s harsh, the Pleiades are here,
then the tender Kid is merged with the ocean wave:
it’s best to hold off then: then he who trusts the deep,
can scarcely save the wreckage of his mangled boat.
It’s fine to start on that day of tears when the Allia
flowed with the blood poured from Roman wounds,
or when the Sabbath day returns, the holy day
of the Syrian Jews, less suitable for buying things.
Let your mistress’s birthday be one of great terror to you:
that’s a black day when anything has to be given.
However much you avoid it, she’ll still win: it’s
a woman’s skill, to strip wealth from an ardent lover.
A loose-robed pedlar comes to your lady: she likes to buy:
and explains his prices while you’re sitting there.
She’ll ask you to look, because you know what to look for:
then kiss you: then ask you to buy her something there.
She swears that she’ll be happy with it, for years,
but she needs it now, now the price is right.
If you say you haven’t the money in the house, she’ll ask
for a note of hand – and you’re sorry you learnt to write.
Why - she asks doesn’t she for money as if it’s her birthday,
just for the cake, and how often it is her birthday, if she’s in need?
Why - she weeps doesn’t she, mournfully, for a sham loss,
that imaginary gem that fell from her pierced ear?
They many times ask for gifts, they never give in return:
you lose, and you’ll get no thanks for your loss.
And ten mouths with as many tongues wouldn’t be enough
for me to describe the wicked tricks of whores.
Book I Part XII: Write and Make Promises
Try wax to pave the way, pour it out on scraped tablets:
let wax be your mind’s true confidante.
Bring her your flattering words and play the lover:
and, whoever you are, add a humble prayer.
Achilles was moved by prayer to grant Hector’s body to Priam:
a god’s anger’s deflected by the voice of prayer.
Make promises: what harm can a promise do?
Anyone can be rich in promises.
Hope lasts, if she’s once believed in,
a useful, though deceptive, goddess.
If you’ve given, you can quite reasonably be forgotten:
she carried it off, and now she’s nothing to lose.
But if you don’t give, always appear about to:
like barren fields that always cheat the farmer,
like the gambler who goes on losing, lest he’s finally lost,
and calls the dice back endlessly into his eager hand.
This is the work, the labour, to have her without giving first:
and she’ll go on giving, lest she lose what she’s freely given.
So go on, and send your letter’s flattering words,
try her intention, test the road out first.
Cydippe was deceived by the message the apple brought,
and unaware the girl by her own words was caught.
I warn you, youths of Rome, learn the noble arts,
not just to defend some trembling client:
like the crowd, the grave judge, the elected senate,
a woman will give her hand, won by eloquence.
But let your powers be hidden, don’t display your eloquence:
let irksome words vanish from your speech.
Who, but a mindless fool, declaims to his sweet friend?
A strong letter often causes her displeasure.
Let your speech be credible, use ordinary words,
flattering though, speak as if you were present.
If she won’t receive the letter, returns it un-read,
stick to your plan, and hope she’ll read it later.
In time stubborn oxen come to the plough,
in time the horse learns to suffer the bridle:
constant use wears away an iron ring,
the curved plough’s lost to the endless furrow.
What’s harder than stone, softer than water?
Yet soft water carves the hardest stone.
Once steadfast you’ll conquer Penelope herself in time:
you’ll see Troy captive, though it’s captured late.
She reads and won’t reply? Don’t press her:
just let her keep on reading your flattery.
If she wants to read, she’ll want to answer what she’s read:
such things proceed by number and by measure.
Perhaps at first a cool letter comes to you,
asking: would you please not trouble her.
What she asks, she fears: what she doesn’t ask, she wants,
that you go on: do it, and you’ll soon get what you wish.
Book I Part XIII: Be Where She Is
Meanwhile, if she’s being carried, reclining on her bed,
secretly approach your lady’s litter,
and to avoid offering your words to odious ears,
hide what you can with skill and ambiguous gestures.
If she’s wandering at leisure in the spacious Colonnade,
you join here there also, lingering, as a friend:
now make as if to lead the way, now drop behind,
now go on quickly, and now take it slow:
don’t be ashamed to slip amongst the columns,
a while, then move along side by side:
don’t let her sit all beautiful in the theatre row without you:
what you’ll look at is the way she holds her arms.
Gaze at her, to admire her is fine:
and to speak with gestures and with glances.
And applaud, the man who dances the girl’s part:
and favour anyone who plays a lover.
When she rises, rise: while she’s sitting, sit:
pass the time at your lady’s whim.
Book I Part XIV: Look Presentable
Don’t delight in curling your hair with tongs,
don’t smooth your legs with sharp pumice stone.
Leave that to those who celebrate Cybele the Mother,
howling wildly in the Phrygian manner.
Male beauty’s better for neglect: Theseus
carried off Ariadne, without a single pin in his hair.
Phaedra loved Hippolytus: he was unsophisticated:
Adonis was dear to the goddess, and fit for the woods.
Neatness pleases, a body tanned from exercise:
a well fitting and spotless toga’s good:
no stiff shoe-thongs, your buckles free of rust,
no sloppy feet for you, swimming in loose hide:
don’t mar your neat hair with an evil haircut:
let an expert hand trim your head and beard.
And no long nails, and make sure they’re dirt-free:
and no hairs please, sprouting from your nostrils.
No bad breath exhaled from unwholesome mouth:
don’t offend the nose like a herdsman or his flock.
Leave the rest for impudent women to do,
or whoever’s the sort of man who needs a man.
Book I Part XV: At Dinner Be Bold
Ah, Bacchus calls to his poet: he helps lovers too,
and supports the fire with which he is inflamed.
The frantic Cretan girl wandered the unknown sands,
that the waters of tiny sea-borne Dia showed.
Just as she was, from sleep, veiled by her loose robe,
barefoot, with her yellow hair unbound,
she called, for cruel Theseus, to the unhearing waves,
her gentle cheeks wet with tears of shame.
She called, and wept as well, but both became her,
she was made no less beautiful by her tears.
Now striking her sweet breast with her hands, again and again,
she cried: ‘That faithless man’s gone: what of me, now?
What will happen to me?’ she cried: and the whole shore
echoed to the sound of cymbals and frenzied drums.
She fainted in terror, her next words were stifled:
no sign of blood in her almost lifeless body.
Behold! The Bacchantes with loose streaming hair:
Behold! The wanton Satyrs, a crowd before the god:
Behold! Old Silenus, barely astride his swaybacked mule,
clutching tightly to its mane in front.
While he pursues the Bacchae, the Bacchae flee and return,
as the rascal urges the mount on with his staff.
He slips from his long-eared mule and falls headfirst:
the Satyrs cry: ‘Rise again, father, rise,’
Now the God in his chariot, wreathed with vines,
curbing his team of tigers, with golden reins:
the girl’s voice and colour and Theseus all lost:
three times she tried to run, three times fear held her back.
She shook, like a slender stalk of wheat stirred by the wind,
and trembled like a light reed in a marshy pool.
To whom the god said: ‘See, I come, more faithful in love:
have no fear: Cretan, you’ll be bride to Bacchus.
Take the heavens for dowry: be seen as heavenly stars:
and guide the anxious sailor often to your Cretan Crown.’
He spoke, and leapt from the chariot, lest she feared
his tigers: the sand yielded under his feet:
clasped in his arms (she had no power to struggle),
he carried her away: all’s easily possible to a god.
Some sing ‘O Hymenaeus’, some ‘Bacchus, euhoe!’
So on the sacred bed the god and his bride meet.
When Bacchus’s gifts are set before you then,
and you find a girl sharing your couch,
pray to the father of feasts and nocturnal rites
to command the wine to bring your head no harm.
It’s alright here to speak many secret things,
with hidden words she’ll feel were spoken for her alone:
and write sweet nothings in the film of wine,
so your girl can read them herself on the table:
and gaze in her eyes with eyes confessing fire:
you should often have silent words and speaking face.
Be the first to snatch the cup that touched her lips,
and where she drank from, that is where you drink:
and whatever food her fingers touch, take that,
and as you take it, touch hers with your hand.
Let it be your wish besides to please the girl’s husband:
it’ll be more useful to you to make friends.
If you cast lots for drinking, give him the better draw:
give him the garland you were crowned with.
Though he’s below you or beside you, let him always be served first:
don’t hesitate to second whatever he says.
It’s a safe well-trodden path to deceive in a friend’s name,
though it’s a safe well-trodden path, it’s a crime.
That way the procurer procures far too much,
and reckons to see to more than he was charged with.
You’ll be given sure limits for drinking by me:
so pay attention to your mind and feet.
Most of all beware of starting a drunken squabble,
and fists far too ready for a rough fight.
Eurytion the Centaur died, made foolish by the wine:
food and drink are fitter for sweet jests.
If you’ve a voice, sing: if your limbs are supple, dance:
and please, with whatever you do that’s pleasing.
And though drunkenness is harmful, it’s useful to pretend:
make your sly tongue stammer with lisping sounds,
then, whatever you say or do that seems too forward,
it will be thought excessive wine’s to blame.
And speak well of your lady, speak well of the one she sleeps with:
but silently in your thoughts wish the man ill.
Then when the table’s cleared, the guests are free,
the throng will give you access to her and room.
Join the crowd, and softly approach her,
let fingers brush her thigh, and foot touch foot.
Now’s the time to speak to her: boorish modesty
fly far from here: Chance and Venus help the daring.
Not from my rules your eloquence will come:
desire her enough, you’ll be fluent yourself.
Your’s to play the lover, imitate wounds with words:
use whatever skill you have to win her belief.
Don’t think it’s hard: each think’s herself desired:
the very worst take’s pleasure in her looks.
Yet often the imitator begins to love in truth,
often, what was once imagined comes to be.
O, be kinder to the ones who feign it, girls:
true love will come, out of what was false.
Now secretly surprise her mind with flatteries,
as clear water undermines the hanging bank.
Never weary of praising her face, her hair,
her elegant fingers, and her slender feet.
Even the chaste like their beauty to be commended:
her form to even the virgin’s pleasing and dear.
Why is losing the contest in the Phrygian woods
a cause of shame to Juno and Pallas still?
Juno’s peacock shows his much-praised plumage:
if you watch in silence, he’ll hide his wealth again.
Race-horses between races on the testing course,
love it when necks are patted, manes are combed.
Book I Part XVI: Promise and Deceive
Don’t be shy of promising: promises entice girls:
add any gods you like as witness to what you swear.
Jupiter on high laughs at lovers’ perjuries,
and orders Aeolus’s winds to carry them into the void.
Jupiter used to swear by the Styx, falsely, to Juno:
now he looks favourably on his own example.
Gods are useful: as they’re useful, let’s think they’re there:
take wine and incense to the ancient altars:
indifferent calm and it’s like, apathy, don’t chain them:
live innocently: the divine is close at hand:
pay what you owe, hold dutifully to agreements:
commit no fraud: let your hands be free from blood.
Delude only women, if you’re wise, with impunity:
where truth’s more to be guarded against than fraud.
Deceive deceivers: for the most part an impious tribe:
let them fall themselves into the traps they’ve set.
They say in Egypt the life-giving waters failed
in the fields: and there were nine years of drought,
then Thrasius came to Busiris, and said that Jove
might be propitiated by shedding a stranger’s blood.
Busiris told him: ‘You become Jove’s first victim,
and you be the stranger to give Egypt water.’
And Phalaris roasted impetuous Perillus’s body
in the brazen bull: the unhappy creator was first to fill his work.
Both cases were just: for there’s no fairer law
than that the murderous maker should perish by his art.
As liars by liars are rightfully deceived,
wounded by their own example, let women grieve.
Book I Part XVII: Tears, Kisses, and Take the Lead
And tears help: tears will move a stone:
let her see your damp cheeks if you can.
If tears (they don’t always come at the right time)
fail you, touch your eyes with a wet hand.
What wise man doesn’t mingle tears with kisses?
Though she might not give, take what isn’t given.
Perhaps she’ll struggle, and then say ‘you’re wicked’:
struggling she still wants, herself, to be conquered.
Only, take care her lips aren’t bruised by snatching,
and that she can’t complain that you were harsh.
Who takes a kiss, and doesn’t take the rest,
deserves to lose all that were granted too.
How much short of your wish are you after that kiss?
Ah me, that was boorishness stopped you not modesty.
Though you call it force: it’s force that pleases girls: what delights
is often to have given what they wanted, against their will.
She who is taken in love’s sudden onslaught
is pleased, and finds wickedness is a tribute.
And she who might have been forced, and escapes unscathed,
will be saddened, though her face pretends delight.
Phoebe was taken by force: force was offered her sister:
and both, when raped, were pleased with those who raped them.
Though the tale’s known, it’s still worth repeating,
how the girl of Scyros mated Achilles the hero.
Now the lovely goddess had given her fatal bribe
to defeat the other two beneath Ida’s slopes:
now a daughter-in-law had come to Priam
from an enemy land: a Greek wife in Trojan walls:
all swore the prescribed oath to the injured husband:
now one man’s grief became a nation’s cause.
Shamefully, though he gave way to a mother’s prayer,
Achilles hid his manhood in women’s clothes.
What’s this, Aeacides? Spinning’s not your work:
your search for fame’s through Pallas’s other arts.
Why the basket? Your arm’s meant to bear a shield:
why does the hand that will slay Hector hold the yarn?
Throw away the spindle wound laboriously with thread!
The spear from Pelion’s to be brandished by this hand.
By chance a royal virgin shared the room:
through her rape she learned he was a man.
That she was truly won by force, we must think:
but she still wanted to be won by force.
She often cried: ‘Stop!’ afterwards, when Achilles hurried on:
now he’d taken up stronger weapons than the distaff.
Where’s that force now? Why do you restrain
the perpetrator of your rape, Deidamia?
No doubt as there’s a sort of shame in having started first,
so it’s pleasant to have what someone else has started.
Ah! The youth has too much faith in his own beauty,
if he waits until she asks him first.
The man must approach first: speak the words of entreaty:
she courteously receives his flattering prayers.
To win her, ask her: she only wants to be asked:
give her the cause and the beginning of your longing.
Jupiter went as a suppliant to the heroines of old:
no woman ever seduced great Jupiter.
If you find she disdains the advent of your prayerful sighs,
leave off what you’ve begun, retrace your steps.
What shuns them, they desire the more: they hate what’s there:
remove her loathing by pursuing less.
The hoped-for love should not always be declared:
introduce desire hidden in the name of friendship.
I’ve seen the most severe of women fooled this way:
he who once was a worshipper, became a lover.
Book I Part XVIII: Be Pale: Be Wary of Your Friends
A pale colour would shame a sailor on the ocean wave,
who’s blackened by the rays of the sun:
and shame the farmer who turns the soil with curved plough
and heavy harrow, underneath the heavens.
And you who seek the athlete’s crown, you too
would be ashamed if all your body was white.
Let all lovers be pale: it’s the colour fitting for love:
it suits, though fools have thought it of no value.
Orion wandered pale, for Side, in the woods,
Daphnis was pale for his reluctant Naiad.
Let your leanness show your heart: don’t think it a shame
to slip a cape over your shining hair:
Let youthful limbs be worn away by sleepless nights
and care, and the grief of a great love.
To gain your desire, be miserable,
and those who see you can say ‘You’re in love.’
Should I lament, warn you perhaps that right and wrong
are confused by all? Friendship and loyalty empty words.
Ah me, it’s not safe to praise your love to a friend:
if he believes your praise, he’ll steal her himself.
But Patroclus never disgraced Achilles’s bed:
and how modest Phaedra was with Pirithous.
Pylades loved Hermione, just as Phoebus Pallas,
or as Castor was twin to you Pollux.
Who hopes for that, hopes for apple-bearing tamarisks,
and looks for honey in the middle of the stream.
All delight in what’s shameful: care only for their pleasures,
and are pleased too when trouble comes to others.
Ah it’s a crime! It’s not their rivals that lovers fear:
flee those you think are friends, and you’ll be safe.
Beware of brothers, relatives, and dear friends:
that crowd offers you true cause for fear.
Book I Part XIX: Be Flexible
I’ve done, but there’s diversity in women’s
hearts: a thousand minds require a thousand methods.
One soil doesn’t bear all crops: vines here
are good, olives there: this teems with healthy wheat.
There are as many manners of heart as kinds of face:
a wise man will adapt to many forms,
and like Proteus now, melt into the smooth waters,
now be a tree, now a lion, now a bristling boar.
These fish are speared, those caught on a hook:
others trawled in billowing nets with straining ropes.
One mode won’t suit you for every age-group:
the older hinds spot a trap from further off.
If the simple find you cunning, and the modest crude,
the poor things will straightaway mistrust themselves.
So it happens that she who fears to trust an honest man,
falls to the embrace of some low rascal.
Part of my task is left: part of the labour’s done.
Moor my boat here to the anchor-chains.
End of Book I |
