The Art of Love

by Ovid

  Then talk about you, and in convincing fashion

  Swear that you’re dying of a frantic passion.

  Work fast, though—sails may slacken, winds die away:

  Pique, like thin ice, melts with delay.

  Will it help your cause, you may ask, to seduce the maid?

  Playing such games is a dangerous trade;

  They act as brakes as frequently as spurs:

  Will she view you as her mistress’s prize, or hers?

  It can go either way, and, though you may gain

  By taking a bold risk, my advice is, Abstain.

  Rock-climbing and peak-scaling aren’t part of my plan

  Of attack. No young man

  Will be taken prisoner while I’m in command.

  On the other hand,

  If, as she ferries notes to and fro, her beauty

  As well as her zeal in doing her duty

  Happens to please you, then take

  The mistress first and make

  The maid your afters. It would be a sin

  Against taste to begin

  By fucking the maid. One warning (if you trust

  My skilled advice, if some greedy gust

  Doesn’t blow my words out to sea): Take heed,

  Either don’t try at all or make damned sure you succeed.

  Once she’s a guilty partner in your crime,

  She won’t turn informer. Once its wings feel the lime,

  Does the bird escape? Does the boar break out,

  Once the loose net has him? Play your hooked trout,

  Press her hard, harass her, haul her to land,

  Don’t budge till you’ve got the upper hand.

  Where there’s shared guilt, there’ll be no betraying,

  And you’ll be told all your mistress is doing or saying.

  But guard your spy’s secret—you’ll get the low-down on your lover

  Just as long as you don’t blow her cover.

  [LATIN: Tempora qui solis…]

  There’s a mistaken notion

  That only those who work the fields or sail the ocean

  Observe the seasons. You can’t entrust grain

  To the treacherous earth, or hulls to the green main,

  Any day of the year, and the same is the case

  With catching girls: the right time and place

  Improve the chances. Thus, on certain dates

  (Her birthday; April the First, when Rome celebrates

  Venus conjoined with Mars; and the Saturnalia,

  When the Circus displays rich gifts and regalia,

  Not the pottery images of a former age),

  Postpone your attempt—then the worst storms rage,

  The Pleiads glower, and the huge swell

  Half drowns the little Kid. You’ll do well

  To pause now. Blithely launch a boat,

  And with luck and a spar you may just survive afloat.

  Start work on a grim day, like the one when Allia’s water

  Was crimsoned with the slaughter

  Of Roman dead, or the sabbath feast

  The Syrian Jews observe, the day least

  Fit for business, when most trade is dead.

  But view with superstitious dread

  Your mistress’s birthday, surely the most unpleasant

  Day in the calendar—you’re forced to give a present.

  Dodge as you may, she’ll collect: every woman discovers

  Ways of extracting loot from ravenous lovers.

  When she’s in a spending mood,

  Some half-naked, rude

  Huckster comes up and spreads his wares for her,

  Poor you sitting by. To make you feel like a connoisseur,

  She begs you to look them over, then starts to ply

  You with kisses and, finally, asks you to buy—

  She wants it right now, it’ll please her for years to come,

  Now’s the time to get it … Protest that you don’t have the sum

  In cash in the house, she’ll demand

  (You’ll wish you’d never learnt to write!) a note-of-hand.

  Good God, she can have a birthday at will, can make

  Any date an excuse for claiming a birthday-cake.

  She can burst into tragic tears

  And pretend that a jewel’s dropped from one of her ears.

  They’re always borrowing things that don’t get returned:

  It’s your loss, and not a thank-you earned.

  I’d need ten mouths and ten tongues to list the damnable arts

  Of these money-grubbing tarts.

  [LATIN: Cera vadum temptet…]

  Let the wax of the writing tablet smooth your way,

  Let the wax, like a boat, cross over and convey

  Your mind, and a cargo of flatteries in the style

  Lovers use; however grand you are, pile

  The entreaties on. By speaking fair

  Priam made Achilles give back Hector’s body. Prayer

  Moves even an angry god. By all means throw

  Promises in. Do they do any harm? No.

  We’re all rich men as far as promises go.

  Hope, once trust starts her off, will run and run,

  A deceptive goddess, but a useful one.

  Once you’ve given her something, you may be dropped—reasonably so:

  It’s hers, she’s lost nothing, she can let you go.

  What you don’t give she’ll keep thinking she’s going to receive:

  That’s how, so often, barren fields deceive

  Their owners, how the gambler, for fear of loss,

  Goes on losing with every toss

  Of the dice which his greedy fingers ask

  To have again and again. “Herein lies the task,

  The great labour”*—to part with nothing before

  She’s given herself, so she’ll give more and more

  Lest she lose what she’s given already. So,

  Let a persuasive letter go

  In a careful hand, in order to find

  A way forward and to test her mind.

  By a message scratched on an apple Cydippe was betrayed:

  The words, once read aloud, were hers, and trapped the maid.

  [LATIN: Disce bonas artes…]

  Young Romans, study the noble art

  Of eloquence—not merely to take the part

  Of some trembling client: just as the common herd,

  Grave judges, elected senators, find the power of the word

  Irresistible, so do women. But take care

  To hide your powers, avoid long words, too clever an air.

  Who but a fool would be declamatory?

  The effect of a letter can be most unamatory.

  Write in a natural, credible style,

  In words that are simple but can still beguile,

  As though you were there, with her. If she rejects your letter

  And sends it back unread, just hope for better

  Luck tomorrow and hold fast

  To your purpose. Time at last

  Breaks stubborn oxen to the plough, in time the horse

  Learns to put up with the bridle, in the course

  Of time the rub of long use wears

  An iron ring thin, and even ploughshares

  Crack with the furrows’ friction.

  It’s no contradiction

  That water’s soft, stone hard, and yet

  A drip can hollow rock. Don’t forget,

  Troy took a long time to fall, but it fell:

  Persist and you’ll take even Penelope’s citadel.

  So she’s read it and won’t reply? You feel like assault and battery?

  Just see that she goes on receiving regular flattery.

  Once she’s consented to read, she’ll consent to answer. These

  Matters proceed by gradual degrees.

  First you may get an unfriendly note requesting

  You to stop “this pestering and molesting.”
<
br />   What she demands she dreads, she wants the unasked, in a word

  Your pursuit. Press on, and you’ll catch your bird.

  [LATIN: Interea, sive illa…]

  Meanwhile, if she’s being carried in the street,

  Cushioned, in her litter, approach. Act cool, be discreet,

  And to foil eavesdroppers mask your talk,

  As well as you can, with double meanings. If she should walk

  Down the colonnade, share her outing, adjust your speed,

  Dawdling or brisk, to hers—you can trail her or take the lead.

  Or slip round the columns between you—don’t be shy—

  And in passing brush her thigh.

  If she goes to the theatre, go too, your admiring glance

  Following her (she’s sure to wear something to enhance

  Those shoulders!). Turn round, gaze to your heart’s content,

  And make your hands and eyebrows eloquent.

  When a dancer plays a girl’s role, lead the cheers,

  And clap whenever the lover appears.

  When she rises, rise; as long as she stays, sit on. Kill

  Time entirely at your mistress’s will.

  [LATIN: Sed tibi nec…]

  Don’t torture your hair with curling-tongs

  Or depilate your legs with pumice—that belongs

  To Mother Cybele’s eunuch priests who shriek

  Their Phrygian choruses. Casual chic

  Suits men best. Theseus managed to win

  Ariadne without benefit of a hair-pin.

  Phaedra loved Hippolytus and he wasn’t smart;

  Adonis, a man of the woods, captured a goddess’s heart.

  If you want to please, be neat and clean; when it’s hot,

  Tan in the Campus; wear a toga that fits, without spot;

  As for shoes, don’t lace them too tightly, take care

  That the buckles are rust-free, and never wear

  A too large size that your feet swim in; your hair

  Should be well cut so that it doesn’t stand

  At all angles—hair and beard need an expert’s hand;

  Nails should be pared and kept clean;

  Make sure there isn’t an obscene

  Tuft in your nostrils; and guard against halitosis,

  Don’t be a prime goat who offends all noses.

  Further refinements leave to the courtesan

  And the half-man cruising for another man.

  [LATIN: Ecce, suum vatem…]

  Lo, Bacchus summons his bard, the god who carries a torch

  For lovers, who feels, himself, the flames that scorch—

  As, fresh from sleep, the Cretan princess found,

  Grief-crazed, barefoot, robe ungirt, blonde hair unbound,

  Pacing the unknown shores of Naxos (little isle

  In the great weltering ocean), all the while

  Crying “Cruel Theseus!” The sea hears

  Nothing, the innocent tears

  Run down her tender cheeks, she weeps, she screams,

  Yet still, somehow, she seems

  Beautiful, her allure unrobbed

  By the tears. Hands beating her soft breasts, she sobbed,

  “He’s betrayed me, he’s gone! What will become of me?

  What …” Suddenly,

  The whole shore resounded

  With the noise of cymbals and drums frenziedly pounded.

  She broke off, the blood drained from her cold,

  Limp body, she fainted with fear. Behold

  The wild-tressed bacchanals, the wanton, gay

  Satyrs, the rout that leads the wine-god’s way,

  Old reeling-drunk Silenus in the train,

  Half off his sway-backed donkey, clutching its mane,

  While the maenads tease him with hide-and-seek,

  Fleeing, then pouncing, until the weak

  Rider, whipping the beast on, falls

  Off his long-eared mount on his head, to the satyrs’ calls

  Of “Get up again, Daddy!” Then the god arrives.

  In his chariot roofed with grape-clusters, he drives

  A team of tigers with golden harness on.

  Her voice, her colour, her Theseus, all gone,

  Three times the girl attempted flight,

  Three times stayed rooted to the spot with fright,

  Shivering like a slender cornstalk in a harsh

  Wind, or a frail reed in a marsh.

  “I am here,” said the god, “a truer lover than he was. Your life

  Is in no danger. You shall be Bacchus’ wife.

  The sky is your dowry; henceforward you are

  The Cretan Crown; a looked-for star,

  You will act as a guide to ships lost at night.”

  And lest she should take fright

  At the tigers, he leapt down (the sand held the print of his foot)

  And went to her and put

  His arms round her and carried her off. No struggle—with ease

  The gods accomplish anything they please.

  Some sang a wedding chorus, others cried

  “Long live Bacchus!” And so to bed go god and bride.

  [LATIN: Ergo ubi contigerint…]

  So, when the gifts of Bacchus bless the board

  And a girl’s sharing your couch, pray to the Lord

  Of Night and Licence not to allow

  His wine to fuddle your head, for now

  Is the time for ambiguities and hidden sense,

  Which she’ll feel are solely for her. Trace compliments

  In spilt wine on the table so she’ll surmise

  That she’s your sweetheart, gaze into her eyes

  With obvious ardour—a long, silent look

  Can say as much as a speech or a book.

  If she puts her wine down, be the first to snatch it up

  And drink from the side of the cup

  Her lips have touched; if she’s fingered some food, demand

  That bit, and in reaching for it brush her hand.

  If she’s come escorted, your best plan

  Is (he could be useful) to cultivate the man:

  When you dice for the drinking order, let him instead

  Of you have the honour; give him the garland from your head;

  Whether he’s placed below or with you, let him be

  The first to be served; defer to him, agree.

  A safe and well-worn ploy is to pretend

  To be the husband’s friend—

  Safe and practised all the time,

  But nevertheless a crime,

  As if some greedy steward were to enlarge

  His master’s remit and take total charge.

  Next, advice on the bounds you should set to drinking.

  Feet and mind should do their duty, walking and thinking.

  Beware, above all, of brawls brought on

  By liquor, of short-fused fist-fights. Eurytion

  The centaur died through mindless boozing. The table

  And wine are meant for good fun. If you’re able

  To sing, sing; if you’re supple, dance a measure:

  Please with whatever talent can give pleasure.

  Real drunkenness can harm you, but when it’s feigned

  It can be of use. With a clever tongue, trained

  To slip and slur, the risqué things you say or do

  Will be blamed on the wine, not you.

  Toast the lady, toast “the man who shares her bed”

  (Secretly wishing him dead);

  But when the tables are moved and the guests go, if the crowd

  Parts and you’re allowed

  The chance, mingle, drift close, and as you both leave

  Touch her foot with yours, tug at her sleeve.

  Now comes the chat-up stage. Away with naive

  Ploughboy shyness! Behave

  Boldly—Fortune and Venus favour the brave.

  Speak, but don’t follow some poet’s rule of thumb:

 
; Just show you desire her, and the eloquence will come.

  Play the lover to the hilt, you’re “desperate,” “heart-sick”;

  To get her to believe it employ any trick:

  It’s not hard—all women think they’re worth loving, the plain

  And the pretty being, in that way, equally vain.

  (Besides, sometimes an actor will begin

  To feel real love, his role become genuine.

  So be nice, you girls, to those who pretend:

  A bogus passion may turn out true in the end.)

  Like a stream eroding the bank hanging above it,

  Undermine her subtly with flattery—she’ll love it.

  Neat feet, slim fingers, good features, charming curls—

  Never tire of praising them. Even good girls

  Adore extravagant compliments, even virgins take

  Loving care over the impression they make.

  Why else should Juno and Pallas still begrudge

  The prize lost in the Trojan glade when Paris was judge?

  Juno’s peacock displays

  The jewels of her plumage at a word of praise,

  But shuts up shop before a silent gaze.

  And racehorses, between sprints on the track,

  Love their necks patted and their manes combed back.

  [LATIN: Nec timide promitte…]

  Don’t be shy of making promises; women are fair game

  For promise-makers; invoke any god you care to name

  To witness your oath. Jupiter from above

  Smiles on the perjuries of men in love

  And bids the Aeolian winds shred them in air.

  He himself would often swear

  To Juno with a hollow

  “By the Styx!,” and now he favours all who follow

  His bad example. That gods should exist

  Is expedient; let us therefore not resist

  Belief in them; let incense and wine be given

  On their ancient hearths, for the ones in heaven

  Don’t loll about in a sort of half-sleep,

  They’re everywhere; so live virtuously, keep

  Safe and return loans; honour your bond, eschew

  Fraud, and have nothing to do

  With bloodshed. A wise man will cheat

  No one but women—it’s not a risky feat,

  And only here there’s a kind of duty in deceit.

  Deceive the deceivers! Since for the most part

  They fib, let them fall, snared by their own art!

  Egypt, they say, once had a drought, her ears

  Of corn unrained-on for nine years,

  When Thrasius approached the king and demonstrated

  That the gods could be propitiated

  By a stranger’s blood. “Then you’re the first