The Art of Love by Ovid

mysteriously, Love dips his darts.
    So Hector made love with Andromache long ago
    (War wasn’t his only talent), and so
    Did great Achilles with his slave when, battle-spent,
    He lay on her soft bed in the tent,
    While you, Briseis, let hands still warm
    With Trojan blood fondle your naked form—
    Or was it rather that your body thrilled
    At the touch of a conqueror who’d killed?
    I tell you, you should approach the peak of pleasure
    Teasingly, lingeringly, at leisure.
    Once you’ve discovered the right
    Places to touch, the ones which delight
    Women most, don’t hold back through shame,
    Carry on with the game,
    And you’ll see her eyes light up, flash and quiver
    Like sunlight on the surface of a river.
    Soon she’ll be murmuring, moaning, gasping, saying
    Words in tune with the instrument you’re playing.
    But take care not to crowd on sail and race
    Ahead of her, don’t fall behind her either; matching pace,
    Arrive together at the winning-post
    In a dead heat. Of all pleasures this is the most
    Exquisite, when a man and a woman, satisfied,
    Lie in mutual surrender, side by side.
    That’s the rhythm to aim at—no hurry,
    No furtiveness, no worry.
    If dallying means danger, of course
    It’s best to raise the stroke of your oars,
    Or in other words to spur the galloping horse.
    [L ATIN :
Finis adest operi…
]
        Here this part of my task ends.
    You grateful young friends,
    Give me the palm, perfume my hair, bring a myrtle crown.
    Among the Greeks Podalirius won renown
    For medical skill, Nestor for knowing men’s hearts,
    Achilles for strength, Ajax for martial arts,
    Calchas as priest and seer,
    Automedon as charioteer;
    So I, too, have no peer
    In
my
field: love. Praise me, you youngsters, proclaim
    Me poet and prophet, broadcast my name
    World-wide.
    I’ve equipped you for war, just as Vulcan supplied
    Achilles with the arms he made.
    Go and conquer as he did, and if with the aid
    Of my weapons you lay an Amazon low,
    Let this inscription on the trophy go:
    “Ovid, our master, taught us all we know.”
    [L ATIN :
Ecce, rogant tenerae…
]
        But now the girls are begging for lessons. Your turn,
    Ladies. You’re my next concern.
    ----
    * A reference to Virgil’s
Eclogues
, ii, 52.

B OOK T HREE
    [L ATIN :
Arma dedi Danais…
]
    Having armed Greeks against Amazons, I must now prescribe
    Weapons, Penthesilea, for you and
your
tribe.
    You must fight on equal terms. Victory’s won
    Through the favour of kind Venus and her son
    Who ranges the world on wings. It wouldn’t be fair
    If women had to oppose armed troops with bare
    Breasts, for victory, then,
    Could only shame us men.
    “But why give venom to snakes? Why betray
    Our sheepfold to wild she-wolves?” you may say.
    Don’t smear the whole sex with the disgrace
    Of the few who are bad, judge each as a separate case.
    It’s true, Helen and Clytemnestra had to face
    Charges from both their husbands, and Eriphyle’s crime
    Sent Amphiaraus before his time,
    Together with his horses, hurled
    Still living to the underworld;
    But think of Penelope, chaste for ten years of war,
    And then for ten years more
    While her lord wandered; of Laodamia, who took her life
    To be with her husband; of Alcestis, a wife
    Who saved Admetus from the dead
    By offering to join them in his stead;
    Of Evadne’s cry, “Take me, we’ll embrace in the fire,
    Capaneus!” as she leapt on to the pyre.
    Virtue’s dressed as a woman, she’s feminine in gender—
    No wonder her sex’s view of her is tender—
    But faced with such paragons, my poetry fails:
    Mine’s a light pleasure craft, with small sails.
    What you’ll learn through me is only naughtiness;
    I’m going to teach you nothing less
    Than how you should be loved. Flaming arrows and bows
    Aren’t usually used by women, I don’t suppose
    I’ve seen many men hurt by those.
    Men frequently, girls rarely, cheat:
    Ask around—very few are accused of deceit.
    Although Medea was by then a