The Art of Love by Ovid Page A

mother,
    Treacherous Jason dumped his bride and took another.
    As for you, Theseus, Ariadne in her solitude
    Could have ended up as gulls’ food
    For all the shame
    You
felt. Ask how Nine Ways got its name,
    And listen to the falling leaves
    Which the wood there sheds when it grieves
    For Phyllis who hanged herself beside the sea.
    Aeneas was noted for his piety,
    And yet, Dido, your guest supplied
    Both sword and motive for your suicide.
    What ruined you all? I’ll tell you. You all lacked
    Know-how, tact,
    The art of love that keeps the spark
    Of passion alive. And you’d still be in the dark
    If Venus hadn’t come to me in a dream
    And told me to give you a lecture on this theme.
    “What have women done to deserve it?” she said. “Poor,
    Defenceless mob, should they be pitted in war
    Against armed males? Now that two parts
    Of your poem have taught men the erotic arts,
    It’s time the opposition
    Enjoyed the benefit of your tuition.
    The poet who was Helen’s denigrator
    Retuned his lyre and sang her praises later
    In a happier key. Never say
    Bad words about us women! If I know you, you’ll stay
    Eager to win their favour till your dying day.”
    Then from her myrtle wreath she gave me a few
    Berries and a leaf. As I took them, I knew
    Her divine power: the air brightened
    And my heart lifted, strangely lightened.
    While her inspiration’s with me still, now
    (If modesty, your morals and the laws allow
    You to do so) take some tips, girls, from my page.
    Never forget that old age
    Will arrive, never let time
    Slip from you, wasted. While you’re in your prime,
    While you still can, have fun, play,
    For the years like water run away,
    The river glides, the hour moves on,
    And are irrevocably gone.
    Youth should be used, it vanishes so fast,
    And pleasures to come will be less than pleasures past.
    Those grey ghosts I remember as a violet-bed,
    Those thorns were once a gift, a rose-wreath for my head.
    You who now lock your lovers out—grow old,
    And you’ll lie alone at night, feeling the cold,
    Your door no longer battered
    By midnight drunks, your threshold never scattered
    With dawn roses. Oh yes, it’s sad
    That flab and wrinkles come so soon, too bad
    When the radiant complexion you once had
    Fades, and the streaks you swear
    You always had as a girl are suddenly everywhere—
    A whole head of grey hair!
    Snakes slough off age with their winter rags,
    And shed horns put no extra years on stags,
    But our looks go without upkeep. Pluck the flower; unpicked,
    It withers, ugly, derelict.
    Moreover, having children shortens the stage
    Of youth: overcropped fields soon age.
    Moon, when over Mount Latmos you had a crush
    On Endymion, you felt no need to blush,
    Nor was there, Aurora, in your eyes
    Any shame in making Cephalus your prize.
    Though Venus still mourns Adonis, all the same
    She bore two children with a different name.
    Follow the role models in the sky,
    Earthbound women, and don’t deny
    Your pleasures to hungry men. They may abuse
    Your trust. So what? What have you got to lose?
    Your balance is still safe, there’s been no cost.
    Let them take and take and take, nothing is lost.
    Though flint and iron get worn down by attrition,
    That
part remains unscratched, in mint condition.
    What’s wrong with taking a light from fire? Who’d be
    A miser with the vast, undrainable sea?
    If a woman says no, all she’s done is refused
    Available water that she might have used.
    I’m not saying, Go and get laid
    By all comers, but, Don’t be afraid
    Of shadows on the wall.
    When you give yourselves, you lose nothing at all.
    Ahead there are stronger winds, trickier seas;
    But I’m still in harbour—give me a light breeze!
    [L ATIN :
Ordior a cultu…
]
        I’ll start with body care. The best wines
    Come from well-tended vines,
    And the tallest crops with the best yield
    Are grown in a well-dug field.
    Beauty’s a gift of the gods. How many of you can boast
    That you have it? Frankly,