OVID: THE AMORES
Translated by A.
S. Kline ã2001
All Rights Reserved
This work may be freely reproduced, stored, and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose.
Contents
Book I Elegy I: The Theme of Love
Book I Elegy II: Love’s Victim
Book I Elegy III: His Assets as a Lover
Book I Elegy IV: The Dinner-Party
Book I Elegy V: Corinna in an Afternoon
Book I Elegy VI: The Doorkeeper
Book I Elegy VIII: The Procuress
Book I Elegy X: The Poet’s Gift
Book I Elegy XI: His Note to Her
Book I Elegy XV: His Immortality
We
who were once five books are now three:
The
author preferred the work this way.
Now,
if it’s no joy to you to read us,
still
it’s a lighter punishment with two books less.
Book I
Just now, I was preparing to
start with heavy fighting
and violent war, with a
measure to fit the matter.
Good enough for lesser verse
– laughed Cupid
so they say, and stole a
foot away.
‘Cruel boy, who gave you
power over this song?
Poets are the Muses’, we’re
not in your crowd.
What if Venus snatched
golden Minerva’s weapons,
while golden Minerva fanned
the flaming fires?
Who’d approve of Ceres
ruling the wooded hills,
with the Virgin’s quiver to
cultivate the fields?
Who’d grant long-haired
Phoebus a sharp spear,
while Mars played the Aonian
lyre?
You’ve a mighty kingdom,
boy, and too much power,
ambitious one, why aspire to
fresh works?
Or is everything yours? Are
Helicon’s metres yours?
Is even Phoebus’s lyre now
barely his at all?
I’ve risen to it well, in
the first line, on a clean page,
the next one’s weakened my
strength:
and I’ve no theme fitting
for lighter verses,
no boy or elegant
long-haired girl.’
I was singing, while he
quickly selected an arrow
from his open quiver, to
engineer my ruin,
and vigorously bent the
sinuous bow against his knee.
and said, ‘Poet take this
effort for your song!’
Woe is me! That boy has true
shafts.
I burn, and Love rules my
vacant heart.
My work rises in six beats,
sinks in five:
farewell hard fighting with
your measure!
Muse, garland your golden
brow with Venus’s myrtle
culled from the shore, and
sing on with eleven feet!
How to say what it’s like,
how hard my mattress
seems, and the sheets won’t
stay on the bed,
and the sleepless nights, so
long to endure,
tossing with every weary
bone of my body in pain?
But, I think, if desire were
attacking me I’d feel it.
Surely he’s crept in and
skilfully hurt me with secret art.
That’s it: a slender arrow
sticks fast in my heart,
and cruel Love lives there,
in my conquered breast.
Shall I give in: to go down
fighting might bank the fires?
I give in! The burden that’s
carried with grace is lighter.
I’ve seen the torch that’s
swung about grow brighter
and the still one, on the
contrary, quenched.
The oxen that shirk when
first seized for the yoke
get more lashes than those
that are used to the plough.
The hot steed’s mouth is
bruised from the harsh curb,
the one that’s been in
harness, feels reins less.
Love oppresses reluctant
lovers more harshly and insolently
than those who acknowledge
they’ll bear his slavery.
Look I confess! Cupid, I’m
your latest prize:
stretching out conquered
arms towards your justice.
War’s not the thing – I come
seeking peace:
no glory for you in
conquering unarmed men.
Wreathe your hair with
myrtle, yoke your mother’s doves:
Your stepfather Mars himself
will lend you a chariot,
and it’s fitting you go, the
people acclaiming your triumph,
with you skilfully handling
the yoked birds.
leading captive youths and
captive girls:
that procession will be a
magnificent triumph.
I myself, fresh prize, will
just now have received my wound
and my captive mind will
display its new chains.
You’ll lead Conscience,
hands twisted behind her back,
and Shame, and whoever
Love’s sect includes.
All will fear you:
stretching their arms towards you
the crowd will cry ‘hurrah
for the triumph!
You’ll have your flattering
followers Delusion and Passion,
the continual crew that
follows at your side.
With these troops you
overcome men and gods:
take away their advantage
and you’re naked.
Proudly, your mother will
applaud your triumph
from high Olympus, and
scatter roses over your head
You, with jewelled wings,
jewels spangling your hair,
will ride in a golden
chariot, yourself all golden.
And then, if I know you,
you’ll inflame not a few:
and also, passing by you’ll
deal out many wounds.
You can’t, even if you wish,
suspend your arrows:
your fiery flames scorch
your neighbours.
Such was Bacchus in the
conquered land by Ganges:
you drawn by birds, he by
tigers.
So since I will be part of
your sacred triumph,
victorious one, spend your
powers frugally on me now!
Look at Caesar’s similar
fortunes of war –
what he conquers, he
protects with his power.
Be just, I beg you: let the
girl who’s lately plundered me,
either love me, or give cause why I should always love her!
Ah,
I ask too much – enough if she lets herself be loved:
Cytherea might listen to all
these prayers from me!
Hear one who serves you
through the long years:
hear one who knows how to
love in pure faith!
If no great names of ancient
ancestors commend me,
if the creator of my blood
was from the equestrian order,
if there aren’t innumerable
ploughmen to refresh my fields,
my parents are both
temperate and careful with wealth –
but Phoebus, his nine
companions, the creator of the vine,
they made me as I am, and
Amor, who gives me to you,
and unceasing loyalty,
sinless morals,
naked simplicity, noble
honour.
Not for me to satisfy
thousands, I’m not a fickle lover:
you’ll be, for me, trust me,
my eternal care.
With you, all the years the
Sister’s thread might grant me,
partaking of life, and
you’ll grieve at my death!
You’ll grant me a happy
theme for singing –
reasons for song, worthy of
you, will rise.
These have a name in song,
frightened Io of the horns,
and she who played by the
stream with the adulterous bird,
and she who was carried by
that false bull over the waves,
that virgin holding tight to
a crooked horn.
I
too will be sung likewise through all the world,
and
my name will always be linked to yours.
Your husband too will be
present at my banquet –
I
pray it’s his last meal, that man of yours!
Shall I look at my beloved
girl, like any guest?
One of you will be touching
what he pleases, and will you
the other, rightly subject,
be cherishing your love?
If he wishes, may he throw
his arms round your neck?
I cease to wonder that the
Centaurs full of wine
snatched up lovely
Hippodamia in their arms.
I don’t live in the woods,
or have limbs like a horse
but I can barely contain my
hands when I see you!
Still, know what you must
do, and don’t let
the east or the south wind
go carrying off my words!
Arrive before your husband –
not that I see what’s do-able
if you do come first, but
still come before him.
When he sinks on the couch,
as you recline at the table
there be the face of modesty
itself – secretly touch my foot!
Watch me and my nods, and
loquacious expression:
pick up their secret
messages and yourself reply.
Voiceless, I’ll speak
eloquent words with eyebrows:
my fingers will write words,
words traced out in wine.
When the lasciviousness of
our lovemaking occurs to you,
touch your radiant cheek
with a delicate thumb.
If it’s some silent
complaint against me you have in mind,
shadow your earlobe with a
tender hand.
When what I do, and say,
pleases you, light of my life,
keep continually twisting a
ring with your fingers.
Touch your hands on the
table, in the manner of prayer,
when you wish your husband
many well-earned evils.
What he mixes for you, you
know, order him to drink:
lightly ask the boy for what
you wish, yourself.
What you give up to the boy
I’ll take again first,
and, where you’ll drink
from, I’ll sip from there.
If by chance he offers you
what he’s tasted himself,
reject the gift of food from
his mouth.
Don’t let him drape his arms
around your neck,
or lay your gentle head on
his firm chest,
or your breasts or
convenient nipples accept his fingers.
Don’t, above all, be willing
to yield a single kiss!
If you surrender kisses,
I’ll make it clear I’m your lover,
and say ‘they’re mine!’, and
take possession.
Still all this I can see,
but what the cloth may well hide
that’s the cause of my
secret fears.
Don’t touch thigh to thigh,
or mingle legs,
or join the hard and the
tender foot to foot.
Wretch, I fear everything,
who’ve boldly done it all,
behold, I’m tormented by
fear of my own example.
Often my girl and I, with
quick pleasure,
completed the sweet work, the
cloth covering us.
You won’t do that: but, so
you’re not thought to have done,
remove that guilty cloth
from your table.
Always suggest he drinks –
but lips, disappoint his prayers!
While he drinks, if you can,
in secret, add neat wine.
If he lies there sedately
full of drink and sleep,
the time and place will give
us wisdom.
When you and I and all get
up to leave for home,
remember to be in the middle
of the moving crowd.
I’ll find you in that
procession, or you me:
whenever you’ve a chance to
touch me, touch away.
Alas for me! I’m reminded, I
only gain a few hours:
I’ll be separated, on
night’s orders, from my girl.
The man shuts you in at
night, I sad, with welling tears,
as is right, always haunt
that cruel entrance.
now he exacts kisses, now
not merely kisses,
what you give me secretly,
you give him by force of law.
But give them reluctantly
–you can do it – as if forced,
hold back blandishments, and
let Venus be stingy.
If my prayers have power, I
wish no pleasure for either:
if not that, then at least
no pleasure for you!
But still whatever fortune
brings tonight, tomorrow
to me, with constant voice,
deny you gave him anything!
It was hot, and the noon
hour had gone by:
I was relaxed, limbs spread
in the midst of the bed.
One half of the window was
open, the other closed:
the light was just as it
often is in the woods,
it glimmered like Phoebus
dying at twilight,
or when night goes, but day
has still not risen.
Such a light as is offered
to modest girls,
whose timid shyness hopes
for a refuge.
Behold Corinna comes, hidden
by her loose slip,
scattered hair covering her
white throat –
like the famous Semiramis
going to her bed,
one might say, or Lais loved
by many men.
I pulled her slip away –not
harming its thinness much;
yet she still struggled to
be covered by that slip.
While she would struggle so,
it was as if she could not win,
yielding, she was
effortlessly conquered.
When she stood before my
eyes, the clothing set aside,
there was never a flaw in
all her body.
What shoulders, what arms, I
saw and touched!
Breasts formed as if they
were made for pressing!
How flat the belly beneath
the slender waist!
What flanks, what form! What
young thighs!
Why recall each aspect? I
saw nothing lacking praise
and I hugged her naked body
against mine.
Who doesn’t know the story?
Weary we both rested.
May such afternoons often
come for me!
Doorkeeper – shameful! –
bound by a harsh chain,
open that door with the
hinge that’s hard to move!
What I ask is nothing – make
an entrance, a little crack
Love has thinned my body
with such long usage,
and given me limbs that lose
weight.
He’ll show you how to go
softly past watchful sentries:
he directs your inoffensive
feet.
Now once I was scared of the
night and vain phantoms:
I was amazed at anyone who
went out in the dark.
Cupid laughed, so I heard,
and his tender mother,
and said lightly, ‘You too
can become brave.’
Without delay, love came – I
don’t fear clutching hands
in my fate, or the flitting
shadows of night.
You, so slow, you I fear:
you’re the one to flatter:
you keep the bolt that can
finish me off.
Look – you can see, then,
undo the lock –
the doorway’s wet with my
tears!
Surely, when you stood
quivering, stripped for flogging,
I spoke words to your
mistress on your behalf.
So isn’t the favour that you
once valued – oh what a crime!
- not worth something of
equal value to me, now?
Repay the service in kind!
You’ll easily get what you want.
The night is passing: throw
open the door!
Open! Then, I say, you’ll be
eased of your long bondage,
and you won’t drink slave’s
water for ever!
Like iron you listen
uselessly to my prayers, doorkeeper,
the door’s barred solidly
with tough wood.
Barred gates are of use to a
city under siege:
what arms do you fear in the
midst of peace?
What will you do to your
enemies, who shut out lovers so?
The night’s passing: throw
open the door!
I don’t come accompanied by
armies and weapons:
I was alone till cruel Love arrived.
I couldn’t dismiss him even
if I wanted:
I’d first have to separate
myself from my limbs.
So Love, and a modicum of
wine going round in my head,
is here with me,
dew-drenched hair with a wreath askew.
Who’s afraid of an army like
this? Who isn’t open to them?
The night is passing: throw
open the door!
You’re slow: or asleep, do
lovers who curse you,
throw words to the winds,
lost to your ears?
But, I remember, when I
wanted to hide from you,
you kept good vigil under
the midnight stars.
Perhaps a little friend
stays with you now –
alas, your fate is better
than mine!
As long as it’s so, pass
your harsh chains to me!
The night is passing: throw
open the door!
Am I wrong, or didn’t the
door resound with turning hinges,
giving out the strident
noise of panels thrown back?
I am wrong – the entrance
was struck by an airy blast.
Ah me, how the far-off
breeze carries my hopes!
Boreas, if the memory of
raped Orithyia, is enough,
come here and beat with your
gale on these deaf posts!
All the city’s silent, and
wet with glassy dewfall
the night is passing: throw
open the door!
Or I’m ready now myself with
the sword and fire
that I hold, to attack this
proud house.
Night and desire and wine
don’t urge moderation:
She quenches shame, Bacchus
and Love the fear.
I’ve tried it all: neither
threats nor prayers
move you, harder than your
doors themselves.
It doesn’t suit you,
guarding lovely girls’ thresholds,
you’re worthy of some
securer prison.
Soon Lucifer moves day’s
frosted axles,
and the birds rouse poor
wretches to their work.
But you, garland removed
from an unhappy brow,
lie there, all night, on the
cruel threshold!
To my mistress, when she
sees you thrown there at dawn,
you’ll bear witness of so
many evil hours consumed.
Farewell, anyway, and know
your duty’s over:
it’s no disgrace to admit
lovers slowly, so goodbye!
You too, cruel doorposts
with an inflexible threshold
and the tough wood of
fellow-slaves, farewell, you doors!
If there’s a friend here,
tie my hands –
they merit chains – while my
fury wanes!
Just now my fury
thoughtlessly struck my girl:
my darling’s weeping,
wounded by my mad hands.
Then I could have done
violence to my dear parents
or savagely taken a scourge
to the sacred gods!
Well? Didn’t Lord Ajax of the
seven-layered shield
lay out the sheep he caught
all over the fields,
and didn’t lawless
Orestes’s, avenging his father
on his mother, dare to call
up a spear for the secret Sisters?
So can’t I tear at her
done-up hair?
or unravel the girl’s flying
locks?
She was lovely like that.
I’d say like Schoeny’s daughter,
Atalanta, hunting game in
Maenalian hills:
or like Ariadne weeping as
the south wind
blew away perjured promises
and Theseus’s sails:
or who but Cassandra with
sacred ribbons in her hair,
on the ground, in your
temple, chaste Minerva.
Who’ll not say ‘madman,
barbarian!’ to me?
She said nothing: her mouth
slackened by trembling fear.
But her silent face still
showed reproof:
she accused me with
speechless mouth, in tears.
I’d sooner have wished my
arms to fall from my body:
easier to have lost a part
of myself.
I had a madman’s strength to
my cost
and the force of my
punishment was in it.
What are you to me, wicked
and murderous tools?
Submit to the binding
fetters, sacrilegious hands!
If I’d struck the least
citizen of the Roman masses,
I’d be punished – had I any
more right to hit her?
Tydeus, the wretch, left
behind the worst example.
He was the first to strike a
goddess – then me!
And he did less harm. I hurt
what I professed
to love: Tydeus was cruel to
the enemy.
Go, now, Conqueror, devise a
great triumph,
wreathe your hair with
laurel, and give thanks to Jove,
all the surging crowd,
following your chariot,
calling ‘Bravo! The great
man who conquered a girl!’
She’ll go ahead, sad
dishevelled captive,
all pale, except for her
wounded cheeks.
Lips bruised black would
have been more apt
and love-bites marking her
neck.
Lastly, if I had to act like
a swollen torrent,
and my blind anger make her
my prey,
wouldn’t it have been enough
to shout at the frightened girl,
or thunder away with harsh
threats,
or shamefully tear her tunic
from throat to waist?
-
Only her waistband would have felt my strength.
Instead I held her by the
hair I grabbed at her brow
marked those delicate cheeks
with cruel nails.
She stood there, stupefied,
with pale and bleeding face,
as if cut from everlasting
Parian marble.
I saw her terrified body,
her limbs trembling –
like a breeze blowing
through the poplar leaves,
or a soft west wind
troubling the slender reeds,
or the tips of the waves
touched by a warm southerly:
at length, the brimming
tears flowed down her face,
as water runs from the
melting snow.
Then for the first time I
began to realise her hurt –
the tears I had made her
shed were my blood.
Three times I tried to kneel
at her feet in supplication:
three times she pushed away
those repulsive hands.
Well, don’t hesitate, girl –
revenge will lessen the grief –
go at my face with your
nails straightaway.
don’t spare my hair or my
eyes:
Anger adds what you will to
weak hands:
don’t let so much as one sad
sign of my wickedness remain,
put your hair back in place
like it was before!
There’s a certain – Listen!
Anyone who wants to know
of a procuress! – there’s a
certain old woman called Dipsas.
She gets her name from the
thing – she never saw Dawn with her rosy horses, mother of dark Memnon, while
sober.
She’s learnt the Magi’s
tricks and Circe’s Aaean charms
and her art can make rivers
flow back to their source:
She knows what herbs to use,
how to whirl the bullroarer
and the value of the slime
from a mare on heat.
When she wants, she can make
cloud gather in the sky:
when she wants, she
brightens the day with a full sun.
If you can believe it, I’ve
seen the stars drip blood:
blood-red was the very face
of the Moon.
I suspect she changes, at
will, in the shadows of night
and her old woman’s body
grow feathers.
I suspect it, and that’s the
rumour. Her eyes shine too
with double pupils, and twin
lights come from the orbs.
She calls up ancient
ancestors, ghosts from the grave
and with long-winded charms
splits solid earth.
She herself set out to
desecrate our chaste bed:
nor did she lack an eloquent
tongue for doing harm.
Chance made me witness to
her speech: her instructions
went just like this – the
double doors hid me:
‘You know, the other day,
light of my life, you pleased
the rich young man? He’s always here, hangs on your look.
And why shouldn’t he? With
beauty second to none:
alas, you lack the training
worthy of your body.
I wish you to be as happy as
you’re lovely –
I’ll not be poor if you get
rich.
That opposing planet Mars
was doing you harm.
Mars transited: now Venus is
right for you.
Her move benefits you, come
and see! A rich lover
desires you: he’s got
attentions for you, those you lack.
he’s even handsome too, a
match for you:
if he didn’t want to win
you, Venus has fixed it.’
Someone blushed. ‘True,
modesty suits a pale face,
and good if you simulate it:
reality often harms us.
It’s well to keep your eyes
looking down at your lap,
the response should be
according to what he brings.
Perhaps under Tatius’s rule
the unwashed Sabine women
were unwilling to handle
several men:
but now Mars exerts his mind
on foreign warfare
and Venus rules in Aeneas’s
city.
Lovely girls play: she’s chaste,
whom nobody asks –
she asks herself, if naivety
doesn’t prevent her.
Look at those too that walk
round with serious faces:
lots of crimes arise behind
those frowns.
Penelope tested the young
mens’ strength with the bow:
it was a bow of horn that
proved the best.
Secretly gliding, the
circling years deceive us
and, quickly sliding, the
river’s waters go by.
Bronze gleams with use, a
nice dress looks to be worn,
a house that’s left in a
sorry state ages –
Beauty, unless you allow it,
withers without exercise.
Just one or two occasions
are not enough.
It’s better and not so
invidious to take from many.
The wolf eats best that
preys on the whole flock.
Look, what does that poet of
yours give you
but new verses? Choose from
a thousand lovers.
Look at the god of poets
himself with a golden robe,
he performs on the strings
of a gilded lyre.
He who gives should be
greater for you than Homer:
believe me, giving is the
clever thing.
And don’t despise a slave
who’s bought his freedom:
chalked feet from the market-place
are no crime.
And don’t let ancestral
portraits round the atrium fool you.
Impoverished lover, remove
yourself, and your fathers too!
The one, who’s handsome,
who, gift-less, asks for a night,
ask him in front of his
lover, what he’ll give!
Don’t ask a great reward,
while you spread your net,
lest they fly: once captive
oppress them with your law!
No harm in pretending love:
but, if he thinks himself loved,
beware lest he sets the
price of your love at nothing!
Often deny him nights.
Pretend you’ve a headache,
or it’s the days of Isis, to
give him a reason.
Receive him again soon,
don’t let him get used to suffering,
lest love slacken through
often being repulsed.
Let your door be deaf to
prayers: welcome the giver:
let the one you receive hear
the words of those outside:
and, as if you were hurt
first, sometimes in anger hurt him –
the blame vanishes when you
repay with blame.
But never spend too long a
time being angry:
often an angry manner makes
for quarrels.
Rather learn to cry with
forced tears,
and make him, or yourself,
end with wet cheeks:
and if you’re cheating don’t
let perjury scare you –
Venus ensures the gods are
deaf to her games.
A page or sometimes a clever
maid should appear,
who has learned what gifts
are fitting for you:
and let them ask little for
themselves – if they often ask,
little stalks soon grow to a
vast heap.
Your sister and mother and
nurse can all fleece a lover:
booty can be gathered
quickly by many hands.
When you’re lacking in
reasons for asking gifts,
swear it’s your birthday,
and here’s the cake!
Beware of letting him love
securely, rival-free:
love never lasts if you take
away competition.
Let him see signs of
activity in your bed,
and show lascivious marks on
your bruised neck.
Above all show him the gifts
others have given.
If no one’s given, get some
from the Via Sacra.
When you’ve taken a lot, so
he shouldn’t seem to give all,
ask him to oblige with a
loan, you’ll never repay!
Please him with your tongue
and hide your feelings –
hurt him with flattery: foul
poison hides under sweet honey.
I offer you all this
learning from long experience,
don’t let the winds and the
breeze blow my words away,
living, you’ll often say
good things of me, and often pray,
that my bones rest softly
after I’m dead.’
Her voice was running on,
when my shadow betrayed me,
since my hands could
scarcely contain themselves,
ready to tear at that those
sparse white locks, and eyes
full of drunken tears, and
wrinkled cheeks.
May the gods grant her an
old age without roof or wealth,
and endless winters and
perpetual thirst!
Every lover’s in arms, and
Cupid holds the fort:
Atticus, believe me, every
lover’s in arms.
The age that’s good for war,
is also right for love.
An old soldier’s a disgrace,
and an old lover.
That spirit a commander
looks for in a brave army,
a lovely girl looks for in a
love partner.
Both keep watch: both sleep
on the ground,
one serves at his lady’s
entrance, the other his general’s.
A long road’s a soldier’s
task: but send the girl off,
and a restless lover will
follow her to the end.
He’ll go against mountains
and bend into stormy rivers,
he’ll push his way through
swollen snowdrifts,
he’ll not rely on excuses,
like angry northerlies,
or waiting for suitable
stars to take to the waves.
Who but a soldier or lover
could endure
cold nights or dense snow
mixed with rain?
One’s sent out to spy on
attacking forces:
the other keeps eye on his
rival, his enemy.
This one lays siege to
strong cities, that one his harsh friend’s entrance: one breaks down gates, the
other doors.
Often it helps to attack a
sleeping enemy,
and strike the unarmed mass
with armed hand.
That’s how Rhesus and his
fierce Thracians were killed
and forfeited the leader’s
captured mares.
Lovers, for sure, will make
use of a husband’s sleep
and employ their arms while
the enemy slumbers.
Getting past watchman’s
hands, and enemy sentinels
is work for soldiers and
wretched lovers.
Mars is chancy, Venus
uncertain: the fallen can rise again,
while those you think could
never be thrown are beaten.
So if you’ve called all
lovers idlers, forget it.
Love is all experience and
ability.
Great Achilles burns for
stolen Briseis –
while you can Trojans, smash
the Argive wall!
Hector went into battle from
Andromache’s arms,
it was the wife who placed
the helmet on his head.
The great lord Atrides, they
say, seeing Cassandra
that Trojan Maenad, was
enraptured by her flowing hair.
Mars too, surprised, felt
the blacksmith’s chain mesh:
there was never a greater
scandal in heaven.
I myself was lazy and born
to idle leisure:
bed and shade both softened
my mind.
Love for a lovely girl soon
drove the idler
and ordered him off to earn
his pay in camp.
Now see me, active and
fighting nocturnal wars.
If you don’t want to be
idle, fall in love!
Like the woman carried by
the ships from Eurotas
to Troy, the cause of war
between two husbands:
like Leda to whom the
adulterous god made love,
craftily hidden, disguised
in white plumage:
like Amymome wandering
through arid fields,
with a water-pot on top of
her head –
such were you: I feared
eagles and bulls, for you,
and whatever else great Jupiter might make love as.
Now all fear’s gone, my mind
is healed of error,
now your beauty can’t
captivate my eyes.
Why am I changed, you ask? Because
you want gifts.
That’s the cause that stops
you from pleasing me.
Once you were innocent, I
loved you body and soul:
now your beauty’s flawed by
this defect of mind.
Love is a child and naked:
without the shabbiness of age
and without clothing, so he’s
all openness.
Why tell Venus’s son to sell
himself for cash?
Where can he keep cash, he’s
got no clothes!
Neither Venus nor Venus’s
son carry arms –
unwarlike gods don’t merit
soldier’s pay.
Even the whore who’s buyable
for money,
and seeks alas to command
wealth with her body:
nevertheless curses a
grasping pimp’s orders,
and is forced to do, what you do by choice.
Think about unreasoning
creatures for example:
it’s a disgrace, if the
beasts are better natured than you.
Mares don’t ask gifts of
stallions, cows of bulls:
rams don’t capture pleasing
ewes with gifts.
Only a woman delights in
taking spoils from her mate,
only she hires out her
nights, comes for a price,
and sells what this one
demands, what that one seeks,
or gives it as a gift, to
please herself.
When making love pleases
both partners alike,
why should she sell and the
other buy?
When a man and a woman
perform a joint act
why should the pleasure hurt
me and profit you?
It’s wrong for witnesses to
perjure themselves for gain,
it’s wrong to open the purse
of the chosen judges.
It’s a disgrace to defend
the accused with a bought tongue:
a disgraceful court makes
itself wealthy:
it’s wrong to swell family
wealth with the bed’s proceeds,
or prostitute your good
looks for money.
un-purchased, things deserve
our thanks, on merit:
no thanks for the evil of a
bought bed.
The buyer loosens all bonds:
freed by payment
he no longer remains a
debtor in your service.
Beware, you beauties,
bargaining gifts for a night:
you’ll have no good outcome
from sordid presents.
Sabine bracelets weren’t
worth so much
when weapons pressed down on
the sacred virgin’s head:
and Eriphyle died, her son’s
sword through her body,
a necklace the reason for
her punishment.
Still there’s nothing
unworthy in asking gifts of the rich:
those who can give have
presents demanded of them.
Pick your grapes from the
most loaded vines:
Alcinous’s fruitful orchard
offers its apples!
Count on a poor man for
duty, loyalty, devotion:
what a man has, let him
gather it all for his lady.
My gift then’s to celebrate
worthy girls in my song:
those that I wish, are made
famous by my art.
dresses crumble, gold and
gems are worn down:
but the tribute of song
brings eternal fame.
It’s not giving, it’s being
asked for a gift I loathe and scorn:
Stop wanting what I refuse
to supply, and I’ll give!
Skilled at gathering unruly
hair and setting it in place
Nape’s not just an ordinary
lady’s maid,
she’s known to be useful in
the secret service
of night: clever at carrying
messages between us:
often exhorting a hesitant
Corinna to come:
often faithfully labouring
to find things out for me –
here take these wax tablets
by hand to my lady
and be sure to avoid
obstructions and delay!
There’s no stony vein or
harsh metal in your breast,
older than the others,
there’s no foolishness in you.
It’s easy to believe that
you’ve felt Cupid’s arrows –
see the traces of your
battles in me!
If she asks how I am, say I
live in hope at night:
you’ll carry the rest in
your hand, flattering waxen words.
While I speak, time flies.
Give her them when she’s free,
Make sure though that she
reads them straight away.
Watch her eyes and brow as
she chews them over:
and know that a silent face
may show the future.
When she’s read it I need a
long reply, and no delay:
I hate it when the clear wax
is mostly empty.
Let her squeeze the lines in
ranks, and hold my eyes
with letters that graze the
edges of the margins.
Why should she weary her
fingers holding a pen?
One word can take up the whole tablet: ‘Come!’
I won’t hesitate to wreathe
the victorious tablets with laurel
and set them up in the
centre of Venus’s temple.
I’ll write: ‘Naso dedicates
these loyal servants to Venus,
these tablets that till now
were worthless maple-wood.’
Weep for my misfortune – the
miserable tablets returned
with a wretched message
saying: ‘Can’t manage today.’
Omens mean something. Just
now when she wished to leave
Nape stopped when she
stubbed her toe on the threshold.
Remember next time you’re
sent out, crossing the doorsill,
pick your feet up, carefully
and soberly!
Away with these surly
tablets of funereal wood,
and you, wax, filled with
your negative message! –
Extracted I bet from honey
of long hemlock flowers
made by the infamous
Corsican bees.
Just as if you’d blushed,
steeped in deep dye –
that colour indeed was truly
bloody.
Useless wood, I’ll throw you
out at the crossroads,
so the weight of a passing
wheel can smash you!
Even the man who carved you
for use, from the tree,
I’m convinced the man had
impure hands.
That tree held some wretch
hung by the neck,
it offered itself as dread
executioner’s crosses:
it gave vile shade to the
screeching owls,
and carried their eggs and
vultures in its branches.
Madman, did I give these to
my lady, trusting
my love to them, to carry my
gentle words?
This wax is more fitted to
garrulous words of bail,
to be read aloud by some
hard mouthed attorney:
or better to throw these
tablets among the accounts,
where a miser goes weeping
for his lost wealth.
So I judge you, two-faced
things by nature.
The number itself is in no
way auspicious.
How to curse you, in anger,
other than crumbling age
might rot you, and whiten
your wax in a filthy place?
Now she rises over the
ocean, come from her aged husband,
the golden girl, who brings
day to the frozen sky.
‘Why hurry, Aurora? Wait! –
so the bird, Memnon’s shade,
can perform the annual
sacrificial rite!
Now I delight to lie in my
girl’s soft arms:
now she’s so sweetly joined
to my side.
now sleep’s still easy, and
the air is cool,
and the bird sings in full
flow from a clear throat.
Why hurry, unwelcome to men,
unwelcome to girls?
Restrain those dewy reins
with rosy fingers!
Before you rise the sailor
more easily watches for his stars
and wanders less unknowingly
in the deep:
the traveller, however
weary, rises at your coming,
and the fierce soldier takes
his weapon in hand.
You first see the farmer
burdened with his hoe in the field:
you first call the tardy
oxen to couple beneath the yoke.
You rob boys of sleep and
send them to their masters,
and submit the tender ones
to the lash of a savage hand.
You send the heedless
guarantor before that court,
where a single word carries
a heavy price.
No eloquence for you from
pleaders and lawyers,
you force them both to rise
to new litigation.
You, when the labours of
women might cease,
call back the spinner’s hand
to her duty.
I could endure it all – but
for girls to rise early,
who’d bring that about but
one who’s not a girl?
The number of times I’ve
begged night not to yield to you,
and the circling stars not
to flee before your face!
The number of times I’ve
begged a storm to crack your axle
or your wayward horses to
fall through thick cloud!
What, did she never burn for
Cephalus?
Does she think that
wickedness is unknown?
Hostile one, why hurry?
Because your son is black
is that the colour of your
maternal heart?
I wish Tithonus would tell
the truth about you:
there’d be no more
disgraceful tale in heaven.
Now you flee him, who’s so
much older than you,
early in mounting the
chariot, hateful to the old man.
But if you were leaving
Cephalus, caught in your arms,
you’d cry out: “Run slow, O
horses of the night!”
Why should I be punished in
love, if your husband
faints with age? Did you
marry the old man on my advice?
Look what a sleep the Moon
allowed her lover! –
And she’s not second to you
in beauty.
The father of the gods
himself, so as not to see you so often,
joined two nights together,
in his longing.’
I’d ended the brawl. You’ll
know I’d dared: she blushed –
but still the day rose as
usual, no more slowly!
I said: ‘Stop dyeing your
hair!’
Now you’ve no hair left to
colour.
Since it was so luxuriant,
why not have let it be?
It stretched right down, and
touched your sides.
Why? - If it was so fine,
and you were scared to dress it.
It was like a coloured veil
of Chinese silk,
or the slender thread spun
by a spider,
when she ties her fine work
to some deserted rafter.
It wasn’t black: it wasn’t
golden, however,
not quite either, a colour
mixed from both –
like a tall cedar, stripped
of its bark,
in a dewy valley of
mountainous Ida.
Add that it was docile, and
fit for a hundred styles,
and was never a cause of
grief to you.
No pin or tooth of a comb
ever broke it.
The maid doing your hair
kept her skin whole:
often in front of my eyes,
no, never a pin
tore your maid’s arm with a
wound.
Often, with your hair still
uncombed
you lay reclining on a bed
of purple.
But even neglected like that
it was lovely, like a weary Thracian Maenad’s, lying heedless on the emerald
grass.
Still, the hairs were fine,
like fleece,
alas, what suffering they
had to bear!
How they offered themselves
patiently to the steel and fire,
as their waves were twisted
and tied in ringlets!
I cried: ‘That’s wicked,
wicked to scorch your hair!
It’s fine as it is: go
carefully with the steel!
Take the pressure away! No
one ought to burn it:
your hair itself teaches
others how to pin theirs.’
Fear for the lovely hair –
that Apollo or Bacchus
would wish to have on their
heads!
I might have gathered it,
like naked Venus’s,
painted, she holding it in
her drenched hand.
Why search your neat hair
for what’s vilely lost?
Silly girl why hold the
mirror sadly in your hand?
It’s no use contriving to
stare at yourself:
you need to forget about
yourself, to please.
No mistress of magic herbs
has wounded you,
no Thessalian witch soaked
you in treacherous water:
no illness’s power has
touched you – perish the thought! –
No evil tongue has thinned
your dense hair.
Your hand did it and you’re
paying for your crime:
Now you’ll send for the hair
of German prisoners:
you’ll be safe, with the
gift of conquered peoples.
O how often you’ll blush
when someone praises your hair,
and say: ‘Now I’m counting
the cost of buying it,
I don’t know if they praise
the Sygambri instead of me.
It’s fame will be remembered
with mine.’
Alas! She scarcely contains
her tears and with her hand
hides her delicate cheeks
painted with blushes.
She holds her former hair in
her lap, and stares at it,
ah me, a tribute not fitting
for that place!
Calm yourself, doing your
face! The harm’s reparable.
Shortly your natural hair
will be seen again.
Gnawing Envy, why reproach
me with an indolent life:
and call the work of my genius
idle song?
Is it that I don’t follow
the custom of the country,
seek the dusty reward of
army life while I’m young?
That I don’t study wordy
laws,
or prostitute my voice in
the forum?
The work you seek is mortal.
I seek eternal fame,
to be sung throughout the
whole world forever.
Homer will live, while Ida
and Tenedos stand,
while Simois still runs
swiftly to the sea:
Hesiod, as well, while the
vintage ripens,
while the crops fall to the
curving blade.
Callimachus will always be
sung throughout the world:
not because of his
imagination, but his art.
The tragedies of Sophocles
will never be lost:
nor Aratus as long as
there’s a sun and moon:
While devious slaves, stern
fathers, cruel pimps,
and enticing whores live, so
will Menander:
Artless Ennius, and
brave-voiced Accius
have names that no time will
erase.
What age will not know
Varro’s tale of the first ship,
and Jason leading the quest
for the Golden Fleece?
Then, the works of sublime
Lucretius will endure,
while there’s a day left
till the world’s ruin.
Virgil’s pastorals, and the
Aeneid will be read,
while Rome triumphs over the
world:
While Cupid’s weapons are
still the torch and arrows,
they’ll speak your measures,
elegant Tibullus:
Gallus will be renowned in
the west, Gallus in the east,
and Lycoris will be famous
with her Gallus.
So, while granite, while the
unyielding ploughshare
perish with the years,
poetry will not die.
Leaders and countries yield
to the triumphs of song,
and the lavish waters of
gold-bearing Tagus yield!
Let the masses gaze at
trash: let golden-haired Apollo
offer me a brimming cup of
Castalian waters,
and I’ll wear a wreathe of
myrtle, that hates the cold,
and be read by many an
anxious lover!
Envy feeds on the living:
it’s quiet after death,
while everyone who’s dead
gets their due honours.
So even when I’m given to
the final flames,
I’ll live, and the better
part of me will survive.
End
of Book I