The Art of Love

by Ovid

  Victim,” Busiris said. “Cure Egypt’s thirst!”

  And I could mention

  Perillus roasted in his own invention,

  The cruel bronze bull, by Phalaris—the biter bit.

  Both kings were right, for it’s good law, and fit,

  For a death-contriver to die by his own art.

  So let liars fool liars, and Woman smart

  From wounds in a war she was the one to start!

  Tears, too, can be helpful—they can move adamant.

  If you can, show her cheeks wet with tears; if you can’t

  (They don’t always come on cue),

  Dab your eyes with water, stage-manage the “dew.”

  Mix—who doesn’t who’s wise?—

  Kisses with your sweet talk, and if she tries

  To deny them, simply take what she denies.

  She may struggle at first and call you a sinner,

  But she doesn’t really want to be the winner.

  Only take care not to cause her soft lips pain

  With your raids—she mustn’t be able to complain

  That you’re so rough you bruise.

  Men deserve to lose

  The points they’ve won already if they snatch

  The foreplay kisses and fail to clinch the match.

  After all the kissing, how far away

  Were you from …? Ah, you were clumsy rather than shy, I’d say.

  Some force is permissible—women are often pleased

  By force, and like what they’re giving to be seized.

  The girl whose citadel is stormed

  By sheer audacity feels warmed,

  Complimented; the one who could have been attacked

  And taken by force but escapes intact,

  Although she affects to look glad,

  Feels let down, a little sad.

  Phoebe was raped by her lover, Hilaira by hers,

  Yet both ravished sisters loved their ravishers.

  And there’s the old tale—but it’s worth while

  Retelling it—of Achilles and the girl from the isle

  Of Scyros. It was years after Aphrodite,

  In return for Paris’s award for beauty

  When she triumphed on Ida over her two peers,

  Gave him his fatal prize; it was years

  After Priam welcomed his foreign relative,

  And a Greek wife came to live

  Inside Troy’s walls, and every chief

  Swore allegiance to the wronged husband, and the grief

  Of one man became

  A people’s cause. It was while (deep shame,

  Had his mother’s prayers not put him under stress)

  Achilles hid his manhood in a woman’s dress.

  What are you doing? Spinning’s not your concern,

  Grandson of Aeacus: you must earn

  Fame through another art of Pallas. Why do you stand

  With a basket on your shield arm, quite unmanned?

  Why do you hold in your right hand—

  The one by which great Hector will be slain—

  A soft wool-skein?

  Throw away that spindle with its troublesome thread,

  Pick up your spear instead!

  Deidamia, who shared his bedroom, found

  He was indeed a man, indeed she was “raped” (one’s bound

  To accept tradition, of course),

  But, still, she wanted to be taken by force.

  “Stay,” she begged him again and again, “please stay,”

  When Achilles was already on his way,

  His distaff dumped, a warrior under arms.

  But now I ask, “What harm’s

  Been done by force, Princess?

  Why do you wheedle and press

  The author of your rape to linger?”

  Agreed, shame points a finger

  At girls who make the first move, but agreed

  Also, it’s nice to follow a strong lead.

  It’s a vain, over-confident man who expects

  The woman to make the running. Our sex

  Should take the initiative, propose,

  Plead, coax with words—she’ll listen kindly to those.

  She’ll be yours if you ask; to be asked is all she requires;

  Just give her a start, and a good excuse to grant your desires.

  When Jupiter wooed a heroine, he went to her

  As a suppliant—no girl seduced great Jupiter.

  But if you find your pleas only produce disdain,

  Stop, take a step back, think again.

  Many women desire what eludes them and hate to be pressed;

  Play it coolly, hold their interest.

  Don’t ask as if you were sure of getting it in the end:

  Let the lover slip through, masked, in the name of friend.

  I’ve seen the hardest case fooled by this ploy—

  “Best friend” in no time became “darling boy.”

  [LATIN: Candidus in nauta…]

  A pale skin doesn’t suit a sailor—a man

  Exposed to sun and brine should have a tan;

  So should a farmer who with heavy harrow and share

  Turns the soil all day in the open air,

  And for you athletes going for the olive-wreath a white

  Body would be inapposite.

  All lovers should be pallid, it’s chic to be pale;

  Only fools deny it, pale skins rarely fail.

  Pale was Orion when he roamed the woods and pined

  For Side, pale was Daphnis when his naiad proved unkind.

  Look lean—it suggests passion; don’t blush to wear

  A neat cap on top of your well-washed hair.

  Night after sleepless night,

  Loss of appetite,

  Worry, love-sickness, they all make

  The young lover as thin as a rake.

  For your purpose, look so pitiful that you move

  The world to exclaim, “He’s in love!”

  Now shall I complain, or just tell you,

  That nowadays right and wrong are blurred? The value

  Of friendship’s nil, “good faith” is a mere phrase.

  I’m sorry to say that it’s not safe to praise

  Your girl in front of a friend—if he trusts what you’ve said,

  He’ll usurp your place in bed.

  “But,” you may protest,

  “Patroclus never fouled Achilles’ nest,

  Phaedra was safe with Pirithous, Hermione

  Was loved by Pylades honourably,

  As was Pallas by Phoebus and Helen by Castor, their brothers,

  And I could cite others.”

  Believe what you please.

  Swallow that and you’ll look for apples on tamarisk trees

  And honeycombs in rivers. Now only the base

  Appeals. Each man’s on his own pleasure chase,

  And the pleasure’s double

  If his enjoyment means another’s trouble.

  It’s a crime that it’s not their enemies

  Lovers have most to fear. The safest motto is:

  Shun those you trust. Cousins, brothers, peers—

  They are the ones who’ll justify your fears.

  [LATIN: Finiturus eram, sed…]

  I was about to end, but so various are women’s hearts

  That to catch a thousand takes a thousand arts.

  You don’t raise corn and fruit

  In the same field; one soil will suit

  Olives, another vines, and in other places

  Wheat thrives. Hearts have as many traits as faces.

  The wise man adapts himself to every style;

  He’s as versatile

  As Proteus, he can turn into a wave of the sea,

  A bristling boar, a lion, or a tree.

  Depending on the fish, angle, cast nets or trawl,

  And don’t employ the same technique for all

  Age-groups—a veteran hind

 
A good way off smells something in the wind.

  If a dunce finds you far too clever or a prude

  Thinks you’re gross and crude,

  Next day she’ll be sorry, tortured by self-doubt.

  That’s how it comes about

  That girls who shy away from decent lads

  Fall cheap into the arms of cads.

  [LATIN: Pars superat coepti…]

  This part of my task is finished, more remains.

  Let my boat rest here, I’ll drop the anchor-chains.

  * * *

  * A quotation from Virgil’s Aeneid, vi, 129—“Hoc opus, hic labor est.”

  BOOK TWO

  [LATIN: Dicite “io Paean!”…]

  Shout “Hurrah!,” a triumphant hurrah, for my traps have caught

  The quarry I sought.

  Each happy lover awards my poem the palm, first prize;

  I outshine Homer and Hesiod in his eyes.

  He’s as pleased as Pelops, the unknown face

  Who won both the chariot-race

  And Hippodameia, as pleased as Paris, the stranger

  Who snatched his bride from the heart of Sparta’s danger

  And spread his white sails for Troy.

  But why the hurry, boy?

  Your ship’s still out at sea,

  And the port I’m aiming for distant. Thanks to me

  You’ve a mistress, but that’s just a start. I’m teaching a beginner

  How to keep as well as how to win her.

  Hunting’s hard work, but so is guarding the kill;

  There’s some luck in the chase, but this takes real skill.

  I appeal to you, Venus and Cupid, and to you,

  Erato, the Muse whose name connotes love too—

  Be my friends now, if ever,

  And help me in this, my epic endeavour,

  To describe ways and means of keeping Love at home,

  The world-ranging gypsy who must roam,

  Being fickle and equipped

  With wings for flight not easily tied or clipped.

  [LATIN: Hospitis effugio praestruxerat…]

  Minos confined Daedalus, all exits blocked,

  Yet his guest found a bold way out. Having locked

  The Minotaur up, spawn of his mother’s guilt,

  Half-man, half-bull, having built

  The labyrinth, “Just king,” he pleaded, “send

  Me home now, let my exile end

  And Attica have my ashes. Since I was banned

  By unkind fate from my own land,

  Allow me to die there. If you hold the services I’ve done

  Cheap, then at least grant a return to my son.

  Or, if you won’t spare him, spare me.” He pleaded,

  And might have said much more, none of it heeded:

  Minos refused. Seeing the king’s will

  Was fixed, Daedalus thought, “I’ll use my skill,

  Here’s my chance. Land and sea are controlled

  And barred by him; one route’s left—the air. Be bold,

  Try it. Jupiter, pardon my enterprise!

  I don’t aspire to your starry house in the skies,

  But the tyrant has me in a fix,

  And this is the one way out. We’d swim the Styx

  If it offered a passage! Now I must invent

  New laws for human nature, test an element.”

  A crisis stirs invention. Who would believe

  That a man could ever cleave

  A path through air? But he ranged feathered wings,

  Like birds’, on a light frame with linen fastenings,

  And glued the base with melted wax. It was complete—

  A novel machine, a craftsman’s feat!

  Smiling, the boy fingered wings and wax,

  Not knowing the harness was for their own backs

  Till his father spoke: “These are the craft I’ve made

  To sail home by, with their aid

  We must fly from Minos. He may have shut

  All other escape routes, but

  The air’s not his—break through it

  With my invention—you can do it!

  But take great care:

  Don’t gaze at the stars, don’t go by the Bear

  Or the swordsman Orion; track me with the wings provided;

  I’ll lead, you follow; you’re safe, only be guided,

  For the wax won’t stand the heat if we go

  Too high, close to the sun, and if we drop too low

  Our beating wings will get sodden with spray.

  Steer in between. And, my son, stay

  Alert to the winds—when the breeze is behind,

  Sail with it.” While he’s telling him what to mind,

  He fits the gear on the boy, explains the technique—

  Like any mother bird instructing her weak

  Fledglings—and straps on the wings he’s made

  For his own shoulders, anxiously poised for this raid

  On the unknown. On the verge of flight, while the tears run

  Unchecked down his cheeks, he kisses his small son.

  Not from a mountain, but a modest height

  Above the plain, the pair launched on their tragic flight.

  Daedalus worked his wings, glanced back at his son’s, held the steady

  Course he’d planned. Already

  The wonder of it thrilled them. Fear gone, Icarus flew

  With growing skill and daring. (The airborne two

  Froze a lone angler in mid-action,

  Who dropped his quivering rod in stupefaction.)

  Naxos, Paros, Delos—Apollo’s favourite isle—

  Slid by. To the north, meanwhile,

  Lay Samos, southward Lebynthos, the thick, shady trees

  Of Calymne, and the rich fisheries

  Of Astypalaea. Now it was that the boy,

  Childishly reckless in the careless joy

  Of flying, left his sire

  And soared higher and higher,

  Dangerously close to the sun-god’s fire.

  The wax was melting, the fastenings gave, his arms flailed

  To get a grip on the thin air, and failed.

  Terrified, he looked down from the skies

  At the waves, and panic blackness filled his eyes.

  The wax all melted, his arms, now bare,

  Thrashed in the unsupporting air,

  With a shudder he plunged, and as he went called out,

  “Father, Father, I’m falling!” till his shout

  Was choked by the grey-green sea. Aghast,

  His father, now a father in the past,

  Was crying, “Icarus, where are you?,” crying,

  “Icarus, whereabouts in the sky are you flying?”

  Then he saw the floating plumes.

  Earth has his bones; his name the sea assumes.

  [LATIN: Non potuit Minos…]

  Minos failed to clip man’s wings, and here am I

  Hoping to pin down a god who can fly!

  You’re a dupe if you mix with Thessaly’s black arts:

  The growth on a foal’s forehead, animals’ secret parts,

  The herbs of Medea, the mumbo-jumbo songs

  Of up-country witches—none of them prolongs

  Love. If they worked, Medea would have detained

  Jason by spells, and Circe kept Ulysses chained.

  Don’t give love-potions, they’re dangerous and bad:

  They can affect the brain and drive girls mad.

  In fact, don’t play foul. If you want to be loved, be nice:

  A fine face and physique never suffice.

  You may be Nireus, the handsomest man in Homer’s book,

  Or Hylas, whom the naughty, doting naiads took,

  But to keep your girl and not be thrown off balance

  By being deserted, you must have mental talents

  As well as physical charms. Beauty’s a frail flower,

  It grows less with the years, it wea
kens by the hour.

  The violet dies, the bell-mouthed lily goes,

  The hard thorn’s left behind after the rose.

  It’s the same with you, my debonair

  Young fellow: soon grey hair

  And furrowing wrinkles will arrive.

  Now is the time to contrive

  A good mind to add to your looks: that alone will endure

  To the end, to the pyre. Make sure

  You cultivate the liberal arts, and learn to speak

  Not only perfect Latin but good Greek.

  Ulysses wasn’t handsome, but he had

  Such eloquence that two sea-goddesses were mad

  For his love. Calypso wept at his haste to be going

  And swore the water was too rough for rowing!

  Again and again she asked about Troy, and he told the tale

  In so many different ways it was never stale.

  There on the shore, the lovely goddess begged, “Friend,

  Tell me about King Rhesus’ bloody end.”

  And he with a stick he happened to have in his hand

  Drew diagrams on the firm sand.

  “Here’s Troy,” he’d say—and with the damp

  Sand built a wall. “Here’s Simois. Our camp

  Imagine over there. There’s the plain”—and he smoothed a plain—

  “Where we butchered the spy Dolon on the look-out to gain

  Achilles’ steeds. Rhesus camped there; that night I rode

  Back on the captured horses.” He would have showed

  Calypso more,

  But a wave raced up the shore

  And washed Troy, Rhesus, and his camp away.

  At which the goddess exclaimed, “What did I say?

  How can you trust this sea when one wave effaces

  All those famous names and places?”

  And so, since looks may let you down unkindly,

  Don’t rely on them blindly.

  Reader, whoever you are, you must

  Have something safer than physique to trust.

  Tactful kindness is the key to the door

  Of a girl’s heart; roughness breeds anger, hatred, war.

  We loathe the hawk for his bellicose nature

  And the wolf because he’s a sheep-murdering creature,

  But the gentle swallow men never snare,

  And doves get turreted houses in the air.

  Steer clear of arguments, sarcasm, heat—

  Baby love needs a diet that’s soft and sweet.

  Let married couples go in for trouble and strife

  Like eternally quarrelling litigants (for the wife

  It’s natural—rows are the dowry she brings),

  Your girl should hear only the things

  She wants to hear. With you two it’s love instead