The Art of Love

by Ovid

  Nude Venus wringing out her spray-wet hair.

  We’d like to think that you’re asleep

  While you’re at your toilet; women should keep,

  Till the work’s perfected, out of sight.

  Do I have to know why your complexion’s white?

  Shut the boudoir door—why show

  A half-finished painting? Men don’t need to know

  Too much; most of what you do

  Would shock us if it weren’t concealed from view.

  The splendid statues in our theatres—you would sneer

  If you looked at them closely: wood with gilt veneer.

  That’s why the public aren’t allowed near

  Until the work’s completed,

  And why, too, we men shouldn’t be treated

  To the sight of you making up. I don’t ban

  Combing your hair out in front of a man

  So that it ripples down your back, but take care

  Not to lose your temper trying to repair

  Knots and tangles. And please spare

  Your lady’s-maid: I hate a girl who scratches

  Her servant’s face, or snatches

  A needle up and jabs her arm. The poor thing curses

  The head she’s dressing and meanwhile nurses

  A bloody wound, weeping, hating

  The very hair she’s titivating.

  If your hair’s a problem, either post a guard

  At your boudoir door, or have it done where men are barred,

  At the Good Goddess’s temple. I once bounced

  Into a girl’s room unannounced,

  And, flustered, she put her wig on the wrong way round.

  I wouldn’t want my enemy to be found

  In such a predicament—a disgrace

  Fit for a female of the Parthian race.

  A hornless bull, a bald field, a leafless bush

  And a hairless head all make us wince and blush.

  Who are my pupils? Semele, or Leda, or the maid

  From Sidon the false bull betrayed

  And carried over the sea,

  Or Helen, whom Menelaus, sensibly,

  Wanted back and Paris, sensibly too,

  Kept as his prize? No, it’s not stars like you

  Who’ve come to consult me in my guru role,

  But women as a whole,

  Pretty and plain alike (alas,

  Most of them in the latter class).

  Real beauty has no need of our

  Advice: its dowry is its own unaided power.

  When the sea’s face is smooth, the captain lolls on deck,

  But it’s “All hands!” when it’s ugly, threatening wreck.

  A flawless face is rare:

  Mask your blemishes as best you can, take care

  To hide your body’s faults. If you’re dumpy, sit in a chair

  (You could be taken for seated if on your feet!),

  Or stretch yourself, however petite,

  On a couch, legs under a wrap, out of sight,

  So inquisitive eyes can’t estimate your height;

  If you’re scrawny, go in for thick-woven, profuse

  Garments, a robe hanging loose

  Over the shoulders; if your skin’s pallid, puce

  Stripes are the answer; if it’s swarthy, make use

  Of white, contrasting linen from the Nile;

  If you’ve ugly feet, conceal them in buskin-style

  Bootees; if your calves are too lean,

  Keep them confined, don’t let them be seen;

  Pads help jutting shoulder-blades, and a bra is a must

  For a flat bust;

  If your nails are rough and your fingers fat,

  Don’t gesticulate; if your breath’s bad, never chat

  On an empty stomach, and leave a good space

  Between your mouth and your lover’s face;

  If you’ve a tooth that’s black, protruding, or askew,

  To laugh’s a fatal thing to do.

  Would you believe it, women study even the act

  Of laughing! That, too, calls for tact.

  The mouth should be opened only so wide,

  The dimples kept small on either side,

  And the top teeth at the tip

  Just covered by the lower lip—

  No interminable, side-splitting

  Merriment, but a sort of light trill, as is befitting

  To their sex. Whereas one girl will twist her

  Face into a grotesque guffaw, her sister

  Will stagger about bent double

  So you’d think she was weeping in real trouble,

  While a third emits a raucous, unpleasing sound

  Like the bray of a donkey pushing the millstone round.

  Where doesn’t art come in? They learn to cry so that men

  Find it attractive, turn the tap where, and when,

  And at any pressure they choose.

  Damn it, don’t we hear them abuse

  The laws of the alphabet, forcing their tongues to misp-

  ronounce letters with an artificial lisp?

  So a fault acquires chic, and they mangle words and teach

  Themselves the power to spoil their power of speech.

  Pay attention to all these points, they can do you good.

  Learn how to use your body as a woman should:

  The walk is a part of sex-appeal at which you can’t scoff—

  It turns a stranger on or puts him off.

  A. sways her hips skilfully, lets her robe flow and flare

  With the welcomed air,

  An arrogant, mincing charmer;

  While B., like the sun-reddened wife of an Umbrian farmer,

  Has a huge, gawky stride.

  But here, as in most things, moderation should preside—

  One woman moves like a bucolic spouse,

  The other more decadently than taste allows.

  In spite of which, by all means flaunt the charm

  Of a naked upper right arm—

  It especially suits you girls whose flesh is white;

  Just the sight of a shoulder like that makes me long to kiss and bite!

  The Sirens, those bird-women of the main,

  With their sweet voices could detain

  The swiftest ship. Ulysses, though bound fast,

  Almost wrenched himself free of the ropes round the mast

  When he heard their song (the rest,

  Ears plugged with wax, stayed self-possessed).

  Song is a seductive thing:

  All women should learn how to sing—

  In many cases

  The voice is as good a procuress as the face is.

  Know the latest hits from the stage,

  And the new tune from Egypt that’s all the rage.

  An educated (my way) girl won’t lack the skill

  To handle both the strings and quill.

  When Orpheus touched his lyre, the sound

  Moved rocks and beasts, and held spellbound

  The rivers of Hell and the three-headed hound;

  And when Amphion played

  (That noble avenger of his mother’s shade),

  Stones leapt gladly to form new walls for his city.

  Even a dumb dolphin was moved to pity

  By Arion’s lyre—you know the famous fable.

  You should also be able

  To cope with the Phoenician harp—a very

  Suitable instrument when a party’s merry.

  Know your poets: Callimachus, Philetas, and the bard

  From Teos, that old man who drank so hard,

  And Sappho (have you ever read such sexy verse?),

  And Menander whose duped fathers always curse

  Rascally slaves. Read tender Propertius; read Gallus;

  And quote, of course, from you, Tibullus;

  Read Varro’s epic tale of ancient Greece,

  The Argonauts, about the golden fleece

  Which brought poor He
lle little joy;

  Read the Aeneid, whose hero fled from Troy

  And from whose settlement towering Rome has sprung—

  The noblest poem in our Latin tongue.

  Who knows, one day my name may rank among

  Theirs, and my works succeed

  In escaping Lethe; someone will say, “Read

  That stylish poem in which our Master provides

  Brilliant advice for both sides

  In the sex war; take from his Love Poems some choice

  Passage and read it aloud in a feeling voice,

  Or recite one of his Heroines’ Letters—here

  Was a new art-form, he was the pioneer.”

  O Apollo, Bacchus, the nine Muses, O you

  Spirits of long-dead poets, make it come true!

  [LATIN: Quis dubitet, quin…]

  Yes, you’ve guessed right, I’d have every girl enhance

  Her image by knowing how to dance,

  So that when wine’s poured and guests call for an act,

  She can oblige. Why not? Stage stars attract

  Applause, such are the ballet’s charms,

  By the sinuous movements of their hips and arms.

  I feel ashamed to offer advice

  About trivia, but girls should play knucklebones and dice

  And board-games. You have to think ahead. Sacrifice

  Or protect a piece? Retreat or attack?

  For instance, in tric-trac,

  Or the war-game, you mustn’t be rash, but plan

  Coolly when under a pincer attack you lose a man,

  And your lone king’s driven back to where he began.

  Then there’s spillikins—the problem’s lifting

  Them one by one without the whole heap shifting;

  Backgammon—a twelve-point board with the same

  Number of zones as the tricky year; and the game

  With a small board and three counters each side—you fill

  Three squares in a row for the kill.

  There are any number, all sorts

  Of games and sports:

  It’s a shame when girls won’t learn them, for where they’re played

  Friendships are easily made.

  Yet cleverly exploiting the dice’s roll

  Matters far less than self-control.

  In games we’re rash, in our eagerness we reveal

  The naked passions we feel:

  Rage shows its ugly face, and lust for gain,

  There are arguments, brawls, raw nerves, pain,

  The air’s thick with accusations and the sound

  Of raised voices, angry gods are invoked all round,

  Someone’s suspicious—“The slate must be wiped clean!”—

  Indeed, I’ve often seen

  Tears running down faces.

  If you want to stay in men’s good graces,

  May Jupiter be your saviour

  And keep you from such barbarous behaviour!

  [LATIN: Hos ignava iocos…]

  These are the pastimes which a

  Lazy Nature has given women; men’s scope is richer—

  They have ball-games, hoops, javelins, armed combat, horses

  To train and manage round the courses.

  You women custom bars

  From the grounds and the icy baths in the Field of Mars,

  And you don’t swim in the Tiber even when it’s flowing

  Gently. Still, you have the pleasure of going

  For a saunter in the shade,

  When August scorches heads, down Pompey’s colonnade,

  Or up the Palatine, to the temple where we thank

  Laurelled Apollo who sank

  Cleopatra’s fleet, to the monuments our revered

  Leader’s sister and wife have reared,

  And the statue of Agrippa, his great “son,”

  With the crown of the naval victory he won.

  Savour the incense in the Egyptian shrine

  Of the cow-goddess; visit all three theatres and shine

  In the best seats; go to the Circus—warm blood on the ground

  And chariot-wheels red-hot as they round

  The turning-post! Men can’t desire

  What isn’t there to admire:

  What’s unseen must stay unknown.

  A pretty woman’s useless all alone.

  Though you may deserve to be ranked among

  The greatest divas who’ve ever sung,

  You’ll give no pleasure voiceless, lyre unstrung.

  If Apelles had never posed her just so

  For that painting, Venus would be still below

  The foam, invisibly lurking.

  What are we dedicated poets working

  So hard for but fame? It’s our goal, our prayer.

  Both gods and monarchs used to care

  For poets in the good old days:

  Choirs were richly rewarded, poets reaped praise,

  Prestige and titles, not to mention

  Regular cash gifts, even a pension.

  Though born in Calabria’s mountains, Ennius rose

  By merit, and shares a tomb with the Scipios.

  But the ivy-wreath’s ignored now, and the bard

  Who sits up late labouring hard

  For the Muses is called a layabout. All the same,

  There is a reward for the sleepless quest for fame.

  Who would have heard of Homer unless we had

  The published proof, his evergreen Iliad?

  Or of Danaë if she’d stayed in the king’s power

  And ended up an old maid in her brazen tower?

  You pretty girls, a crowd pays—join the group,

  Cross your threshold, get around. The she-wolf stalks the troop

  To seize one sheep, the eagle aims its swoop

  At a flock of birds. A beautiful woman should show

  Herself in public: you never know,

  Out of the ruck

  One man may spot you and be struck.

  To be admired, be seen all over the place,

  Devote great care to your figure and your face.

  Luck plays a big part. Keep your fish-hook dangling—

  They’re where you least expect them, when you’re angling.

  Hounds can scour mountain woods and draw a blank—

  And then a stag, with only himself to thank,

  Walks into the nets. Could chained Andromeda have dreamt

  She would attract a lover, blubbering, unkempt?

  Yet we know that when a man

  Dies and the widow’s plan

  Is to find a new one, a parade of funeral feeling—

  Dishevelled hair, abandoned sobs—is quite appealing.

  [LATIN: Sed vitate viros…]

  But steer clear of the young professor

  Of elegance, the too good-looking, snappy dresser

  Who’s always arranging his hair—he’ll tell you a stale,

  Thousand-times-told tale;

  His heart’s a gypsy, it camps, it moves.

  What can a woman do when the man she loves

  Is smoother than she is and, for all she can tell, Has more men than she does as well?

  It’s hard to believe, but it’s true, Troy would have stayed

  Unsacked had Cassandra’s warnings been obeyed.

  Some men conduct their siege under a disguise

  Of passion in order to lay hands on the prize—

  A shameful ploy. Don’t be fooled by his sleek,

  Scented hair, tight-laced shoe-tongues, chic,

  Fine-textured togas, or the ring

  (Single or plural) glittering

  On his hand. The best-dressed one of the lot

  May well be a thief who’s after what

  You’re wearing, not your body. When one pounces,

  The mugged girl cries, “That’s mine!” and the echo bounces

  Round the piazza: “Give it back, that’s mine!”

  While you, Venus, from your daz
zling, golden shrine,

  And your fountain nymphs observe the brawl

  With no concern at all.

  A few men are notorious bad hats,

  But there are scores of false, philandering rats.

  The sad stories other girls retail

  Should teach you to quail

  For your own safety: lock your door to a treacherous male.

  Girls of Athens, don’t trust Theseus—the vow

  He makes by the gods he’s broken before now;

  Or you, Demophoön—

  Like father, like son,

  Once you left Phyllis you resigned all credit.

  If a man’s made a fair offer, said it

  In so many words, then promise in the same measure

  And, if he pays, meet your side of the bargain of pleasure.

  The girl who takes a gift and doesn’t honour

  The pact could loot the shrine of Isis, give belladonna

  And hemlock to a lover, cause the undying fire

  Of the Vestal Virgins to expire!

  I have the feeling

  I’m getting out of hand. The reins, Muse! No free-wheeling!

  Love should test the ground with the written word. (You’d better

  Be sure the maid who takes his letter

  Is trustworthy.) Read it closely, guess

  Whether he’s faking or in real distress,

  Then after a day or two write back—

  Delay, as long as it’s short, keeps men on the rack.

  On the one hand, don’t collapse without resistance,

  On the other, don’t too harshly snub persistence.

  Give him cause to hope and worry, then in each reply

  Diminish worry, raise hope high.

  You should write elegantly, yet choose

  Plain words—the ones we ordinarily use

  Are the best. Often a hesitant lover’s set ablaze

  By a good letter; equally, a phrase

  That’s barbarous or misquoted

  Can spoil the image of the pretty girl who wrote it.

  Even though you may not have achieved

  Married status, you have men you want deceived,

  So have your letters penned

  By a maid or a slave, don’t trust each new boy-friend

  With notes in your own hand. To hoard them, I admit,

  He’d have to be a complete shit,

  But they’re evidence all the same,

  As danger-packed as Etna is with flame.

  I’ve seen cases of wretched girls, scared pale,

  Made life-slaves through such blackmail.

  To me, repelling fraud by fraud makes sense—

  Arms against arms are legal in self-defence.

  Teach yourself the trick

  Of writing in different hands (the men are sick

  Who force me to give these tips!); to be safe, smooth over

  The wax before use, or someone may discover