The Art of Love (Modern Library Classics) by Ovid

Author:Ovid [Ovid]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9780307801838
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2013-02-20T05:00:00+00:00

[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,

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