Amours

The vassal world is then thy own.

What you affirm'd, my friend, is prov'd untrue,

That none at once could madly dote on two.

Deceiv'd, unarm'd, we Cupid soon o'ercame,

And I glow shameless with a double flame.

They both are fair, both dress'd so nicely well,

That the pre-eminence is hard to tell.

Sometimes for this, sometimes for that I burn,

And each more beauteous sparkles in her turn.

Each claims my passion, and my heart divides

As to and fro the doubtful galliot rides.

Here driven by winds, and there redriven by tides.

Why doubly chain'd ? was not a single fair

Enough to load me with perpetual care?

Why are more leaves brought to the shady wood,

Stars to the sky, or waters to the flood ?

Yet better so than not to love at all;

Still on my foes may such dull blessings fall.

May they, insipidly supine, be spread

Along the middle of a widowed bed;

While I with sprightliness love's vigil's keep,

Stretch'd out for something far more sweet than sleep.

Others from ruin fly, to mine I run,

To be by women pleasingly undone,

Longing for two, since undestroy'd by one.

Still let my slender limbs for love suffice;

I want no nerves, but want the bulky size.

My limbs, tho' lean are not in vain display'd;

From me no female ever rose a maid.

Oft have I, when a luscious night was spent,

Saluted morn, nor cloy'd nor impotent.

Happy, who gasps in love his latest breath;

Give me, ye gods, so softly sweet a death !

Let the rough warriors grapple on the plain,

And with their blood immortal honour gain;

Let the vile miser plough for wealth the deep,

And, shipwrek'd in the unfatbom'd waters, sleep

May Venus grant me but my last desire,

In the full height of rapture to expire.

Perhaps some friend, with kindly dew supplied,

Weeping will say, "As Ovid liv'd, he died."

Poem 11, in which the poet prays that his Mistress will be safe as she travels by sea, is not here translated.

Io Triumphe! I have won the prize,

For in my arms the fair Corinna lies.

Nor jealous husband, nor a guardian's care,

Nor door defended with a double bar,

Could fence against a lover's artifice,

For in my arms the fair Corinna lies.

With reason of my victory I boast,

The conquest gain'd, and yet no blood is lost;

I scal'd no walls, I pass'd no ditch profound,

Safe were my wars, and all without a wound.

My only work a charming girl to gain;

The pleasure well rewards the little pain.

Ten years the Greeks did in one siege employ,

But levell'd were, at length, the walls of Troy;

What glory was there by th' Atrides won,

So many chiefs before a single town!

Not thus did I my pleasant toils pursue,

And the whole glory to myself is due;

Myself was horse and foot, myself alone

The captain and the soldier was in one,

And fought beneath no banner but my own.

Whether by strength I combated, or wile,

Fortune did ever on my actions smile;

I only owe my triumph to my care,

And by my patience only won the fair.

Nor was my cause of quarrel new; the same

Set Europe and proud Asia in a flame.

For Helen, ravish'd by the Dardan boy,

Was the war wag'd that sunk the pride of Troy;

The Centaurs double form'd, half man, half beast,

Defil'd with horrid war the nuptial feast;

Inflam'd by wine and woman's magic charms,

They turn'd the jolly face of joy to arms.

'Twas woman urg'd the strife; a second fair

Involv'd the Trojans in a second war.

What wreck, what ruin, did a Woman bring

On peaceful Latium, and its pious king!

When Rome was young and in her infant state

What woes did woman to our sires create!

Into what peril was that city brought,

When Sabine fathers for their daughters fought !

Two lusty bulls I in the meads have view'd

In combat join'd, and by their side there stood

A milk-white heifer, who provok'd the fight,

By each contended, but the conqueror's right;

She gives them courage, her they both regard,

As one that caus'd the war, and must reward.

Compell'd by Cupid in his host to list

(And who that has a heart can love resist ?)

His soldier I have been, without the guilt

Of blood, in any of our battles spilt;

For him I've fought, as many more have done,

And many rivals met, but murder'd none.

With cruel art Corinna would destroy

The ripening fruit of our repeated joy.

While on herself she practises her skill,

She's like the mother, not the child, to kill.

Me she would not acquaint with what she did,