Amours

Asham'd, and weary of this tragic whim,

For tender thoughts I quitted the sublime.

My mind my mistress bends another way,

Her must my muse in all her songs obey;

Though oft I do not what I write approve,

Like, or not like it, I must sing of love.

Whether for Ithaca's illustrious dame,

To great Ulysses I a letter frame,

Or for Oenone tender things indite,

Or soft complaints for injur'd Phillis write;

Whether fair Canace's incestuous care

I sooth, or flatter Dido's fierce despair;

Whether I fan Medea's raging fire,

Or for sweet Sappho touch the Lesbian lyre;

Whether I Phaedra's lawless love relate,

Or Theseus' flight and Ariadne's fate:

Oh, that Sabinus, my departed friend,

Could from all quarters now his answers send!

Ulysses' hand should to his queen be known,

And wretched Phaedra hear from Theseus' son;

Dido Aeneas' answer should receive,

And Phillis Demophoon's, if alive;

Jason should to Hypsipyle return

A sad reply, and Sappho cease to mourn:

Nor him whom she can ne'er possess, desire,

But give to Phoebus fane her votive lyre.

As much as you in lofty epics deal,

You, Macer, show that you love's passion feel,

And sensible of beauty's powerful charm,

You hear their call amid the noise of arms.

A place for Paris in your verse we find,

And Helen's to the young adult'rer kind;

There lovely Laodamia mourns her lord,

The first that fell by Hector's fatal sword.

If well I know you, and your mind can tell,

The theme's as grateful, and you like as well

To tune your lyre for Cupid as for Mars,

And Thracian combats change for Paphian wars;

If well I know you, and your works design

Your will, you often quit your camp for mine.

If for thyself thou wilt not watch thy whore,

Watch her for me that I may love her more.

What comes with ease we nauseously receive,

Who but a sot would scorn to love with leave?

With hopes and fears my flames are blown up higher;

Make me despair, and then I can desire.

Give me a jilt to tease my jealous mind;

Deceits are virtues in the female kind.

Corinna my fantastic humour knew,

Play'd trick for trick, and kept herself still new;

She, that next night I might the sharper come,

Fell out with me, and sent me fasting home.

Or some pretence to lie alone would take ;

Whene'er she pleas'd her head and teeth would ache:

Till having won me to the highest strain,

She took occasion to be sweet again.

With what a gust, ye gods, we then embrac'd!

How ev'ry kiss was dearer than the last!

Thou whom I now adore, be edified,

Take care that I may often be denied;

Forget the promis'd hour, or feign some fright,

Make me lie rough on bulks each other night.

These are the arts that best secure thy reign,

And this the food that must my fires maintain.

Gross easy love does, like gross diet, pall;

In squeasy stomachs honey turns to gall.

Had Danae not been kept in brazen tow'rs,

Jove had not thought her worth his golden show'rs:

When Juno to a cow turn'd Io's shape,

The watchman help'd her to a second leap.

Let him who loves an easy whetstone whore,

Pluck leaves from trees, and drink the common shore.

The jilting harlot strikes the surest blow,

A truth which I by sad experience know;

The kind, poor, constant creature we despise,

Man but pursues the quarry while it flies.

But thou dull husband of a wife too fair,

Stand on thy guard, and watch the precious ware;

If creaking doors, or barking dogs, thou hear,

Or windows scratch'd, suspect a rival there.

An orange wench would tempt thy wife abroad;

Kick her, for she's a letter-bearing bawd.

In short, be jealous as the devil in hell,

And set my wit on work to cheat thee well.

The sneaking city-cuckold is my foe;

I scorn to strike but when he wards the blow.

Look to thy hits and leave off thy conniving,

I'll be no drudge to any wittol living;

I have been patient, and forborne thee long,

In hope thou wouldst not pocket up thy wrong:

If no affront can rouse thee, understand

I'll take no more indulgence at thy hand.

What, ne'er to be forbid thy house and wife

Damn him who loves to lead so ill a life.

Now I can neither sigh, nor whine, nor pray;

All those occasions thou hast ta'en away.

Why art thou so incorrigibly civil ?

Do somewhat I may wish thee at the devil

For shame, be no accomplice in my treason;

A pimping husband is too much in reason.