Amours

My soul they thus divide, but love, I fear,

Will prove too strong, and get the mast'ry there;

I'll strive to hate her, but if that should prove

A fruitless strife, in spite of me I'll love.

The bull does not affect the yoke, but still

He bears the thing he hates against his will

I hate, I fly the faithless fair in vain,

Her beauty ever brings me back again;

She always in my heart will have a place,

I hate her humour, but I love her face;

No rest I to my tortur'd soul can give,

Nor with her nor without her can I live.

Oh ! that thy mind we in thy face did view,

Less lovely that thou wert, or else more true.

How diffrent are thy manners and thy sight!

Thy deeds forbid us and thy eyes invite.

Thy actions shock us, and thy beauty moves,

And he who hates thy faults, thy person loves.

Happy, ah ! ever happy should I be,

If I no charms or no defects could see.

Thee I conjure by all our past delights,

Our cheerful days and our transporting nights,

By all the imprecated gods above,

To whom thou art forsworn, but most by Love,

By thy fair face, which I as much adore

As all those gods, and own as much its pow'r,

Forgive me this offence, and I'll offend no more.

Be what thou wilt, thy humour good or ill,

I'll love thee, thou shalt be my mistress still

Ah, let my passion ever favour find,

Or be it with, or be't against my mind,

But rather let me sail before the wind.

Ah, let thy wishes with my will agree,

Since surely I thy slave must ever be;

In thee since I have centred all my joys,

Oh Venus ! let my love be still my choice.

Ill-omen'd birds, how luckless was the day,

When o'er my love you did your wings display!

What wayward orb, what inauspicious star

Did then rule heav'n ? what gods against me war?

She who so much my fatal passion wrongs,

Was known and first made famous by my songs.

I lov'd her first, and lov'd her then alone,

But now, I fear, I share her with the town.

Am I deceiv'd or can she be the same,

Who only to my verses owes her fame

My verse a price upon her beauty laid,

And by my praises she her market made;

Whom but myself can I with reason blame?

Without me she had never had a name.

Did I do this, who knew her soul so well?

Dearly to me she did her favours sell;

And when the wares were to the public known,

Why should I think she'd sell to me alone ?

'Twas I proclaim'd to all the town her charms,

And tempted cullies to her venal arms;

I made their way, I show'd them where to come,

And there is hardly now a rake in Rome

But knows her rates, and thanks my babbling muse:

Her house is now as common as the stews;

For this I'm to the muse oblig'd, and more

For all the mischiefs envy has in store.

This comes of gallantry, while some employ

Their talents on the fate of Thebes and Troy,

While others Caesar's godlike acts rehearse,

Corinna is the subject of my verse.

Oh, that I ne'er had known the art to please,

But written without genius and success.

Why did the town so readily believe

My verse, and why to songs such credit give ?

Sure poetry s the same it ever was,

And poets ne'er for oracles did pass.

Why is such stress upon my writings laid?

Why such regard to what by me is said ?

I wish the tales I've of Corinna told,

Had been receiv'd as fables were of old;

Of furious Scylla's horrid shape we read,

And how she scalp'd her hoary father's lead:

Of her fair face, and downward how she takes

The wolf's fierce form, the dog's, or curling snake's;

Serpents for hair, in ancient song we meet,

And man and horse with wings instead of feet.

Huge Tityon from the skies the poets flung,

Encelladus's wars with Jove they sung;

How by her spells, and by her voice, to beasts,

The doubtful virgin chang'd her wretched guests;

How Eolus did for Ulysses keep

The winds in bottles while he plough'd the deep:

How Cerberus, three headed, guarded hell;

And from his car the son of Phoebus fell:

How thirsty Tantalus attempts to sip

The stream in vain, that flies his greedy lip:

How Niobe in marble drops a tear,

And a bright nymph was turn'd into a bear:

How Progne, now a swallow, does bemoan

Her sister nightingale, and pheasant son.

In Leda, Danae, and Europa's rapes,

They sing the king of gods in various shapes;

A swan he lies on ravish'd Leda's breast,

And Danae by a golden show'r compress'd;