Art of Love

Women a wealthy treating fool admire,

Applaud your wit,-but costly gifts require.

This is the golden age, all worship gold;

Honours are purchas'd, love and beauty sold.

Should Homer come with his harmonious train,

And not present, Homer's turn'd out again.

Some of the sex have sense, their number's small,

Most ignorant, yet vain pretenders all:

Flatter alike, smooth empty stanzas send,

They seldom sense, but sound and rhyme commend.

Should you with art compose each polish'd line,

And make her, like your numbers, all divine,

Yet she'll a treat or worthless toy prefer

To all the immortal poet's boasted care.

But he that covets to retain her heart,

Let him apply his flattery with art;

With lasting raptures on her beauty gaze,

And make her form the subject of his praise.

Purple commend, when she's in purple dress'd;

In scarlet, swear she looks in scarlet best;

Array'd in gold, her graceful mien adore,

Vowing those eyes transcend the sparkling ore.

With prudence place each compliment aright;

Tho' clad in crape, let homely crape delight.

In sorted colours, praise a varied dress;

In night-clothes or commode let either please.

Or when she combs or when she curls her hair,

Commend her curious art and gallant air.

Singing, her voice, dancing, her steps, admire;

Applaud when she desists, and still desire.

Let all her words and actions wonder raise;

View her with raptures, and with raptures praise

Fierce as Medusa though your mistress prove,

These arts will teach the stubborn beauty love.

Be cautious lest you overact your part,

And temper your hypocrisy with art;

Let no false action give your words the lie,

For once deceiv'd, she's ever after shy.

In Autumn oft, when the luxurious year

Purples the grape, and shows the vintage near;

When sultry heats, when colder blasts arise,

And bodies languish with inconstant skies;

If vitious heav'n infects her tender veins,

And in her tainted blood some fever reigns;

Then your kind vows, your pious care bestow,

The blessings you expect to reap then sow;

Think nothing nauseous in her loath'd disease,

But with your ready hand contrive to please;

Weep in her sight, then fonder kisses give,

And let her burning lips your tears receive;

Much for her safety vow, but louder speak,

Let the nymph hear the lavish vows you make.

As health returns, so let your joys appear;

Oft smile with hope, and oft confess your fear.

This in her breast remains, these pleasing charms

Secure a passage to her grateful arms.

Reach nothing nauseous to her taste or sight,

Officious only when you most delight.

Nor bitter draughts nor hated med'cines give,

Let her from rivals what she loaths receive.

Those prosperous winds that launch'd our boat from shore,

When out at sea assists its course no more:

Time will your knowledge in our art improve,

Give strength and vigour to your forming love.

The dreadful bull was but a calf when young;

The lofty oak but from an acorn sprung;

From narrow springs the noblest currents flow,

But swell their floods, and spread 'em as they go.

Be conversant with love, no toils refuse,

And conquer all fatigues with frequent use:

Still let her hear your sighs, your passion view

And night and day the flying maid pursue.

Then pause awhile; by fallow fields we gain;

A thirsty soil receives the welcome rain.

Phyllis was calm while with Demophoon bless'd,

His absence wounded most her raging breast:

Thus his chaste consort for Ulysses burn'd,

And Laodamia thus her absent husband mourn'd,

With speed return, you're ruined by delays,

Some happy youth may soon supply your place.

When Sparta's prince was from his Helen gone,

Could Helen be content to lie alone?

She in his bed receiv'd her am'rous guest,

And nightly clasp'd him to her panting breast.

Unthinking cuckold, to a proverb blind!

What, trust a beau and a fair wife behind!

Let furious hawks thy trembling turtles keep,

And to the mountain wolves commit thy sheep:

Helen is guiltless, and the lover's crime

But what yourself would act another time.

The youth was pressing, the dull husband gone;

Let ev'ry woman make the case her own.

Who could a prince, by Venus sent, refuse?

The cuckold's negligence is her excuse.

But not the foaming boar whom spears surround,

Revenging on the dogs his mortal wound;

Nor lioness, whose young receives the breast;

Nor viper by unwary footsteps press'd;

Nor drunkard by th' Aonian god possess'd,

Transcend the woman's rage, by fury led,