Art of Love

I've seen the time, when, on that wither'd thorn,

The blooming rose vied with the blushing morn.

With fragrant wreaths I thence have decked my head,

And see how leafless now, and how decay'd!

And you, who now the love-sick youth reject,

Will prove in age, what pains attend neglect.

None, then will press upon your midnight hours,

Nor wake to strew your street with morning flow'rs.

Then nightly knockings at your doors will cease,

Whose noiseless hammer, then, may rest in peace.

Alas, how soon a clear complexion fades!

How soon a wrinkled skin plump flesh invades!

And what avails it, tho' the fair one swears

She from her infancy had some grey hairs ?

She grows all hoary in a few more years,

And then the venerable truth appears.

The snake his skin, the deer his horns may cast,

And both renew their youth and vigor past;

But no receipt can human-kind relieve,

Doom'd to decrepit age, without reprieve.

Then crop the flow'r which yet invites your eye,

And which, ungather'd, on its stalk must die.

Besides, the tender sex is form'd to bear,

And frequent births too soon will youth impair;

Continual harvest wears the fruitful field,

And earth itself decays, too often till'd.

Thou didst not, Cynthia, scorn the Latmian swain;

Nor thou, Aurora, Cephalus disdain;

The Paphian Queen, who, for Adonis' fate

So deeply mourn'd, and who laments him yet,

Has not been found inexorable since;

Witness Harmonia, and the Dardan prince.

Then take example, mortals, from above,

And like immortals live, and like 'em love.

Refuse not those delights, which men require,

Nor let your lovers languish with desire.

False tho' they prove, what loss can you sustain?

Thence let a thousand take, 'twill all remain.

Tho' constant use, e'en flint and steel impairs,

What you employ no diminution fears,

Who would, to light a torch, their torch deny?

Or who can dread drinking an ocean dry?

Still women lose, you cry, if men obtain;

What do they lose, that's worthy to retain?

Think not this said to prostrate the sex,

But undeceive whom needless fears perplex.

Thus far the gentle breeze supplies our sail,

Now launch'd to sea we ask a brisker gale.

And, first, we treat of dress. The well-dress'd vine

Produces plumpest grapes, and richest wine;

And plenteous crops of golden grain are found,

Alone, to grace uncultivated ground.

Beauty's the gift of gods, the sex's pride!

Yet to how many is that gift deny'd?

Art helps a face; a face, tho' heav'nly fair,

May quickly fade for want of needful care.

In ancient days, if women slighted dress,

Then men were ruder too, and lik'd it less.

If Hector's spouse was clad in stubborn stuff,

A soldier's wife became it well enough.

Ajax, to shield his ample breast, provides

Seven lusty bulls, and tans their sturdy hides;

And might not he, d'ye think, be well caress'd,

And yet his wife not elegantly dress'd?

With rude simplicity Rome first was built,

Which now we see adorned, and gilt.

This capitol with that of old compare;

Some other Jove you'd think was worship'd there.

That lofty pile where senates dictate law,

When Tatius reign'd, was poorly thatch'd with straw;

And where Apollo's fane refulgent stands,

Was heretofore a tract of pasture lands.

Let ancient manners other men delight;

But me the modern please, as more polite.

Not that materials now in gold are wrought,

And distant shores for orient pearls are sought;

Not for, that hills exhaust their marble veins,

And structures rise whose bulks the sea retains;

But that the world is civilis'd of late,

And polish'd from the rust of former date.

Let not the nymph with pendants load her ear,

Nor in embroid'ry, or brocade, appear;

Too rich a dress may sometimes check desire,

And cleanliness more animate love's fire,

The hair dispos'd, may gain or lose a grace,

And much become or misbecome the face.

What suits your features of your glass enquire;

For no one rule is fixed for head attire,

A face too long should part and flat the hair.

Lest upward comb'd, the length too much appear:

So Laodamia dress'd. A face too round

Should show the ears, and with a tour be crown'd.

On either shoulder, one, her locks displays;

Adorn'd like Phoebus, when he sings his lays;

Another, all her tresses tie behind;

So dressed, Diana hunts the fearful hind.

Dishevelled locks most graceful are to some;

Others, the binding fillets more become:

Some plait, like spiral shells, their braided hair,

Others, the loose and waving curl prefer.