Art of Love

But to recount the several dresses worn,

Which artfully each several face adorn,

Were endless as to tell the leaves on trees,

The beasts on Alpine hills, or Hybla bees.

Many there are who seem to slight all care,

And with a pleasing negligence ensnare:

Whole mornings, oft in such a dress are spent,

And all is art, that looks like accident.

With such disorder Iole was grac'd,

When great Alcides first the nymph embrac'd.

So Ariadne came to Bacchus' bed,

When with the conqueror from Crete she fled.

Nature indulgent to the sex, repays

The losses they sustain by various ways.

Men ill supply those hairs they shed in age,

Lost like autumnal leaves when north winds rage.

Women with juice of herbs gray locks disguise,

And art gives colour which with nature vies;

The well-wove tours they wear, their own art thought,

But only are their own, as what they've bought.

Nor need they blush to buy heads ready dress'd,

And choose at public shops what suits 'em best.

Costly apparel let the fair one fly,

Enrich'd with gold, or with the Tyrian dye,

What folly must in such expense appear,

When more becoming colors are less dear!

One with a die is ting'd of lovely blue,

Such as through air serene the sky we view,

With yellow lustre see another spread,

As if the golden fleece compos'd the thread.

Some of the sea green wave the cast display;

With this the nymphs their beauteous forms array;

And some the saffron hue will well adorn;

Such is the mantle of the blushing morn.

Of myrtle-berries, one, the tincture shows,

In this, of amethysts, the purple glows,

And that more imitates the paler rose.

Nor Thracian cranes forget, whose silv'ry plumes

Give patterns which employ the mimic looms.

Nor almond nor the chesnut dye disclaim,

Nor others which from wax derive their name.

As fields you find, with various flowers o'erspread,

When vineyards bud, and winter's frost is fled;

So various are the colours you may try,

Of which the thirsty wool imbibes the dye.

Try ev'ry one; what best becomes you wear,

For no complexion all alike can bear.

If fair the skin, black may become it best,

In black the lovely fair Briseis dress'd;

If brown the nymph, let her be cloth'd in white,

Andromeda so charm'd the wond'ring sight.

I need not warn you of too powerful smells,

Which sometimes health or kindly heat expels;

Nor from your tender legs to pluck with care

The casual growth of all unseemly hair.

Tho' not to nymphs of Caucasus I sing,

Nor such who taste remote the Mysian spring,

Yet let me warn you that thro' no neglect

You let your teeth disclose the least defect.

You know the use of white to make you fair,

And how with red lost colour to repair;

Imperfect eyebrows you by art can mend,

And skin, when wanting, o'er a scar extend;

Nor need the fair one be asham'd, who tries

By art to add new lustre to her eyes.

A little book I've made, but with great care,

How to preserve the face, and how repair.

In that, the nymphs by time or chance annoy'd,

May see what pains to please 'em I've employ'd,

But still beware that from your lover's eye

You keep conceal'd the med'cines you apply:

Tho' art assists, yet must that art be hid,

Lest whom it would invite it should forbid.

Who would not take offence to see a face

All daub'd and dripping with the melted grease?

And tho' your unguents bear th' Athenian name,

The wool's unsav'ry scent is still the same.

Marrow of stags, nor your pomatums try,

Nor clean your furry teeth when men are by;

For many things, when done, afford delight,

Which yet, while doing, may offend the sight.

E'en Myro's statues, which for art surpass

All others, once were but a shapeless mass;

Rude was that gold which now in rings is worn,

As once the robe you wear was wool unshorn;

Think, how that stone rough in the quarry grew,

Which now a perfect Venus shews to view.

While we suppose you sleep, repair your face,

Lock'd from observers, in some secret place;

Add the last hand before yourselves you show,

Your need of art why should your lover know?

For many things when most conceal'd are best,

And few of strict enquiry bear the test.

Those figures which in theatres are seen,

Gilded without, are common wood within.

But no spectators are allow'd to pry

Till all is finished which allures the eye.

Yet, I must own, it oft affords delight

To have the fair one comb her hair in sight;

To view the flowing honours of her head