Art of Love

When on his lyre melodious Orpheus play'd,

Even Cerberus and hell that sound obey'd,

And stones officious were thy walls to raise.

0, Thebes, attracted by Amphion's lays.

The dolphin, dumb itself, thy voice admir'd,

And was, Arion, by thy songs inspir'd.

Of sweet Callimachus the works rehearse,

And real Philetas and Anacreon's verse,

Terentian plays may much the mind improve;

But softest Sappho best instructs to love.

Propertius, Gallus, and Tibullus read,

And let Varronian verse to these succeed.

Then mighty Maro's work with care peruse;

Of all the Latians boards the noblest muse,

Even I, 'tis possible, in after-days,

May 'scape oblivion, and be nam'd with these.

My labour'd lines, some readers may approve,

Since I've instructed either sex in love.

Whatever book you read of this soft art,

Read with a lover's voice and lover's heart.

Tender epistles too, by me are fram'd,

A work before unthought of, and unnam'd.

Such was your sacred will, 0, tuneful nine!

Such thine Apollo, and Lycreus, thine!

Still unaccomplish'd may the maid be thought,

Who gracefully to dance was never taught:

That active dancing may to love engage,

Witness the well-kept dancers of the stage.

Of some odd trifles I'm asham'd to tell,

Tho' it becomes the sex to trifle well;

To raffle prettily, or slur a die,

Implies both cunning and dexterity;

Nor is't amiss at chess to be expert,

For games most thoughtful, sometimes most divert.

Learn ev'ry game, you'll find it prove of use;

Parties begun at play may love produce:

But easier 'tis to learn how bets to lay,

Than how to keep your temper while you play.

Unguarded then, each breast is open laid,

And while the head's intent, the heart's betray'd.

Then base desire of gain, then rage appears,

Quarrels and brawls arise, and anxious fears;

Then clamours and revilings reach the sky,

While losing gamsters all the gods defy.

They grieve, and curse, and storm, nay weep at last.

Good Jove avert such shameful faults as these,

From ev'ry nymph whose heart's inclin'd to please

Soft recreations fit the female kind;

Nature, for men, has rougher sports design'd:

To wield the sword and hurl the pointed spear;

To stop or turn the steed in full career.

Tho' martial fields ill suit your tender frames,

Nor may you swim in Tiber's rapid streams;

Yet when Sol's burning wheels from Leo drive,

And at the glowing Virgin's sign arrive,

'Tis both allow'd and fit you should repair,

To pleasant walks, and breathe refreshing air.

To Pompey's gardens, or the shady groves

Which Caesar honours, and which Phoebus loves:

Phoebus, who sunk the proud Egyptian fleet,

And made Augustus' victory complete.

Or seek those shades, where monuments of fame

Are raised to Livia's or Octavia's name;

Or where Agrippa first adorn'd the ground,

When he with naval victory was crown'd.

To Isis' fine, to theatres resort;

And in the circus see the noble sport.

In ev'ry public place, by turns be shown;

In vain you're fair while you remain unknown.

Should you in singing, Thamyras transcend;

Your voice unheard, who will your skill commend!

Had not Appelles drawn the sea-born queen,

Her beauties still beneath the waves had been.

Poets inspir'd write only for a name,

And think their labours well repay'd with fame.

In former days, I own, the poets were

Of gods and king the most peculiar care:

Majestic awe was in the name allow'd,

And they with rich possessions were endowed

Ennius with honours was by Scipio grac'd,

And next his own the poets statue plac'd.

But now their ivy crowns bear no esteem,

And all their learning's thought an idle dream.

Still there's a pleasure that proceeds from praise:

What could the high renown of Homer raise,

But that he sung his Iliad's deathless lays?

Who could have been of Danae's charms assur'd,

Had she grown old, within her tow'r immur'd?

This, as a rule, let ev'ry nymph pursue,

That 'tis her int'rest oft' to come in view.

A hungry wolf at all the herd will run,

In hopes, through many, to make sure of one.

So, let the fair the gazing crowd assail,

That over one, at least, she may prevail.

In ev'ry place to please, be all her thought;

Where, sometimes, least we think, the fish is caught.

Sometimes, all day, we hunt the tedious foil,

Anon, the stag himself shall seek the toil.

How could Andromeda once doubt relief,

Whose charms were heighten'd and adorn'd by grief?