What lawful is, or we profess love's art:
(Alas my precepts turn myself to smart.)
We write, or what Penelope sends Ulysses,
Or Phillis' tears that her Demophoon misses.
What thankless Jason, Macareus, and Paris,
Phedra, and Hippolite may read, my care is.
And what poor Dido, with her drawn sword sharp,
Doth say, with her that lov'd the Aonian harp.
As soon as from strange lands Sabinus came,
And writings did from divers places frame.
White-cheek'd Penelope knew Ulysses' sign,
The step-dame read Hippolites' lustless line.
Eneas to Elisa answer gives,
And Phillis hath to read; if now she lives.
Jason's sad letter doth Hypsipile greet;
Sappho her vow'd harp lays at Phœbus' feet.
Nor of thee, Macer, that resound'st forth arms,
Is golden love hid in Mars' mid alarms.
There Paris is, and Helen's crimes record,
With Laodamia, mate to her dear lord.
Unless I err to these thou more incline,
Than wars, and from thy tents wilt come to mine.
Ad rivalem cui uxor curæ non erat.
FOOL, if to keep thy wife thou hast no need,
Keep her from me, my more desire to breed;
We scorn things lawful, stol'n sweets we affect;
Cruel is he that loves whom none protect.
Let us, both lovers, hope and fear alike,
And may repulse, place, for our wishes strike.
What should I do with fortune that ne'er fails me?
Nothing I love, that at all times avails me.
Wily Corinna saw this blemish in me,
And craftily knows by what means to win me.
Ah, often, that her whole head ach'd, she lying,
Will'd me, whose slow feet sought delay by flying;
Ah, oft, how much she might, she feign'd offence;
And doing wrong made shew of innocence.
So having vex'd she nourish'd my warm fire,
And was again most apt to my desire.
To please me, what fair terms and sweet words has she,
Great gods! what kisses, and how many gave she!
Thou also that late took'st mine eyes away,
Oft cozen me, oft being woo'd, say nay.
And on thy threshold let me lie dispread,
Suff'ring much cold by hoary night's frost bred.
So shall my love continue many years;
This doth delight me, this my courage cheers.
Fat love, and too much fulsome me annoys,
Even as sweet meat a glutted stomach cloys.
In brazen tower had not Danaæ dwelt,
A mother's joy by Jove she had not felt.
While Juno Io keeps, when horns she wore,
Jove lik'd her better than he did before.
Who covets lawful things takes leaves from woods,
And drinks stol'n waters in surrounding floods.
Her lover let her mock, that long will reign,
Aye me, let not my warnings cause my pain.
Whatever haps, by suff'rance harm is done,
What flies, I follow, what follows me I shun.
But thou, of thy fair damsel too secure,
Begin to shut thy house, at evening, sure.
Search at the door who knocks oft in the dark,
In night's deep silence why the ban-dogs bark.
Whether the subtle maid lines brings and carries,
Why she alone in empty bed oft tarries.
Let this care sometimes bite thee to the quick,
That to deceits it may me forward prick.
To steal sands from the shore he loves a life,
That can affect a foolish wittal's wife.
Now I forewarn, unless to keep her stronger
Thou dost begin, she shall be mine no longer.
Long have I borne much, hoping time would beat thee,
To guard her well, that well I might intreat thee.
Thou suffer'st what no husband can endure,
But of my love an end it will procure.
Shall I, poor soul, be never interdicted?
Nor never with night's sharp revenge afflicted?
In sleeping shall I fearless draw my breath?
Will't nothing do, why I should wish thy death?
Can I but loath a husband grown a bawd?
By thy default thou dost our joys defraud.
Some other seek that may in patience strive with
thee,
To pleasure me, forbid me to connive with thee.
P. OVIDII NASONIS AMORUM.
Deliberatio poetæ, utrum elegos pergat scribere an potius
tragædias.
AN old wood, stands uncut of long year's space,
'Tis credible some god-head haunts the place.
In midst thereof a stone-pav'd, sacred spring,
Where round about small birds most sweetly sing.
Here while I walk, hid close in shady grove,
To find what work my muse might move, I strove.
Elegia came with hairs perfumed sweet,
And one, I think, was longer, of her feet.
A decent form, thin robe, a lover's look,
By her foot's blemish greater grace she took.
Then with huge steps came violent Tragedy,
Stern was her front, her look on ground did lie.
Her left hand held abroad a regal sceptre,
The Lydian buskin in fit paces kept her.
And first he said, when will thy love be spent
O poet, careless of thy argument?
Wine-bibbing banquets tell thy naughtiness,
Each cross-way's corner doth as much express.
Oft some points at the prophet passing by,
And this is he whom fierce love burns, they cry.
A laughing-stock thou art to all the city;
While without shame thou sing'st thy lewdness' ditty.
'Tis time to move grave things in lofty style,
Long hast thon loiter'd, greater works compile.
The subject hides thy wit, men's acts resound;
This thou wilt say to be a worthy ground.
Thy muse hath play'd what may mild girls content,
And by those numbers is thy first youth spent.
Now give the Roman tragedy a name,
To fill my laws thy wanton spirit frame
This said, she mov'd her buskins gaily varnish'd,
And seven times shook her head with thick locks
The other smiled, (I wot) with wanton eyes:
Err I, or myrtle in her right hand lies.
With lofty words stout Tragedy (she said)
Why tread'st me down? art thou aye gravely play'd?
Thou deign'st unequal lines should thee rehearse;
Thou fight'st against me using mine own verse.
Thy lofty style with mine I not compare,
Small doors unfitting for large houses are.
Light am I, and with me, my care, light love;
Not stronger am I, than the the things I move.
Venus without me should be rustical:
This goddess' company doth to me befal.
What gate thy stately words cannot unlock,
My flatt'ring speeches soon wide open knock.
And I deserve more than thou can'st in verity,
By suff'ring much not borne by thy severity.
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