Two letters on one tablet; and address your lover
By a woman’s name—refer
Throughout to him as “her.”
[LATIN: Si licet a…]
Now, if I may, I’ll leave minor details
For bigger matters, spread my wind-filled sails.
It’s beauty’s job to soften savage moods:
White peace suits man, dark rage the beast in the woods.
Anger bloats faces—veins bulge purple, eyes
Glitter bestially, Gorgon-wise.
When Pallas saw her puffed-out cheeks in the river,
She said, “Flute, you’re not worth it. Goodbye for ever.”
How many of you pretty creatures
In a tantrum would recognise your own features
In the mirror? Pride does as much harm
To your looks as anger—love should charm
With friendly eyes. I can’t bear
A haughty, stuck-up air—
Trust one who ought to know:
In a silent stare the seeds of hatred grow.
Always return a pleasant smile or glance,
And if a man takes a chance
And makes a sign, acknowledge it with a nod.
It’s after such foreplay that the god,
Abandoning the foils, starts
To pull from his quiver the transfixing darts.
Though Ajax loved Tecmessa, I hate sad girls: a Roman
Is a laughter-lover, he likes cheerful women.
Tragic Tecmessa, tearful Andromache,
Neither of you would have been the girl for me.
If it weren’t that your children prove the fact,
I could scarcely imagine you in the sexual act.
You, lugubrious Tecmessa, never, I bet,
Called Ajax “darling boy” or “my pet.”
Who’s to forbid me to illustrate
Petty concerns with great
Examples? Why should I shun
The title of general? As an able one
Will organise his force,
Choosing officers for the colours, the foot, the horse,
So you, too, should see that you get the most
Service from us—the right man in the right post.
Let the rich man give presents, the lawyer offer support
With advice and eloquence in court:
Poets can only do their best
And send you poems—it must be confessed,
We lot are more in tune with love than all the rest.
We are your publishers, we proclaim
The adored, the beautiful. Take any well-known name—
Lycoris, Cynthia, Nemesis—we spread its fame
From east to west; why, everybody asks
Who’s the real girl that my “Corinna” masks.
A poet by nature never double-deals:
His art, his calling, shape the way he feels.
We’re innocent of ambition, don’t care what we’re paid,
Despise the Forum, turn our backs on trade;
We prefer the couch, we cultivate the shade.
But we’re easily drawn, we’re stickers, and we burn
With a staunch love—too staunch (we never learn!).
Indeed, a poet’s temperament and heart
Reflect the gentle nature of his art.
So be kind, you girls, to poets—the darlings of the nine
Muses, there’s a divine
Spark in them all. We all conceal
A god within us, we all deal
With heaven direct, from whose high places we derive
The inspiration by which we live.
It’s a crime, it’s a shame,
To look for presents from such fine spirits; all the same,
I’m sorry to say, it’s a crime all girls commit.
But do please dissemble a bit,
Don’t be transparently avaricious:
New lovers may become suspicious,
Spot the net, and bolt.
You wouldn’t put the same bridle on a colt
As you would on a trained hack;
A callow youth and a seasoned older man
Require a different hunting plan.
Suppose Love’s fresh recruit, a tenderfoot in war,
Your latest prize, has passed your bedroom door—
Let him cling to you exclusively, know you alone:
High hedges must be grown
Round tender crops. Fend off rivals; as long
As you keep him to yourself you’re in a strong
Position; power-sharing brings
Uncertain reigns to lovers and to kings.
The old soldier’s approach is gradual, prudent;
He’ll tolerate a great deal that a student
Assault doors with a crowbar or a torch,
Attack your tender cheeks with his nails, tear
Your, or his own, clothes, or pull your hair
By the roots till you’re weeping.
That sort of behaviour’s more in keeping
With youth’s hot blood and passion.
No, he’ll bear his wounds in stoic fashion.
And yet, poor man, he’ll smoulder in his way,
Like new-felled mountain timber, or damp hay;
He’ll give a slow, sure heat, the younger lover
A prodigal blaze that’s soon over.
Either way, reach out and pick
The fruit; it won’t hang long—be quick!
[LATIN: Omnia tradantur: portas…]
I’ve unbolted the gates, our defences are down,
The enemy’s in, the secrets of the town
Are about to be betrayed! Isn’t it reasonable
To be truly false, faithfully treasonable?
Too easy giving’s a bad regimen
To nourish lasting passion. Now and again,
Vary the fun and laughter with a rebuff.
Lock him out, let him camp rough
Outside your door (“oh, cruel door!”) and plead
And threaten till he’s blue in the face. Men need
Variety, we all enjoy
The jolt of bitter flavours; sweet things cloy;
Sometimes a skiff’s upset by favouring winds:
That’s why a woman often finds
Her husband’s ardour falling below scratch—
He has too easy access, the key of the latch.
But change the picture, throw in a door barred
And a doorman with a hard
Expression repeating “No,”
And you, too, will feel desire glow.
Put down your blunt foils now and have it out
With real swords (and I’ve no doubt
My own shafts will be aimed at my own head).
When your latest catch has fallen into your bed,
Let him think that he alone has a right to be there;
Then, later, make him aware
That he has a rival, that he has to share
His privilege. His ardour will soon wane
If you leave such tactics out of your campaign.
A game horse performs best in a race
When the field’s ahead of him, and he has to chase
And overtake. Resentment fans a failing fire—
I myself, I confess, can only feel desire
Under the stimulus of some hurt.
But it mustn’t be too gross or overt:
Let your lover worry away and always suppose
Much more than he knows.
Pretend your husband’s a jealous bore, that a spy,
Some scowling slave, is keeping an eye
On all you do—and he’ll be thrilled. Unalloyed,
Unmixed with danger, pleasure’s less enjoyed.
Though you’re as free as any courtesan,
Appear scared. Though the door’s safe, have the young man
Climb in through the window, while you act afra
id.
Then arrange for a well-rehearsed maid
To burst in later, crying, “All is discovered!”
And hustle the quaking boy into a cupboard.
All the same,
In case he decides the nocturnal game
Isn’t worth the candle, dilute fear with a measure
Of pure, worry-free pleasure.
[LATIN: Qua vafer eludi…]
I had half a mind to omit
An account of the various ways you can outwit
A crafty husband or get round
His vigilant bloodhound.
Husbands should be respected
By wives, and wives be properly protected—
Nobody quarrels
With the claims of modesty, law and the new morals.
But for you, a newly emancipated slave,
To have guards checking on how you behave
Is intolerable. Attend to me:
I preach the doctrine of duplicity.
Though you’re surrounded by as many spies
As Argus had eyes,
Where there’s a will there’s a way. Can a guard prevent
You writing in your bath? Or a message being sent
Via a friend, either strapped to her calf,
Or snugly tucked inside her broad breast-scarf,
Or even, with a special billet-doux,
Wedged between the sole of her foot and her shoe?
If the guard sees through these tricks, she can go one better:
Offer her back to write on, be your letter.
Safe and undetectable by the eye
Is writing in milk—later, just apply
A sprinkling of coal-dust and presto! you can read.
Or write in oil of linseed
Oozing from a stalk of flax—
And your words are invisible on what seems blank wax.
Think how hard
Acrisius tried with Danaë—all access barred
But she made him a shocked grandfather. What can a guard
Do when Rome’s full of theatres, girls haunt the races,
Or shake the rattle of Isis and worship in places
Where men can’t follow (for example,
The Good Goddess’s temple
Which bans all male eyes from the rites
Except for her own chosen acolytes)?
When so many public baths provide
Clandestine fun for girls, while the guards outside
Look after their clothes? When a sly friend
Will always on request pretend
She’s unwell, yet be well enough to lend
The bed you need? How can a guard win
When there are more ways than a door to get in,
And the very words “duplicate key”
Instruct us in duplicity?
You can deal with a guard—fuddle him with wine
(Cheap Spanish will do fine);
There are drugs, too, which bring on
Deep sleep, total oblivion;
Or your friend can seduce the pest and make the fun
Last long enough for your business to get done.
But why tediously describe
These little dodges when the smallest bribe
Will do the trick? Believe me, bribes will buy
Favours not just on earth, but in the sky;
Even Jupiter lifts
His thundercloud when wooed with gifts.
When fools love bribes, what’s the wise man to do?
Take them, of course, and keep his mouth shut too.
But buy your guard outright, once and for all:
What he granted then will always be on call.
I remember grumbling once that a man can’t trust
His close friends, but it’s just
As true of a woman. If you believe
Too easily, if you’re naive,
Other women will snatch
The fruit in your orchard, others hunt and catch
Your coveted hare.
That helpful girl with a room and bed to spare
Has more than once, let me tell you, been in there
With me, alone. And beware
Of maids who are beauties—
I’ve often known them take on their employer’s duties.
[LATIN: Quo feror insanus…]
I’m rambling wildly. What’s the sense
Of charging the foe chest bare, with no defence?
Why betray myself with my own evidence?
A bird doesn’t show the fowlers his hiding-place,
Or a hind teach deer-hounds how to chase.
But to hell with male advantage! I shall keep my side
Of the bargain, I’ll provide
Swords for those women of Lemnos cursed with stinking breath,
Even at the risk of my own death.
Make us believe that we’re desired:
It’s easy—men are suckers when their fancy’s fired.
If your lover’s late, throw him a sweet glance, sigh
Dramatically, deeply, ask him why,
Then begin to cry
As though in a jealous passion—and then
Claw his face with your nails. By now most men
Will be convinced, feel sorry for you, conclude,
“She must be mad about me—hence this mood.”
(If he happens to be some overdressed ass
Who likes what he sees in the looking-glass,
He won’t find anything odd
In a goddess falling in love with a god.)
But however badly he treats you, keep your cool;
If he hints at a mistress, don’t be a fool
And leap to conclusions, reflect
On the dreadful case of Procris, too quick to suspect.
[LATIN: Est prope purpureos…]
There’s a sacred fountain
On the slopes of that flowery, sunset-violet mountain
Hymettus. There the grass grows green and lush,
Trees form a low copse, the arbutus bush
Covers the turf, the air is redolent
Of rosemary, bay and myrtle scent,
Thick-leaved box-trees abound, fragile tamarisks, fine
Lucerne, and the domestic pine.
All these varieties of leaves
Sway and dance and the tall grass heaves
In the good, warm winds blowing from the west.
Here Cephalus used to enjoy a rest—
Huntsmen dismissed, tired of the chase,
He often favoured this siesta place.
“Come to me, fickle Aura,” he’d entreat
The breeze. “Come to my breast, relieve my heat!”
Some stupid busybody overheard
What he sighed and reported it, word for word,
To his nervous wife. Procris, in the belief
That Aura was a rival, speechless with grief,
Fainted, and lay as pale as the last leaf
When early winter’s breath makes the vines wince,
Pale as the ripe, bough-bending quince,
Pale as the berry,
Not yet ripe for our palates, of the cornel cherry.
When she returned to consciousness,
She ripped her delicate dress,
Tore her innocent cheeks with her nails and, hair streaming,
Ran through the streets like a god-crazed maenad, screaming,
Till she reached Hymettus. She left her maids below,
And climbed and bravely entered the wood alone, tiptoe.
What went on in your half-mad mind while you lurked
In that wood, Procris? What fiery passions worked
On your heart? “Aura, whoever she may be,
Is coming at any moment, I shall see
Their shame with my own eyes,” you thought.
One minute you were glad you’d come—they’d be caught;
The next you were sorry—
You didn’t really want to find your quarry.
; Love vacillated, your heart veered.
Place, name, witness, they all appeared
Conclusive; besides, the mind
Always believes what it’s afraid to find.
When you saw the grass impressed
By a body’s weight, you guessed
The worst, your heart beat faster, lurched in your breast.
Look, it is noon, the shadows are short-drawn,
The half-way point dividing dusk and dawn,
And Cephalus, Hermes’ son, fresh from the chase,
Bathes in spring water his flushed face
(Procris crouched tensely in her hiding-place),
Stretches himself on the usual grassy spot
And sighs, “Come, Aura. I’m so hot!
Sweet breeze, blow!” When the poor girl learned
The happy truth, her wits, her colour returned,
And she sprang up, burst through the bushes and ran
To be embraced by her man.
But he, supposing he’d heard a deer,
With the zest of youth sprang to his feet and grabbed his spear.
Fool, what are you doing? Throw away
Your weapon—that’s no hunter’s prey!—
Too late! The gods above
Weep—with your spear you’ve struck the woman you love!
“Ah, Cephalus,” she cried, “you’ve pierced the part
You’ve pierced so many times—my loving heart.
Untimely to my grave I go,
But since at last I know
That I’m uninjured by a rival’s hate,
You, earth, will lie on me with far less weight.
My spirit’s leaving now for the air
Whose name once caused me such despair.
I’m faint, I’m failing, my life’s sands
Are running out … Close my eyes with your dear hands …”
He clasps her in the throes of death,
Raining tears on the cruel wound. The rash girl’s breath
Falters, and as her spirit slowly slips
From her breast it’s caught on her ill-starred lover’s lips.
[LATIN: Sed repetamus opus…]
But back to business. If I’m to limp to port
In my tired ship, I must deal with facts and make them short.
So you’re eager for me to escort
You to parties now, and in that department, too,
Advise you what to do?
Well, arrive late, when the lamps are lit,
And make a graceful entrance: it
Adds to your charm if you’ve been “delayed”
(Unpunctuality has often played
The role of bawd); even if you’re plain
Tipsy men will think you’re great, and then again,
The shadows will hide your faults. Handle your food
Tidily, good
Table manners matter—it’s a disgrace