The Art of Love

  Could you seriously prefer

  Helen’s daughter, Hermione, to her?

  Or Medusa to her mother? If you seek an

  Older woman’s love, press on, don’t weaken,

  And then, my friend,

  You’ll reap a handsome dividend.

  Look! Two lovers on a bed which has the air

  Of a witness. The door’s shut. Muse, stay outside. The pair

  Won’t need your prompting, passion will blurt

  The right words, hands won’t lie inert,

  Fingers will learn what to do in the secret parts

  In which, mysteriously, Love dips his darts.

  So Hector made love with Andromache long ago

  (War wasn’t his only talent), and so

  Did great Achilles with his slave when, battle-spent,

  He lay on her soft bed in the tent,

  While you, Briseis, let hands still warm

  With Trojan blood fondle your naked form—

  Or was it rather that your body thrilled

  At the touch of a conqueror who’d killed?

  I tell you, you should approach the peak of pleasure

  Teasingly, lingeringly, at leisure.

  Once you’ve discovered the right

  Places to touch, the ones which delight

  Women most, don’t hold back through shame,

  Carry on with the game,

  And you’ll see her eyes light up, flash and quiver

  Like sunlight on the surface of a river.

  Soon she’ll be murmuring, moaning, gasping, saying

  Words in tune with the instrument you’re playing.

  But take care not to crowd on sail and race

  Ahead of her, don’t fall behind her either; matching pace,

  Arrive together at the winning-post

  In a dead heat. Of all pleasures this is the most

  Exquisite, when a man and a woman, satisfied,

  Lie in mutual surrender, side by side.

  That’s the rhythm to aim at—no hurry,

  No furtiveness, no worry.

  If dallying means danger, of course

  It’s best to raise the stroke of your oars,

  Or in other words to spur the galloping horse.

  [LATIN: Finis adest operi…]

  Here this part of my task ends.

  You grateful young friends,

  Give me the palm, perfume my hair, bring a myrtle crown.

  Among the Greeks Podalirius won renown

  For medical skill, Nestor for knowing men’s hearts,

  Achilles for strength, Ajax for martial arts,

  Calchas as priest and seer,

  Automedon as charioteer;

  So I, too, have no peer

  In my field: love. Praise me, you youngsters, proclaim

  Me poet and prophet, broadcast my name

  World-wide.

  I’ve equipped you for war, just as Vulcan supplied

  Achilles with the arms he made.

  Go and conquer as he did, and if with the aid

  Of my weapons you lay an Amazon low,

  Let this inscription on the trophy go:

  “Ovid, our master, taught us all we know.”

  [LATIN: Ecce, rogant tenerae…]

  But now the girls are begging for lessons. Your turn,

  Ladies. You’re my next concern.

  * * *

  * A reference to Virgil’s Eclogues, ii, 52.

  BOOK THREE

  [LATIN: Arma dedi Danais…]

  Having armed Greeks against Amazons, I must now prescribe

  Weapons, Penthesilea, for you and your tribe.

  You must fight on equal terms. Victory’s won

  Through the favour of kind Venus and her son

  Who ranges the world on wings. It wouldn’t be fair

  If women had to oppose armed troops with bare

  Breasts, for victory, then,

  Could only shame us men.

  “But why give venom to snakes? Why betray

  Our sheepfold to wild she-wolves?” you may say.

  Don’t smear the whole sex with the disgrace

  Of the few who are bad, judge each as a separate case.

  It’s true, Helen and Clytemnestra had to face

  Charges from both their husbands, and Eriphyle’s crime

  Sent Amphiaraus before his time,

  Together with his horses, hurled

  Still living to the underworld;

  But think of Penelope, chaste for ten years of war,

  And then for ten years more

  While her lord wandered; of Laodamia, who took her life

  To be with her husband; of Alcestis, a wife

  Who saved Admetus from the dead

  By offering to join them in his stead;

  Of Evadne’s cry, “Take me, we’ll embrace in the fire,

  Capaneus!” as she leapt on to the pyre.

  Virtue’s dressed as a woman, she’s feminine in gender—

  No wonder her sex’s view of her is tender—

  But faced with such paragons, my poetry fails:

  Mine’s a light pleasure craft, with small sails.

  What you’ll learn through me is only naughtiness;

  I’m going to teach you nothing less

  Than how you should be loved. Flaming arrows and bows

  Aren’t usually used by women, I don’t suppose

  I’ve seen many men hurt by those.

  Men frequently, girls rarely, cheat:

  Ask around—very few are accused of deceit.

  Although Medea was by then a mother,

  Treacherous Jason dumped his bride and took another.

  As for you, Theseus, Ariadne in her solitude

  Could have ended up as gulls’ food

  For all the shame

  You felt. Ask how Nine Ways got its name,

  And listen to the falling leaves

  Which the wood there sheds when it grieves

  For Phyllis who hanged herself beside the sea.

  Aeneas was noted for his piety,

  And yet, Dido, your guest supplied

  Both sword and motive for your suicide.

  What ruined you all? I’ll tell you. You all lacked

  Know-how, tact,

  The art of love that keeps the spark

  Of passion alive. And you’d still be in the dark

  If Venus hadn’t come to me in a dream

  And told me to give you a lecture on this theme.

  “What have women done to deserve it?” she said. “Poor,

  Defenceless mob, should they be pitted in war

  Against armed males? Now that two parts

  Of your poem have taught men the erotic arts,

  It’s time the opposition

  Enjoyed the benefit of your tuition.

  The poet who was Helen’s denigrator

  Retuned his lyre and sang her praises later

  In a happier key. Never say

  Bad words about us women! If I know you, you’ll stay

  Eager to win their favour till your dying day.”

  Then from her myrtle wreath she gave me a few

  Berries and a leaf. As I took them, I knew

  Her divine power: the air brightened

  And my heart lifted, strangely lightened.

  While her inspiration’s with me still, now

  (If modesty, your morals and the laws allow

  You to do so) take some tips, girls, from my page.

  Never forget that old age

  Will arrive, never let time

  Slip from you, wasted. While you’re in your prime,

  While you still can, have fun, play,

  For the years like water run away,

  The river glides, the hour moves on,

  And are irrevocably gone.

  Youth should be used, it vanishes so fast,

  And pleasures to come will be less than pleasures past.

  Those grey ghosts I remember as a vio
let-bed,

  Those thorns were once a gift, a rose-wreath for my head.

  You who now lock your lovers out—grow old,

  And you’ll lie alone at night, feeling the cold,

  Your door no longer battered

  By midnight drunks, your threshold never scattered

  With dawn roses. Oh yes, it’s sad

  That flab and wrinkles come so soon, too bad

  When the radiant complexion you once had

  Fades, and the streaks you swear

  You always had as a girl are suddenly everywhere—

  A whole head of grey hair!

  Snakes slough off age with their winter rags,

  And shed horns put no extra years on stags,

  But our looks go without upkeep. Pluck the flower; unpicked,

  It withers, ugly, derelict.

  Moreover, having children shortens the stage

  Of youth: overcropped fields soon age.

  Moon, when over Mount Latmos you had a crush

  On Endymion, you felt no need to blush,

  Nor was there, Aurora, in your eyes

  Any shame in making Cephalus your prize.

  Though Venus still mourns Adonis, all the same

  She bore two children with a different name.

  Follow the role models in the sky,

  Earthbound women, and don’t deny

  Your pleasures to hungry men. They may abuse

  Your trust. So what? What have you got to lose?

  Your balance is still safe, there’s been no cost.

  Let them take and take and take, nothing is lost.

  Though flint and iron get worn down by attrition,

  That part remains unscratched, in mint condition.

  What’s wrong with taking a light from fire? Who’d be

  A miser with the vast, undrainable sea?

  If a woman says no, all she’s done is refused

  Available water that she might have used.

  I’m not saying, Go and get laid

  By all comers, but, Don’t be afraid

  Of shadows on the wall.

  When you give yourselves, you lose nothing at all.

  Ahead there are stronger winds, trickier seas;

  But I’m still in harbour—give me a light breeze!

  [LATIN: Ordior a cultu…]

  I’ll start with body care. The best wines

  Come from well-tended vines,

  And the tallest crops with the best yield

  Are grown in a well-dug field.

  Beauty’s a gift of the gods. How many of you can boast

  That you have it? Frankly, most

  Don’t. Attention helps: though you were graced

  With the looks of Venus, neglected they’ll go to waste.

  In the past girls may not have groomed themselves, but men

  Were equally uncultivated then.

  Do you wonder that Andromache wore

  A rough smock?—she’d married a man of war.

  And if you were Ajax’s wife, would you put on your best

  For a fellow whose arrow-proof vest

  Was a seven-layered ox-hide? In the days of old

  Styles were crude and simple. Now Rome has gold,

  The huge wealth of the conquered world. Compare

  The new with the old Capitol and you’d swear

  They belonged to different Jupiters. Who remembers

  That our Senate House, now worthy of its members,

  Was wattle-built under Tatius, and the Palatine,

  Site of Apollo’s shrine

  And the imperial palace now,

  Once pastured oxen for the plough?

  Let others venerate the past, I say

  Thank goodness I’m alive today;

  This age suits me—not because we mine

  Stubborn gold from the earth, or gather fine

  Shells from exotic shores, or dig

  Marble from shrinking mountains, or thrust big

  Villas into the bay’s blue water, but because

  We have culture, and the coarse life that was

  Natural to our grandfathers didn’t last

  To our day, is a thing of the past.

  [LATIN: Vos quoque nec…]

  Don’t load your ears with expensive pearls that have been

  Fished up by dark-skinned Indians from green

  Tropical waters, don’t parade

  In heavy, gold-embossed brocade—

  Money displayed

  For applause can have the opposite effect.

  What we admire is elegance: don’t neglect

  Your hair or let it stray too much;

  Chic can be made or marred by a single touch.

  There’s more than one way hair can be dressed:

  Consult your mirror and choose the best

  For you. An oval face prefers

  Hair parted plainly (Laodamia did hers

  Like that); a round face calls for a different style—

  The hair in a neat pile

  On top of the head, so the ears show.

  One girl should let her tresses flow

  Over her shoulders in a cascade,

  Like Apollo when he plays the lyre; another should braid

  Hers like Diana when, skirt tucked above the knee,

  She hunts, and the wild things flee.

  Some look good with it loose and tousled by the wind,

  Others prefer it tied or pinned;

  Some fancy tortoise-shell combs, others elect

  To cultivate a wave-effect.

  If the number of all acorns on all oak-trees,

  If all the fauna of the Alps, if all the bees

  On Hybla are beyond computation,

  So are hair-styles—every day there’s a new creation.

  Take the “careless look,” which suits a lot of girls:

  To judge by their wild curls

  You’d think they’d been slept on all night, but they’ve just

  This moment been carefully mussed!

  Art simulates chance effects. Think of the case

  Of Hercules, who saw and loved the face

  Of his unkempt captive, Iole; or forlorn,

  Dishevelled Ariadne, borne

  Away by Bacchus in his car

  To the satyrs’ loud shouts of “hurrah!”

  Nature’s treatment of your beauty’s more

  Than kind—you’ve a thousand tricks to restore

  The damage. We’re miserably stripped bare—

  With age we lose our hair,

  Which falls like gale-blown leaves. A woman can dye

  Her grey streaks with German lotions, try

  To enhance its natural colour, sport a big,

  Thick, built-up wig,

  New hair for old, which money buys—

  There’s no embarrassment or disguise—

  From the shop right under Hercules’ and the Muses’ eyes.

  Now, what about clothes? I can’t abide

  Flounces or Tyrian-purple-dyed

  Wool. It’s mad,

  When so many cheaper colours can be had,

  To load your back with the worth of a whole estate.

  There’s the blue you see when the spring winds abate

  And stop bringing rain, and the air’s

  Cloudless; there’s

  Tawny gold, like the ram

  On whose back Phrixus and Helle swam

  To escape from Ino’s malice; there’s grey-green,

  The colour of the waves, which we call “marine”—

  I imagine that’s what the sea-nymphs must have worn;

  There’s saffron—the dewy goddess of the morn

  Wears it when she drives the team that brings us light;

  There’s myrtle-green, amethyst-purple, rose-white,

  The grey of the Thracian crane,

  Almond-pink, chestnut (here come your chestnuts again,

  Amaryllis!), the “beeswax” tan of a fleece … Past numbering,

&nb
sp; Like the flowers of the new earth when warm spring

  Urges the vines to bud and winter’s gone,

  Are the dyes wool takes on.

  Choose them with care,

  For not every colour suits every woman. A fair

  Skin looks attractive with dark grey—

  It suited Briseis; even on the day

  She was captured and dragged away

  She wore it. Dark skins look best

  In white—Andromeda, you were ravishing dressed

  In white, on your island which the jealous gods oppressed.

  [LATIN: Quam paene admonui…]

  I was about to devote

  A few words to guarding against underarm “goat”

  And bristling, hairy legs, but I’m talking to girls finer

  Than the peasants in north-west Asia Minor

  Or the rocky Caucasus. Why give you needless warnings,

  Such as, Don’t forget to wash your hands in the mornings,

  Or, Don’t neglect your teeth or they may go black?

  You know how to add the bloom you lack

  With powder, how to replace

  The blood in an anaemic face

  With rouge, how to fill in an eyebrow-line that’s weak,

  How to stick a patch on one unblemished cheek,

  And you’re not shy of using a touch of ash

  Or a dash

  Of Cilician saffron to enhance your eyelids. Look

  At Facial Treatment, my little book—

  It may be short, but it was a long slog

  Writing it—in which I catalogue

  The best cosmetic recipes. Among other lore,

  You’ll find tips there on how to restore

  Fading looks. Yes, my art

  Is no slouch when it comes to taking your part.

  But don’t let your lover see the boxes and jars

  On your dressing-table—remember, ars

  Est celare artem.* The average man feels sick

  At the sight of make-up put on so thick

  That it melts and runs down a sweaty neck.

  As for that facial grease

  Extracted from an unwashed fleece,

  Even though it’s “from Athens” it will offend

  All noses. Nor can I recommend

  Dabbing hind’s marrow cream on your face

  Or cleaning your teeth in a public place.

  It may improve your looks, but it doesn’t make good viewing:

  What gives pleasure when done may be ugly in the doing.

  A sculpture by Myron, signed, from his own

  Workshop, was once a meaningless lump of stone;

  To make that beautiful

  Gold ring, crude ore was worked; that robe was filthy wool

  Originally; the jewel you wear

  Was a rough, uncut stone—now a cameo’s there: