The Art of Love (7 page)

[L
ATIN
:
Non potuit Minos…
]

    Minos failed to clip man’s wings, and here am I

Hoping to pin down a god who can fly!

You’re a dupe if you mix with Thessaly’s black arts:

The growth on a foal’s forehead, animals’ secret parts,

The herbs of Medea, the mumbo-jumbo songs

Of up-country witches—none of them prolongs

Love. If they worked, Medea would have detained

Jason by spells, and Circe kept Ulysses chained.

Don’t give love-potions, they’re dangerous and bad:

They can affect the brain and drive girls mad.

In fact, don’t play foul. If you want to be loved, be nice:

A fine face and physique never suffice.

You may be Nireus, the handsomest man in Homer’s book,

Or Hylas, whom the naughty, doting naiads took,

But to keep your girl and not be thrown off balance

By being deserted, you must have mental talents

As well as physical charms. Beauty’s a frail flower,

It grows less with the years, it weakens by the hour.

The violet dies, the bell-mouthed lily goes,

The hard thorn’s left behind after the rose.

It’s the same with you, my debonair

Young fellow: soon grey hair

And furrowing wrinkles will arrive.

Now is the time to contrive

A good mind to add to your looks: that alone will endure

To the end, to the pyre. Make sure

You cultivate the liberal arts, and learn to speak

Not only perfect Latin but good Greek.

Ulysses wasn’t handsome, but he had

Such eloquence that two sea-goddesses were mad

For his love. Calypso wept at his haste to be going

And swore the water was too rough for rowing!

Again and again she asked about Troy, and he told the tale

In so many different ways it was never stale.

There on the shore, the lovely goddess begged, “Friend,

Tell me about King Rhesus’ bloody end.”

And he with a stick he happened to have in his hand

Drew diagrams on the firm sand.

“Here’s Troy,” he’d say—and with the damp

Sand built a wall. “Here’s Simois. Our camp

Imagine over there. There’s the plain”—and he smoothed a plain—

“Where we butchered the spy Dolon on the look-out to gain

Achilles’ steeds. Rhesus camped
there;
that night I rode

Back on the captured horses.” He would have showed

Calypso more,

But a wave raced up the shore

And washed Troy, Rhesus, and his camp away.

At which the goddess exclaimed, “What did I say?

How can you trust this sea when one wave effaces

All those famous names and places?”

And so, since looks may let you down unkindly,

Don’t rely on them blindly.

Reader, whoever you are, you must

Have something safer than physique to trust.

    Tactful kindness is the key to the door

Of a girl’s heart; roughness breeds anger, hatred, war.

We loathe the hawk for his bellicose nature

And the wolf because he’s a sheep-murdering creature,

But the gentle swallow men never snare,

And doves get turreted houses in the air.

Steer clear of arguments, sarcasm, heat—

Baby love needs a diet that’s soft and sweet.

Let married couples go in for trouble and strife

Like eternally quarrelling litigants (for the wife

It’s natural—rows are the dowry she brings),

Your girl should hear only the things

She wants to hear. With you two it’s love instead

Of law obliging you to share a bed.

Use tender sweet-talk, make her ears hum

With the language of love, so she’s glad you’ve come.

I’m not addressing the rich; the wooer with gifts

At his fingertips doesn’t need my shifts.

Whoever can say, whenever he likes, with a gallant

Gesture, “Please accept this” has his own talent.

To him I resign

Pride of place: his ploys will work better than mine.

I’m the poor man’s poet, I loved when poor, and gave

Words since I couldn’t give presents. Poor lovers must behave

Carefully, watch their tongues and bear

A lot that a millionaire

Wouldn’t put up with. I pulled a girl’s hair

In anger once, I remember, and my temper cost

Me, oh, how many days of her company lost!

I don’t think—at least I never noticed—I tore her dress,

But she swore yes,

And the damage was paid for at my expense.

If you have any sense,

You’ll avoid your teacher’s blunders and never commit

A mistake like mine, one where you pay for it.

Fight Parthians, not civilised girls. Play, laugh,

Do anything for peace on love’s behalf.

[L
ATIN
:
Si nec blanda…
]

    If she’s cool and unwilling to be wooed,

Just take it, don’t weaken; in time she’ll soften her mood.

Bending a bough the right way, gently, makes

It easy; use brute force, and it breaks.

With swimming rivers it’s the same—

Go with, not against, the current. Patient methods tame

Lions and tigers, and that, too, is how

Bulls gradually come to tolerate the plough.

Who could have been more intractable than

Atalanta? Yet that fierce girl lost to a man

In the running race—to Milanion.

They say that, earlier on,

Ranging the woods with her, he often rued

Her cruelty and his servitude,

Her nets on his back all day, he spearing wild boars

Obediently. Hylaeus the centaur’s

Bow hurt him badly, but we know

His worst wound came from a more famous bow—

Cupid’s. I’m not advising
you
to go

Scrambling through Greek thickets, hunters and mountaineers,

Lugging nets and carrying spears,

Or to bare your chests to whizzing arrows—none of that stuff:

A cautious lover will find my programme easy enough.

If she resists, yield; surrender, and you’ll win.

Play any role she wants to cast you in.

Criticise when she’s critical, enthuse when she enthuses,

Echo her view, whatever line she chooses;

If she laughs, laugh; if she cries, remember to do the same:

Your face must obey her rules. If you’re playing a game,

Throw the dice clumsily, make a careless move;

If it’s knucklebones, let her off a forfeit if you prove

The winner, and see to it that you roll low scores;

If it’s “robbers,” let her glass man capture yours.

Don’t be too proud

To hold her sunshade and make room for her through the crowd.

Don’t feel a fool

Placing a footstool

For her pretty feet by the couch and easing

Her slippers on or off. If she’s cold, though you’re freezing

Warm her hand on your heart. And don’t think it a disgrace

To hold, with your freeborn hand, her mirror to her face—

You
may
look like a slave, but you’re sure to please.

When Juno tired of testing Hercules

With monsters, the hero who’d shouldered the sky and won

A place there did a stint, they say, as one

Of Omphale’s Lydian maids, held baskets, spun

Wool among them. If Jupiter’s son

Obeyed
his
mistress’s orders, so can you.

Go and endure what he went through!

Told to meet her in the Forum, arrive for the date

Good and early, wait,

And don’t leave unless she’s badly late.

If she summons you somewhere, drop everything, run along,

Barging and shoving your way through the throng.

At night, if she sends you a message at a party’s end,

Like her slave your job’s to attend

Her person all the way home.

The same applies if she’s away from Rome.

Love hates a lazy man. If wheels can’t be had,

Travel on foot, and no matter if the weather’s bad,

If there’s a heatwave or it’s snowed,

Don’t get held up on the road.

[L
ATIN
:
Militiae species amor…
]

    Love is a kind of war. Faint hearts, you’re debarred—

These standards aren’t for timid men to guard!

Love may be soft, but serving him is hard:

You’re in for suffering, hard work, long marches, all-night

Duty in winter, you’ll have to fight

Downpours and then, half-drowned,

Bed down on the bare ground.

When he herded cattle for King Admetus, it’s said

That the sun-god had to huddle in a shed;

So why shouldn’t a
man
follow

The example of divine Apollo?

Do you want love to last? Then dump your pride.

If safe and easy access is denied

And the door’s bolted, find a way in

Head-first through the skylight, or shin

Like a thief through a window of the upper storey.

She’ll be thrilled, you’ll have the glory

Of risking your neck for her, and it’ll prove

The authenticity of your love.

(Leander, though you could have borne the loss

Of Hero’s company, yet you swam across

To show how much you loved her.)

[L
ATIN
:
Nec pudor ancillas…
]

                                        Win over the maids,

Taking into account their different grades,

And the house-slaves too. Greet each (it costs nothing) by name,

Clasp their humble hands, it’s all part of the game:

A man with a plan need feel no shame.

On Fortune’s Day, if even a slave asks, offer

A present—it won’t drain your coffer;

And do the same for the maids on their day,

For the Gauls, fooled by girls disguised as matrons, had to pay

The penalty. Make friends, I say,

With the menials—and with none more

Than the janitor and the slave outside her bedroom door.

When it comes to
her
presents, I wouldn’t be wasteful:

Make them small, well-chosen and tasteful.

At harvest-time, when fruit weighs the branches down,

Send a boy round with an “out-of-town”

Basketful—say it’s the crop

From your country estate, though it came from a Rome shop.

Send grapes, or the chestnuts “my Amaryllis adored”
^*

(Though nowadays Amaryllises are bored

By chestnuts); send a thrush, a pigeon, a pheasant,

To show her she’s always present

In your thoughts. (Gifts sent to buy

The hope that when childless old people die

The donors will feature in the will

Are vile. Death to all those whose gifts are given so ill!)

[L
ATIN
:
Quid tibi praecipiam…
]

What about sending a love poem? Would that be nice?

Verses, I fear, don’t cut much ice.

Poems are praised, but gifts are valued more;

Provided he’s rich, even a slob can score

With presents. This is the new Age of Gold

When love is bought, high office sold.

Homer, if you returned again

With all the Muses in your train,

But empty-handed, there’d soon be a shout

Of “Throw Homer out!”

There is, I grant you—though it’s small—a set

Of cultured women, and one mustn’t forget

The ones who are not

But would like to be. With either lot,

Write poems in praise of them, and then recite them,

Rubbish or not,
con amore
. You’ll delight them.

Lines dedicated to
her
, by a lover,

That he’s sweated all night over,

Blue-stocking or peasant

She’ll treat them as a little token “present.”

    Whatever you’ve planned already and suits you best,

Make that appear your mistress’s request.

If you’ve promised one of your slaves manumission,

See that he begs her for
her
permission;

If you let one off a punishment or chains,

Put her in your debt for your “mercy”—the gain’s

All yours, the credit hers; never let slip

A chance for her to play Her Ladyship.

If you’re anxious to keep her, it’s your duty

To make her think you’re staggered by her beauty.

Notice her clothes.

Tyrian purple? Praise that. Coan silks? Praise those.

A gold-embroidered dress? Make it clear

That the gold is far less dear

Than the wearer. An outfit in wool?

Exclaim, “Wonderful!”

If she stands beside you in her slip, shout, “Fire!”

But at the same time, in a shy voice, enquire,

“Don’t you feel the cold?” If the girl’s

Changed her hair-style, applaud the new curls

Or the switched parting. Admire her charms—

Her voice when she sings, when she dances her arms—

And when she stops clamour for more.

When making love, you should “madly adore”

Her sensuousness and expertise,

And tell her in words the delicious things that please

You specially. She may be as rough and wild

As Medusa in bed, but for you she’s “sweet and mild.”

While serving up these compliments

Don’t for a moment ruin the pretence

By your expression. Hiding art is the name of the game:

Detection brings embarrassment and shame

And—serve you right—an eternity of blame.

[L
ATIN
:
Saepe sub autumnum…
]

    In early autumn, of all seasons the most sweet,

When grapes grow purple and juice-replete,

When one day we’re gripped by cold and the next limp with heat,

And the weather’s changeable mood

Brings on lassitude,

May your girl keep well. But if she does fall ill

And takes to bed with a fever or a chill

Caught from the morbid air,

Now is the time to show your loving care.

Be a shrewd cultivator—

Sow now, and you’ll reap a bumper harvest later.

If the invalid’s peevish, don’t let it upset you;

Do for her with your own hands whatever she’ll let you.

Weep in front of her, kiss her again and again,

Let the rain

Of your tearful grief

Bring her parched lips and mouth relief.

Make vows for her recovery—aloud so she can hear,

Tell her your dreams when she feels like listening—ones of good cheer,

Hire an old witch with tottery legs

And trembling hands to bring round sulphur and eggs

To purify the room and the bed.

All this will prove your willing love (it’s a route that’s led

To many legacies!). Zeal, though, should keep its bounds:

Don’t fuss, or your ministrations may become the grounds

Of her displeasure. Never ban food, and never concoct her

Bitter medicines. Leave rivals to play doctor.