If any Roman knows nothing about love-making, please
Read this poem and graduate in expertise.
Ships and chariots with sails, oars, wheels, reins,
Speed through technique and control, and the same obtains
For love. As Automedon was Achilles’ charioteer
And Tiphys earned the right to steer
The Argo on Jason’s expedition,
So I am appointed by Venus as the technician
Of her art—my name will live on
As Love’s Tiphys, Love’s Automedon.
Love often fights against me, for he’s wild,
Yet he’s also controllable, for he’s still a child.
Chiron made Achilles expert with the lyre,
His cool tuition quenched youth’s primitive fire,
So that the boy who later became
A terror to friends and foes alike stood tame
In front of his aged teacher, so they say,
And the hand that Hector would feel one day
Was held out meekly to be rapped
At his schoolmaster’s bidding. Achilles was the apt
Pupil of Chiron, Love is mine—
Wild boys both, and both born of divine
Mothers; yet the heavy plough will make
Even the bull’s neck docile, and the friskiest colt will take
The bit in his teeth. Love shall be tamed under my hand,
Though his arrows riddle me, though his flaming brand
Is waved in my face. The worse the wounds, the fiercer the burn,
The prompter I’ll be to punish him in return.
I won’t pretend that I’m inspired by you, Apollo:
The hoot of an owl, the flight of a swallow,
Have taught me nothing; awake or asleep,
I never had a vision of the Muses tending sheep
In pastoral valleys. This poem springs
From experience. Listen, your poet sings
Of what he knows, he tells no lies.
Venus, mother of Love, assist my enterprise!
But you with headbands and ankle-length robes, staid matrons,
Stay well clear—you are not my patrons.
My theme is safe and licit love, stolen joys which women’ll
Condone; I’ll mention nothing criminal.
[LATIN: Principio, quod amare…]
Your first job, then, love’s volunteer recruit,
Is to find the object of your pursuit;
Next comes the work of wooing and winning; and, last, ensuring
That the love you’ve won is enduring.
These are the limits of the ground my wheeled
Chariot will rapidly cover, my chosen field.
While you’re still unharnessed and can wander fancy-free,
Pick a girl and tell her, “You’re the only girl for me.”
A mistress, though, doesn’t float down from the sky:
You have to seek out the one who’s caught your eye.
A hunter has to work,
Know where to spread his stag-nets, in which glens boars lurk,
A fowler’s familiar with copses, fishermen learn
Which streams are the most rewarding, and you, if you yearn
For a long-term affair, won’t have one till you’ve found
The places where girls are thick on the ground.
Though Perseus brought back Andromeda from the Syrian coast
And Paris stole Helen from his foreign host,
You can achieve your ambition
More easily. I’m not recommending an expedition
Overseas or a gruelling march; look nearer home
And you’ll say, “The prettiest girls in the world are in Rome”—
They’re thicker than wheatsheaves on Gargara, grapes in Lesbos, birds in the trees,
Stars in the sky, fish in the seas,
For Venus is a strong presence
In the city her son founded. If you fancy adolescents,
One stunner out of plenty
Will emerge and dazzle you; if you like them over twenty,
The range of available talent is so rich
That your only problem will be which;
And if you prefer mature, experienced women,
Believe me, they’re as common
As blackberries.
When the sun’s on the back of Hercules’
Lion, in high summer, just stroll at your ease
Down Pompey’s shady colonnade,
Or Octavia’s (which she made
More beautiful, when her son died,
With rich marblework on the outside),
Or the one that’s named
After its founder, Livia, famed
For its antique paintings. Don’t forget to go
To the Danaids’ portico
Where the fifty sculptured virgins meditate
Their luckless cousins’ fate—
The multiple murder planned
By their fierce father Belus (here shown sword in hand).
And don’t miss the shrine where Venus weeps
For Adonis, the synagogue where Syrian Jewry keeps
The sabbath sacred, or the Memphian temple
Of the linen-clad heifer Io, whose example
Has taught many a courtesan
To offer her body to a man
As she did hers to Jove.
The law-courts, too, are fertile grounds for love,
Believe it or not—yes, desire
From dry forensic tinder can catch fire.
There where the Appian nymph tosses her water-jets
High from beneath the marble shrine, Venus’s nets
Trap even lawyers. The man who knows how to lend
His eloquence to defend others can’t defend
Himself, words fail him, he has to look after
A new case now—his own. Meanwhile the goddess’s laughter
Tinkles from her nearby temple at the sight
Of the advocate turned client overnight.
Above all, comb the curved theatre—that’s the place
Richest in spoils of the sexual chase.
There you’ll find someone to love, or a playmate, there
You can opt for one night or a solid affair.
As ants in column bustle up and down their lanes,
Jaws clutching their wheat-grains,
As bees in their fragrant glades and pastures hover
Above flowers and thyme and clover,
Our smart women swarm to the games in such numbers my vision
And judgment blur—often I lose my powers of decision.
They come to see and be seen;
Modesty, chastity mean
Nothing there. Romulus, it was all your fault,
It was your games that first featured rape and assault—
Those Sabine women and sex-hungry men.
The theatre had no marble seats or awnings then,
Nor was the stage red-dyed
With sweet-smelling saffron; the Palatine woods supplied
A backdrop of greenery,
And nature without artifice the scenery;
Shaggy-headed, the spectators sat
On tiered turf seats, any old leaves as a hat
To shade the sun. Alert, each man
Brooded silently and formed his plan,
Having marked with a glance his selected girl.
Then, to the skirl
Of Etruscan flutes, the dancers’ feet
Stamped the smooth floor in the triple beat
Until amid loud hoorays
(Applause was pretty crude in the old days)
The king gave the sign they were waiting for
And the Rape began. Up they sprang with a lustful roar
And grabbed the virgins. As eagles scatter a flock
Of timid doves or wolves scare lambs, so the shock
Of this wild male charge spread panic. Colour drained
From every girl’s face; a common terror reigned,
Though its features varied. Some sat there numb
With fear, some tore their hair; one girl, struck dumb,
Simply wept, another
Called ineffectually for her mother;
They shrieked or stared, they froze or fled.
And so, as plunder of the marriage-bed,
They were carried away, and I dare say their alarm
Gave some of them a piquant extra charm.
A girl who struggled and wouldn’t co-operate
Was hoisted up and hauled off by her new mate
With “Why spoil those tender eyes with tears? Never mind,
I’ll be as kind to you as your father was kind
To your mother.” Romulus, you found the right reward
For soldiers—for that I’ll enlist myself, with a sword!
Since then time-honoured custom has made our Roman
Theatres danger spots for pretty women.
And don’t miss the chariot races: the big Circus
Offers lots of chances for smart workers.
No need of finger-language here, no need to guess
That a nod of the head means yes:
You can sit as close to a girl as you please,
So make the most of touching thighs and knees
(The seating arrangements almost force
Physical intimacy as a matter of course).
At this point casually volunteer
An opening remark for anyone to hear.
Ask with keen interest, “Whose team’s that going by?”
And “Who are you backing?” Given a reply,
Add instantly, “So am I!”
When the gods’ ivory statues pass in the grand
Procession, give Venus a big hand,
And if a speck of dust, as it well may,
Falls in her lap, brush it away—
Brush it away even if there’s no dust:
Any gallant excuse in the service of lust.
If her cloak trails on the ground, make a great scene
Of lifting it up to keep it clean,
And if you’ve played it right
You’re rewarded at once—with her permission, the sight
Of her ankles. (Watch out for the man behind—
His knee may be giving the small of her back a grind.)
A frivolous mind
Is won by small attentions. Many a man
Has scored by arranging a cushion or plying a fan
Or slipping a little stool
Under the dainty feet of a sweet fool.
[LATIN: Hos aditus Circusque…]
Such openings the Circus offers for the study
Of the art of the pick-up; so does the grim Forum with its bloody
Arena of sand. Here Cupid has his killing-ground,
And the man who came to see blood himself gets a wound—
In the heart. While he’s touching her hand, bending her ear,
Borrowing her programme, asking if the charioteer
He’s backed will win, he feels
The shock of the arrow, the steel’s
Struck home, he groans—and the spectator
Joins in the show, a dying gladiator.
When Caesar staged that naval mock-battle between
Athenians and Persians, what a scene!
From east and west young women and men
Converged, the whole known world was in Rome then.
In such a crowd, in such a push-and-shove,
Who could fail to find someone to love?
That day hundreds of men learnt
How hot a foreign flame is, and got burnt.
Now Caesar’s planning to extend his powers
To the rest of the untamed world. You shall be ours,
O farthest East. Parthians, you shall be paid
In full. Exult, standards that they laid
Shaming barbarian hands on! Rejoice, the shade
Of buried Crassus! Now your avenger appears,
A boy who despite his years
Proclaims his generalship
And has strong hands to grip
The reins of a war that no one of that age
But he would dare or be allowed to wage.
Why timidly rely on arithmetic
When it comes to the age of a god? Valour is quick
To show in Caesars. Divine genius tolerates
No hanging back, accelerates
Achievement, and makes nonsense of mere dates.
The infant Hercules strangled two snakes, even
In the cradle earning the applause of heaven.
And you, Bacchus, still a young god,
How old were you when India kissed your rod?
With your father’s authority, under his lucky star,
Boy, you shall fight and win this war.
Your great name calls for a youthful victory:
Today prince of the young, one day you shall be
Prince of the old. You’re a brother, a son—then requite
The wrongs of brothers, uphold a father’s right.
Your country’s father, indeed your own,
Has armed you against a foe who seized his throne
By force from a father. Javelin versus bow,
Good against evil, justice and right shall go
Ahead of your standards. Parthia’s doom is sealed
By her own guilt; may every battlefield
Reflect that truth, and may my prince come home
Bringing the riches of the East to Rome!
O Mars, O Caesar, both fathers, one divine,
One god-to-be, let your numinous powers shine
On his setting forth. Lo, I predict a
Great triumph, and vow to you, the victor,
A celebratory poem to trumpet your name
Resoundingly. Using the same
Words I wrote, you’ll stand and exhort
Your battle-line—and I pray they’ll not fall short
Of your valour’s reach. I’ll describe head-on attacks
By Romans, cowardly Parthian backs,
And arrows in the sky
Shot by their swivelling horsemen as they fly.
(You Parthians, if, pursuing victory, you retreat,
What meaning’s left for the word “defeat”?
Your war-will’s sapped, it’s an ill omen.)
And so the day will come when you, our Roman
Hero, an adored, resplendent sight,
Will ride in gold, drawn by four snow-white
Horses, behind their chiefs—neck-fettered now for fear
They save their skins by a second flight. A cheer
Will rise from every watching girl and boy
On that day of heart-felt joy.
When some girl asks the names of the kings and foreign parts—
Towns, mountains, rivers etcetera—on the pageant carts,
Answer all her questions. No, don’t wait
To be asked, volunteer (though you’re guessing) with a straight
Face, “Here’s Euphrates, his forehead fringed with reeds,
And that’s Tigris with the long blue hair. There are the Medes,
And, look, the Armenians, I’m positive. There goes
Some Achaemenid valley town. And those
Must be two generals …” Give them each a name—
Right, if you can; if you can’t, give them one just the same.
Banquets give openings, too: when the tables are spread,
There’s more than wine to turn your head.
There Love, with soft arms and flushed face,
Has often given the horns of Bacchus an embrace,
And when wine has soaked his thirsty plumage, Love
Stands rooted, torpid, can’t perform or move.
He takes no time to shake his wings dry again,
But for us a few drops of love are intense pain.
Wine rouses the heart, wine makes all men
Lovers, wine undiluted dilutes worry. Then
Laughter arrives, even the poor
Feel as brave as bulls, wrinkles relax, out of the door
Go care and sorrow, into all hearts
Flies truth (rare bird these days), for the god expels the arts
Of the hypocrite. Then girls bewitch men with desire,
And Venus in the wine is a fire within a fire.
On these occasions don’t trust the lamps—they can lie:
Darkness and drink blur the judging eye.
It was in broad daylight, not after dinner,
That Paris made his choice: “You, Venus, are the winner.”
Blemishes are lost in the half-light,
Faults overlooked. Night
Turns any woman into a goddess.
When it comes to judging faces, bodies,
Jewels or clothes, I always say,
Consult the light of day.
But why count grains of sand? How can I list all the places
Where girls go and you can hunt pretty faces?
Take Baiae, its shores fringed with pleasure craft,
Its springs smoking with sulphur—Cupid’s shaft
Does heart damage there. One man came back with the report:
“That’s no health resort!”
The same goes for Diana’s shrine by the lake
In the woods near Rome, where the slave-priests take
Office in turn by murder—she,
Being a virgin, spitefully,
Out of hatred of Love’s darts
Wounds, and will go on wounding, human hearts.
[LATIN: Hactenus, unde legas…]
Having carried you this far
In my Muse’s bumpy, elegiac car
And taught you hunters in which coverts to find
And how to spread nets for the bird you have in mind,
Now for the trickiest, subtlest part: how to get
Your darling well entangled in the net.
Men everywhere, you have something to learn, so attend!
And you, the common people, kindly lend
My enterprise your favour till the end.
First and foremost, feel confidence that all
Girls can be caught; just spread your nets, they’ll fall.
Hounds will run from a hare, birds in spring sit dumb,
Cicadas in summer keep mum,
Sooner than a girl, wooed charmingly, will resist:
Even one you think doesn’t want it wants to be kissed.
Women, like men, adore secret affairs,
But our skill in dissembling is less than theirs.
If we males unanimously agreed
Not to move first, females, crushed, would take the lead.
In lush fields the heifer moos to the bull, the mare
Whinnies at stallions in the open air;
Men’s sex-urge is less primitive, less raw,
Our lust is bound by the limits of the law.
But as for women … Byblis was mad for her brother
And bravely atoned for her sin with a suicide’s noose. Another
Was Myrrha, whose love was most undaughterly
And who is now imprisoned in the tree
Whose bark still weeps the tears named after her
Which we use for perfume and call myrrh.
Once in the shady valleys of wooded Ida
There was a white bull, the herd’s pride, a
Single splash of black above the eyes
Marring perfection, milk-white otherwise.
The handsome Cretan heifers longed to bear his weight,
But Pasiphaë eyed them all with envious hate,
For to play the role of adulterous mate
Of the bull inflamed her fancy. (I only repeat
A well-known fact which hundred-citied Crete,
Proverbial home of liars, can’t rebut.)
With her own high-born hands, they say, she cut
Fresh, tender leaves and grass for him and, undeterred
By the thought of her husband, joined the herd.
So King Minos was humbled by a bull!
Queen, why bother with silks and expensive wool?
They won’t impress your lover in the least.
If you want to live like a mountain beast,
Why the mirror, the pointless fussing with your hair?
You can trust the glass, though, for one thing—there
You’re no heifer. But goodness, how
You wish you could be a plump, horned cow!
If you like Minos, then stay at home,
Don’t look elsewhere; if you prefer to roam
And betray your husband, why then, woman,
At least betray him with a fellow human.
But, leaving her palace and bower behind,
Off she goes to the woods and glens, like a maenad out of her mind,
God-intoxicated. Every time she spies
A cow, she looks daggers and cries,
“What can my darling see in her? There, she’s gambolling
In front of him on the grass—does the stupid thing
Think she’s attractive?” And she’d give the word
For the innocent to be culled from the great herd
To be yoked to the plough, or, faking piety, have her killed
At the altar “to appease the gods,” even take the spilled
Guts gleefully in her hands and jeer
At her rival’s corpse, “Now try to please him, dear!”
In her fantasies she’s now Europa, now
Io—riding a bull or changed to a cow.
Yet the herd-leader, fooled by a cow made of wood,
Mounted, and his fatherhood
Showed in the Minotaur. Had Aerope learnt to restrain
Her love for Thyestes (how hard it is to abstain
From the one man you fancy!), the sun’s charioteer,
Appalled in mid-career,
Would never have reined, turned round and driven
His horses dawnwards across heaven.
Scylla stole from her father his red lock of hair—
Now her loins writhe, a mad dogs’ lair.
Agamemnon escaped with his life
From land battles and sea storms, then fell to his wife.
Who hasn’t been horrified
By the tale of Jason’s wife, who died
In a flaming, poisoned robe, and Medea, red
With her own children’s blood? Of Phoenix, who shed
Tears from eyeless sockets? And Hippolytus—as for him,
Fear-crazed horses tore him limb from limb.
Phineus, why blind
Your innocent sons when you’ll soon find
Yourself sightless? All these crimes were brought about
By woman’s lust, keener and wilder than ours. Why doubt
That you can succeed with any
Woman in the world? Scarcely one out of many
Will say no. Willing or unwilling,
They all find it equally thrilling
To be propositioned. Just chance your arm:
If you make a mistake and get snubbed, where’s the harm?
But why should you be when new pleasures lure and the unknown
Holds more charm than what’s our own?
Our neighbour’s crop hints at a richer yield,
And cows’ udders look fuller in the next field.
But first get to know your quarry’s maid—she’s the key
To smooth, early intimacy.
Make sure she’s her mistress’s confidante, the sort
You can trust with the secret of your private sport.
Corrupt her with promises and prayers, make her your friend:
With her good will you’ll easily gain your end.
She’ll pick a time, just as a doctor would,
When her mistress is in the right mood—
Relaxed, seducible, full of the joy of living,
Exuberant like wheat in a rich soil giving
Promise of harvest; for when hearts are gay
And unshuttered by grief, Venus will find a way
To subtly insinuate herself. It was when the mood of Troy,
After the long, grim siege, lapsed into joy
That she welcomed that enemy-freighted horse.
Pique over a rival is another source
Of vulnerability. In that case supply aid
For her vengeance. Prime the maid
To assist the sails by putting her oar in,
By sighing half to herself, “Would it really be a sin
If you gave him a taste of his own medicine
And had an affair?”
(This in the morning, while she combs her hair),
Then talk about you, and in convincing fashion
Swear that you’re dying of a frantic passion.
Work fast, though—sails may slacken, winds die away:
Pique, like thin ice, melts with delay.
Will it help your cause, you may ask, to seduce the maid?
Playing such games is a dangerous trade;
They act as brakes as frequently as spurs:
Will she view you as her mistress’s prize, or hers?
It can go either way, and, though you may gain
By taking a bold risk, my advice is, Abstain.
Rock-climbing and peak-scaling aren’t part of my plan
Of attack. No young man
Will be taken prisoner while I’m in command.
On the other hand,
If, as she ferries notes to and fro, her beauty
As well as her zeal in doing her duty
Happens to please you, then take
The mistress first and make
The maid your afters. It would be a sin
Against taste to begin
By fucking the maid. One warning (if you trust
My skilled advice, if some greedy gust
Doesn’t blow my words out to sea): Take heed,
Either don’t try at all or make damned sure you succeed.
Once she’s a guilty partner in your crime,
She won’t turn informer. Once its wings feel the lime,
Does the bird escape? Does the boar break out,
Once the loose net has him? Play your hooked trout,
Press her hard, harass her, haul her to land,
Don’t budge till you’ve got the upper hand.
Where there’s shared guilt, there’ll be no betraying,
And you’ll be told all your mistress is doing or saying.
But guard your spy’s secret—you’ll get the low-down on your lover
Just as long as you don’t blow her cover.
There’s a mistaken notion
That only those who work the fields or sail the ocean
Observe the seasons. You can’t entrust grain
To the treacherous earth, or hulls to the green main,
Any day of the year, and the same is the case
With catching girls: the right time and place
Improve the chances. Thus, on certain dates
(Her birthday; April the First, when Rome celebrates
Venus conjoined with Mars; and the Saturnalia,
When the Circus displays rich gifts and regalia,
Not the pottery images of a former age),
Postpone your attempt—then the worst storms rage,
The Pleiads glower, and the huge swell
Half drowns the little Kid. You’ll do well
To pause now. Blithely launch a boat,
And with luck and a spar you may just survive afloat.
Start work on a grim day, like the one when Allia’s water
Was crimsoned with the slaughter
Of Roman dead, or the sabbath feast
The Syrian Jews observe, the day least
Fit for business, when most trade is dead.
But view with superstitious dread
Your mistress’s birthday, surely the most unpleasant
Day in the calendar—you’re forced to give a present.
Dodge as you may, she’ll collect: every woman discovers
Ways of extracting loot from ravenous lovers.
When she’s in a spending mood,
Some half-naked, rude
Huckster comes up and spreads his wares for her,
Poor you sitting by. To make you feel like a connoisseur,
She begs you to look them over, then starts to ply
You with kisses and, finally, asks you to buy—
She wants it right now, it’ll please her for years to come,
Now’s the time to get it … Protest that you don’t have the sum
In cash in the house, she’ll demand
(You’ll wish you’d never learnt to write!) a note-of-hand.
Good God, she can have a birthday at will, can make
Any date an excuse for claiming a birthday-cake.
She can burst into tragic tears
And pretend that a jewel’s dropped from one of her ears.
They’re always borrowing things that don’t get returned:
It’s your loss, and not a thank-you earned.
I’d need ten mouths and ten tongues to list the damnable arts
Of these money-grubbing tarts.
Let the wax of the writing tablet smooth your way,
Let the wax, like a boat, cross over and convey
Your mind, and a cargo of flatteries in the style
Lovers use; however grand you are, pile
The entreaties on. By speaking fair
Priam made Achilles give back Hector’s body. Prayer
Moves even an angry god. By all means throw
Promises in. Do they do any harm? No.
We’re all rich men as far as promises go.
Hope, once trust starts her off, will run and run,
A deceptive goddess, but a useful one.
Once you’ve given her something, you may be dropped—reasonably so:
It’s hers, she’s lost nothing, she can let you go.
What you don’t give she’ll keep thinking she’s going to receive:
That’s how, so often, barren fields deceive
Their owners, how the gambler, for fear of loss,
Goes on losing with every toss
Of the dice which his greedy fingers ask
To have again and again. “Herein lies the task,
The great labour”*—to part with nothing before
She’s given herself, so she’ll give more and more
Lest she lose what she’s given already. So,
Let a persuasive letter go
In a careful hand, in order to find
A way forward and to test her mind.
By a message scratched on an apple Cydippe was betrayed:
The words, once read aloud, were hers, and trapped the maid.
Young Romans, study the noble art
Of eloquence—not merely to take the part
Of some trembling client: just as the common herd,
Grave judges, elected senators, find the power of the word
Irresistible, so do women. But take care
To hide your powers, avoid long words, too clever an air.
Who but a fool would be declamatory?
The effect of a letter can be most unamatory.
Write in a natural, credible style,
In words that are simple but can still beguile,
As though you were there, with her. If she rejects your letter
And sends it back unread, just hope for better
Luck tomorrow and hold fast
To your purpose. Time at last
Breaks stubborn oxen to the plough, in time the horse
Learns to put up with the bridle, in the course
Of time the rub of long use wears
An iron ring thin, and even ploughshares
Crack with the furrows’ friction.
It’s no contradiction
That water’s soft, stone hard, and yet
A drip can hollow rock. Don’t forget,
Troy took a long time to fall, but it fell:
Persist and you’ll take even Penelope’s citadel.
So she’s read it and won’t reply? You feel like assault and battery?
Just see that she goes on receiving regular flattery.
Once she’s consented to read, she’ll consent to answer. These
Matters proceed by gradual degrees.
First you may get an unfriendly note requesting
You to stop “this pestering and molesting.”
What she demands she dreads, she wants the unasked, in a word
Your pursuit. Press on, and you’ll catch your bird.
Meanwhile, if she’s being carried in the street,
Cushioned, in her litter, approach. Act cool, be discreet,
And to foil eavesdroppers mask your talk,
As well as you can, with double meanings. If she should walk
Down the colonnade, share her outing, adjust your speed,
Dawdling or brisk, to hers—you can trail her or take the lead.
Or slip round the columns between you—don’t be shy—
And in passing brush her thigh.
If she goes to the theatre, go too, your admiring glance
Following her (she’s sure to wear something to enhance
Those shoulders!). Turn round, gaze to your heart’s content,
And make your hands and eyebrows eloquent.
When a dancer plays a girl’s role, lead the cheers,
And clap whenever the lover appears.
When she rises, rise; as long as she stays, sit on. Kill
Time entirely at your mistress’s will.
Don’t torture your hair with curling-tongs
Or depilate your legs with pumice—that belongs
To Mother Cybele’s eunuch priests who shriek
Their Phrygian choruses. Casual chic
Suits men best. Theseus managed to win
Ariadne without benefit of a hair-pin.
Phaedra loved Hippolytus and he wasn’t smart;
Adonis, a man of the woods, captured a goddess’s heart.
If you want to please, be neat and clean; when it’s hot,
Tan in the Campus; wear a toga that fits, without spot;
As for shoes, don’t lace them too tightly, take care
That the buckles are rust-free, and never wear
A too large size that your feet swim in; your hair
Should be well cut so that it doesn’t stand
At all angles—hair and beard need an expert’s hand;
Nails should be pared and kept clean;
Make sure there isn’t an obscene
Tuft in your nostrils; and guard against halitosis,
Don’t be a prime goat who offends all noses.
Further refinements leave to the courtesan
And the half-man cruising for another man.
Lo, Bacchus summons his bard, the god who carries a torch
For lovers, who feels, himself, the flames that scorch—
As, fresh from sleep, the Cretan princess found,
Grief-crazed, barefoot, robe ungirt, blonde hair unbound,
Pacing the unknown shores of Naxos (little isle
In the great weltering ocean), all the while
Crying “Cruel Theseus!” The sea hears
Nothing, the innocent tears
Run down her tender cheeks, she weeps, she screams,
Yet still, somehow, she seems
Beautiful, her allure unrobbed
By the tears. Hands beating her soft breasts, she sobbed,
“He’s betrayed me, he’s gone! What will become of me?
What …” Suddenly,
The whole shore resounded
With the noise of cymbals and drums frenziedly pounded.
She broke off, the blood drained from her cold,
Limp body, she fainted with fear. Behold
The wild-tressed bacchanals, the wanton, gay
Satyrs, the rout that leads the wine-god’s way,
Old reeling-drunk Silenus in the train,
Half off his sway-backed donkey, clutching its mane,
While the maenads tease him with hide-and-seek,
Fleeing, then pouncing, until the weak
Rider, whipping the beast on, falls
Off his long-eared mount on his head, to the satyrs’ calls
Of “Get up again, Daddy!” Then the god arrives.
In his chariot roofed with grape-clusters, he drives
A team of tigers with golden harness on.
Her voice, her colour, her Theseus, all gone,
Three times the girl attempted flight,
Three times stayed rooted to the spot with fright,
Shivering like a slender cornstalk in a harsh
Wind, or a frail reed in a marsh.
“I am here,” said the god, “a truer lover than he was. Your life
Is in no danger. You shall be Bacchus’ wife.
The sky is your dowry; henceforward you are
The Cretan Crown; a looked-for star,
You will act as a guide to ships lost at night.”
And lest she should take fright
At the tigers, he leapt down (the sand held the print of his foot)
And went to her and put
His arms round her and carried her off. No struggle—with ease
The gods accomplish anything they please.
Some sang a wedding chorus, others cried
“Long live Bacchus!” And so to bed go god and bride.
[LATIN: Ergo ubi contigerint…]
So, when the gifts of Bacchus bless the board
And a girl’s sharing your couch, pray to the Lord
Of Night and Licence not to allow
His wine to fuddle your head, for now
Is the time for ambiguities and hidden sense,
Which she’ll feel are solely for her. Trace compliments
In spilt wine on the table so she’ll surmise
That she’s your sweetheart, gaze into her eyes
With obvious ardour—a long, silent look
Can say as much as a speech or a book.
If she puts her wine down, be the first to snatch it up
And drink from the side of the cup
Her lips have touched; if she’s fingered some food, demand
That bit, and in reaching for it brush her hand.
If she’s come escorted, your best plan
Is (he could be useful) to cultivate the man:
When you dice for the drinking order, let him instead
Of you have the honour; give him the garland from your head;
Whether he’s placed below or with you, let him be
The first to be served; defer to him, agree.
A safe and well-worn ploy is to pretend
To be the husband’s friend—
Safe and practised all the time,
But nevertheless a crime,
As if some greedy steward were to enlarge
His master’s remit and take total charge.
Next, advice on the bounds you should set to drinking.
Feet and mind should do their duty, walking and thinking.
Beware, above all, of brawls brought on
By liquor, of short-fused fist-fights. Eurytion
The centaur died through mindless boozing. The table
And wine are meant for good fun. If you’re able
To sing, sing; if you’re supple, dance a measure:
Please with whatever talent can give pleasure.
Real drunkenness can harm you, but when it’s feigned
It can be of use. With a clever tongue, trained
To slip and slur, the risqué things you say or do
Will be blamed on the wine, not you.
Toast the lady, toast “the man who shares her bed”
(Secretly wishing him dead);
But when the tables are moved and the guests go, if the crowd
Parts and you’re allowed
The chance, mingle, drift close, and as you both leave
Touch her foot with yours, tug at her sleeve.
Now comes the chat-up stage. Away with naive
Ploughboy shyness! Behave
Boldly—Fortune and Venus favour the brave.
Speak, but don’t follow some poet’s rule of thumb:
Just show you desire her, and the eloquence will come.
Play the lover to the hilt, you’re “desperate,” “heart-sick”;
To get her to believe it employ any trick:
It’s not hard—all women think they’re worth loving, the plain
And the pretty being, in that way, equally vain.
(Besides, sometimes an actor will begin
To feel real love, his role become genuine.
So be nice, you girls, to those who pretend:
A bogus passion may turn out true in the end.)
Like a stream eroding the bank hanging above it,
Undermine her subtly with flattery—she’ll love it.
Neat feet, slim fingers, good features, charming curls—
Never tire of praising them. Even good girls
Adore extravagant compliments, even virgins take
Loving care over the impression they make.
Why else should Juno and Pallas still begrudge
The prize lost in the Trojan glade when Paris was judge?
Juno’s peacock displays
The jewels of her plumage at a word of praise,
But shuts up shop before a silent gaze.
And racehorses, between sprints on the track,
Love their necks patted and their manes combed back.
Don’t be shy of making promises; women are fair game
For promise-makers; invoke any god you care to name
To witness your oath. Jupiter from above
Smiles on the perjuries of men in love
And bids the Aeolian winds shred them in air.
He himself would often swear
To Juno with a hollow
“By the Styx!,” and now he favours all who follow
His bad example. That gods should exist
Is expedient; let us therefore not resist
Belief in them; let incense and wine be given
On their ancient hearths, for the ones in heaven
Don’t loll about in a sort of half-sleep,
They’re everywhere; so live virtuously, keep
Safe and return loans; honour your bond, eschew
Fraud, and have nothing to do
With bloodshed. A wise man will cheat
No one but women—it’s not a risky feat,
And only here there’s a kind of duty in deceit.
Deceive the deceivers! Since for the most part
They fib, let them fall, snared by their own art!
Egypt, they say, once had a drought, her ears
Of corn unrained-on for nine years,
When Thrasius approached the king and demonstrated
That the gods could be propitiated
By a stranger’s blood. “Then you’re the first
Victim,” Busiris said. “Cure Egypt’s thirst!”
And I could mention
Perillus roasted in his own invention,
The cruel bronze bull, by Phalaris—the biter bit.
Both kings were right, for it’s good law, and fit,
For a death-contriver to die by his own art.
So let liars fool liars, and Woman smart
From wounds in a war she was the one to start!
Tears, too, can be helpful—they can move adamant.
If you can, show her cheeks wet with tears; if you can’t
(They don’t always come on cue),
Dab your eyes with water, stage-manage the “dew.”
Mix—who doesn’t who’s wise?—
Kisses with your sweet talk, and if she tries
To deny them, simply take what she denies.
She may struggle at first and call you a sinner,
But she doesn’t really want to be the winner.
Only take care not to cause her soft lips pain
With your raids—she mustn’t be able to complain
That you’re so rough you bruise.
Men deserve to lose
The points they’ve won already if they snatch
The foreplay kisses and fail to clinch the match.
After all the kissing, how far away
Were you from …? Ah, you were clumsy rather than shy, I’d say.
Some force is permissible—women are often pleased
By force, and like what they’re giving to be seized.
The girl whose citadel is stormed
By sheer audacity feels warmed,
Complimented; the one who could have been attacked
And taken by force but escapes intact,
Although she affects to look glad,
Feels let down, a little sad.
Phoebe was raped by her lover, Hilaira by hers,
Yet both ravished sisters loved their ravishers.
And there’s the old tale—but it’s worth while
Retelling it—of Achilles and the girl from the isle
Of Scyros. It was years after Aphrodite,
In return for Paris’s award for beauty
When she triumphed on Ida over her two peers,
Gave him his fatal prize; it was years
After Priam welcomed his foreign relative,
And a Greek wife came to live
Inside Troy’s walls, and every chief
Swore allegiance to the wronged husband, and the grief
Of one man became
A people’s cause. It was while (deep shame,
Had his mother’s prayers not put him under stress)
Achilles hid his manhood in a woman’s dress.
What are you doing? Spinning’s not your concern,
Grandson of Aeacus: you must earn
Fame through another art of Pallas. Why do you stand
With a basket on your shield arm, quite unmanned?
Why do you hold in your right hand—
The one by which great Hector will be slain—
A soft wool-skein?
Throw away that spindle with its troublesome thread,
Pick up your spear instead!
Deidamia, who shared his bedroom, found
He was indeed a man, indeed she was “raped” (one’s bound
To accept tradition, of course),
But, still, she wanted to be taken by force.
“Stay,” she begged him again and again, “please stay,”
When Achilles was already on his way,
His distaff dumped, a warrior under arms.
But now I ask, “What harm’s
Been done by force, Princess?
Why do you wheedle and press
The author of your rape to linger?”
Agreed, shame points a finger
At girls who make the first move, but agreed
Also, it’s nice to follow a strong lead.
It’s a vain, over-confident man who expects
The woman to make the running. Our sex
Should take the initiative, propose,
Plead, coax with words—she’ll listen kindly to those.
She’ll be yours if you ask; to be asked is all she requires;
Just give her a start, and a good excuse to grant your desires.
When Jupiter wooed a heroine, he went to her
As a suppliant—no girl seduced great Jupiter.
But if you find your pleas only produce disdain,
Stop, take a step back, think again.
Many women desire what eludes them and hate to be pressed;
Play it coolly, hold their interest.
Don’t ask as if you were sure of getting it in the end:
Let the lover slip through, masked, in the name of friend.
I’ve seen the hardest case fooled by this ploy—
“Best friend” in no time became “darling boy.”
A pale skin doesn’t suit a sailor—a man
Exposed to sun and brine should have a tan;
So should a farmer who with heavy harrow and share
Turns the soil all day in the open air,
And for you athletes going for the olive-wreath a white
Body would be inapposite.
All lovers should be pallid, it’s chic to be pale;
Only fools deny it, pale skins rarely fail.
Pale was Orion when he roamed the woods and pined
For Side, pale was Daphnis when his naiad proved unkind.
Look lean—it suggests passion; don’t blush to wear
A neat cap on top of your well-washed hair.
Night after sleepless night,
Loss of appetite,
Worry, love-sickness, they all make
The young lover as thin as a rake.
For your purpose, look so pitiful that you move
The world to exclaim, “He’s in love!”
Now shall I complain, or just tell you,
That nowadays right and wrong are blurred? The value
Of friendship’s nil, “good faith” is a mere phrase.
I’m sorry to say that it’s not safe to praise
Your girl in front of a friend—if he trusts what you’ve said,
He’ll usurp your place in bed.
“But,” you may protest,
“Patroclus never fouled Achilles’ nest,
Phaedra was safe with Pirithous, Hermione
Was loved by Pylades honourably,
As was Pallas by Phoebus and Helen by Castor, their brothers,
And I could cite others.”
Believe what you please.
Swallow that and you’ll look for apples on tamarisk trees
And honeycombs in rivers. Now only the base
Appeals. Each man’s on his own pleasure chase,
And the pleasure’s double
If his enjoyment means another’s trouble.
It’s a crime that it’s not their enemies
Lovers have most to fear. The safest motto is:
Shun those you trust. Cousins, brothers, peers—
They are the ones who’ll justify your fears.
I was about to end, but so various are women’s hearts
That to catch a thousand takes a thousand arts.
You don’t raise corn and fruit
In the same field; one soil will suit
Olives, another vines, and in other places
Wheat thrives. Hearts have as many traits as faces.
The wise man adapts himself to every style;
He’s as versatile
As Proteus, he can turn into a wave of the sea,
A bristling boar, a lion, or a tree.
Depending on the fish, angle, cast nets or trawl,
And don’t employ the same technique for all
Age-groups—a veteran hind
A good way off smells something in the wind.
If a dunce finds you far too clever or a prude
Thinks you’re gross and crude,
Next day she’ll be sorry, tortured by self-doubt.
That’s how it comes about
That girls who shy away from decent lads
Fall cheap into the arms of cads.
This part of my task is finished, more remains.
Let my boat rest here, I’ll drop the anchor-chains.
* A quotation from Virgil’s Aeneid, vi, 129—“Hoc opus, hic labor est.”