A wreath for my brows, a wreath of triumphal laurel!
Victory -- Corinna is here, in my arms,
Despite the united efforts of husband, door, and porter
(That unholy trinity) to keep her secure
From all lovers, however artful. This bloodless conquest
Demands a super-triumph. Look at the spoils.
What did my generalship win? Some town with crumbling defences
And a shallow moat? Oh no, *I* captured a
*girl*!
When Troy fell at last, after that ten-year struggle,
How much of the credit went to the High Command,
And how much to the troops? There’s no army to share *my* glory,
The credit is mine alone, I’m a one-man band,
Commander, cavalry, infantry, standard-bearer, announcing
With one voice, *OBJECTIVE ACHIEVED*!
What’s more, mere luck played no part at all in *my* triumph:
Unswerving perseverance did the trick.
No novelty, either, about the cause of warfare. Europe
And Asia would never have been
Embroiled without Helen’s abduction. It was a woman
Brought Centaurs and Lapiths to blows
Over the wine at that wedding. A woman, Lavinia, got the
Trojans fighting again, for the second time,
When they set foot on Latin soil. While our City was still new-founded
Those Sabine girls screaming rape
Provoked most bloody reprisals. I’ve seen two bulls battling
Over a snow-white heifer--she egged them on.
You could say I’m Cupid’s conscript, called up, like so many others,
For front-line service--but no shedding of blood.
2) From “The Amores” Book 1, Poem 3 (Penguin edition, pages 88-89)
Fair’s fair now, Venus. This girl’s got me hooked. All I’m asking from
her
Is love--or at least some future hope for my own
Eternal devotion. No, even that’s too much--hell, just let me
love her!
(Listen, Venus: I’ve asked you so often now.)
Say yes, pet. I’d be your slave for years, for a lifetime.
Say yes--unswerving fidelity’s my strong suit.
I may not have top-drawer connections, I can’t produce blue-blooded
Ancestors to impress you, my father’s plain middle-class,
And there aren’t any squads of ploughmen to deal with *my* broad acres--
My parents are both pretty thrifty, and need to
be.
What *have* I got on my side, then? Poetic genius, sweetheart,
Divine inspiration. And love. I’m yours
to command--
Unswerving faithfulness, morals above suspicion,
Naked simplicity, a born-to-the-purple blush.
I don’t chase thousands of girls, I’m no sexual circus-rider;
Honestly, all I want is to look after you
Till death us do part, have the two of us living together
All my time, and know you’ll cry for me when I’m
gone.
Besides, when you give me yourself, what you’ll be providing
Is creative material. My art will rise to
the theme
And immortalize YOU. Look, why do you think we remember
The swan-upping of Leda, or Io’s life as a cow,
Or poor virgin Europa whisked off overseas, clutching
That so-called bull by the--horn? Through
poems, of course.
So you and I, love, will enjoy the same world-wide publicity,
And our names will be linked, for ever, with the
gods.
3) From “The Art of Love” Book 2, Lines 435-460 (Penguin edition, pages 204-205)
Some women don’t react well to timid complaisance:
If there’s no competition in sight
Their love wanes. Success will often breed presumption,
It’s hard to keep your head
Through a run of good luck. You’ve seen the fire that smoulders
Down to nothing, grows a crown of pale ash
Over its hidden embers (yet a sprinkling of sulphur
Will suffice to rekindle the flame)?
So with the heart. It grows torpid from lack of worry,
Needs a sharp stimulus to elicit love.
Get her anxious about you, reheat her tepid passions,
Tell her your guilty secrets, watch her blanch.
Thrice fortunate that man, lucky past calculation,
Who can make some poor injured girl
Torture herself over him, lose voice, go pale, pass out when
The unwelcome news reaches her. Ah, may I
Be the one whose hair she tears out in her fury, the one whose
Soft cheeks she rips with her nails,
Whom she sees, eyes glaring, through a rain of tears; without whom
Try as she will, she cannot live!
How long (you may ask) should you leave her lamenting her wrong?
A little
While only, lest rage gather strength
Through procrastination. By then you should have her sobbing
All over your chest, your arms tight round her neck.
You want peace? Give her kisses, make love to the girl while she’s
crying--
That’s the only way to melt her angry mood.
4) From “The Art of Love” Book 2, Lines 559-586 (Penguin edition, page 208)
Passion’s fanned by detection,
A guilty pair revealed will always persist
In the love that undid them. Take one famous example--
Vulcan’s crafty snaring of Mars
And Venus. Driven wild by a frantic passion
For the goddess, Mars was transformed
From grim captain to lover. Nor did Venus play the rustic
And hold out against his entreaties: there’s no
Goddess more willing. Ah, the times she mocked her husband’s
Limp, the wanton, or his hands, made hard
By toil at the forge and bellows! To ape him in Mars’ presence
Lent her chic, gave added charm
To her beauty. At first they concealed their adulterous
Meetings: guilt blushed, shame kept
The affair quite dark. But who could deceive the Sun? He
Saw all--and told Vulcan what acts
His wife was performing. Sun, that’s a bad example
You set there. Just ask, she’ll oblige
You too in return for your silence! So Vulcan set hidden
Snares round and over the bed (no eye
Could detect them), then put about he was off to Lemnos. The lovers
Met as arranged, were trapped
In the toils, lay naked: tableau. Then Vulcan invited
All the gods round. Venus came close to tears--
She and Mars couldn’t cover their face, couldn’t even
Move a hand to their private parts.
Someone laughed and said: “If you find your chains a burden,
Brave Mars, transfer them to me!”