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P. Ovidius Naso, Art of Love, Remedy of Love, Art of Beauty, Court of Love, History of Love, Amours (ed. various), Elegy XIX: By Dryden. (search)
Elegy XIX: By Dryden. If for thyself thou wilt not watch thy whore, Watch her for me that I may love her more. What comes with ease we nauseously receive, Who but a sot would scorn to love with leave? With hopes and fears my flames are blown up higher; Make me despair, and then I can desire. Give me a jilt to tease my jealous mind; Deceits are virtues in the female kind. Corinna my fantastic humour knew, Play'd trick for trick, and kept herself still new; She, that next night I might the sharper come, Fell out with me, and sent me fasting home. Or some pretence to lie alone would take ; Whene'er she pleas'd her head and teeth would ache: Till having won me to the highest strain, She took occasion to be sweet again. With what a gust, ye gods, we then embrac'd! How ev'ry kiss was dearer than the last! Thou whom I now adore, be edified, Take care that I may often be denied; Forget the promis'd hour, or feign some fright, Make me lie rough on bulks each other night. These are the arts
P. Ovidius Naso, Art of Love, Remedy of Love, Art of Beauty, Court of Love, History of Love, Amours (ed. various), Elegy I: The Poet deliberates with himself whether he should continue writing elegies, or attempt tragedy. (search)
my lowly lays to thine; Too weak materials for the vast design. The style unlabour'd, negligent the dress, My verse is humbler, and my matter less. Gay, wanton, soft, my business is to move, With melting strains, the playful god of love. Bereft of me, fair Venus wants her charms, I help the goddess, and prepare her arms. My luring art, and soothing lays prevail, Where lofty port, and tragic buskins fail. I more deserve, by making that my care, Thy rigid pride allows not thee to bear: By me, Corinna first was taught to try Tobreak from prison, and deceive the spy; I first induc'd the fearful fair to slide With tremb'ling caution from her husband's side; When to thy arms, all loose, and disarray'd, Prepar'd for pleasure, flew the melting maid. Fix'd on her door, how oft I've hung on high, Expos'd, and patient of each gazing eye ! How oft, in secret, while the keeper stay'd, Within her woman's panting bosom laid ! Once sent a birthday gift, the cruel dame In pieces tore, and gave me to t
Elegy X. Now Ceres' feast is come, the trees are blown, And my Corinna now must lie alone. And why, good Ceres, must thy feast destroy Man's chief delight, and why disturb his joy ? The world esteems you bountiful and good, You led us from the field and from the wood, And gave us fruitful corn, and wholesome food. Till then poor wretched man on acorns fed; Oaks gave him meat, and flow'ry fields a bed. First Ceres made our wheat and barley grow, And taught us how to plough, and how to mow; Who then can think that she designs to prove Our piety, by coldness in our love ? Or make poor lovers sigh, lament, and groan, Or charge her votaries to lie alone ? For Ceres, though she loves the fruitful fields, Yet sometimes feels the force of love, and yields: This Crete can witness, (Crete not always lies) Crete that nurs'd Jove, and heard his infant cries, There he was suckled who now rules the skies. That Jove his education there receiv'd, Will raise her fame, and make her be believ'd; Nay sh
P. Ovidius Naso, Art of Love, Remedy of Love, Art of Beauty, Court of Love, History of Love, Amours (ed. various), Elegy XII: He complains that the praises he has bestowed on his mistress in his verses, have occasioned him many rivals. (search)
mischiefs envy has in store. This comes of gallantry, while some employ Their talents on the fate of Thebes and Troy, While others Caesar's godlike acts rehearse, Corinna is the subject of my verse. Oh, that I ne'er had known the art to please, But written without genius and success. Why did the town so readily believe My verse, ansame it ever was, And poets ne'er for oracles did pass. Why is such stress upon my writings laid? Why such regard to what by me is said ? I wish the tales I've of Corinna told, Had been receiv'd as fables were of old; Of furious Scylla's horrid shape we read, And how she scalp'd her hoary father's lead: Of her fair face, and downwa nymphs that lately were a fleet; Poetic license ever was so great. But none did credit to these fictions give, Or for true history such tales receive, And though Corinna in my songs is fair, Let none conclude she's like her picture there. The fable she with hasty faith receiv'd, And what, so very well she lik'd, believ'd. But sinc
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