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38 pages

English

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“The first taste I had for books came to me from my pleasure in the fables of the Metamorphoses of Ovid. For at about seven or eight years of age I would steal away from any other pleasure to read them, inasmuch as this language was my mother tongue, and it was the easiest book I knew and the best suited by its content to my tender age.” –Michel de MontaigneArs Amatoria; or, The Art of Love (2 AD) is an instructional poem by Ovid. Divided into three books, Ars Amatoria; or, The Art of Love was immensely popular—if a little controversial—in its time, and has survived numerous charges of indecency over the centuries. For the modern reader, it should prove a surprisingly relatable work on intimacy from an author of the ancient world. Although it has been argued that the publication of this work led to Ovid’s exile in 8 AD, it remains unlikely that the poet was banished for anything other than political reasons having to do with succession.

At times serious, at others humorous, Ars Amatoria; or, The Art of Love uses a mix of down-to-earth examples and relatable references to mythology in order to offer salient advice for the reader longing for love. Far from a valuable artifact of classical literature—which it is, in part—Ovid’s work is a wonderfully straightforward textbook on all aspects of human relationships. Topics include etiquette, remembering birthdays, avoiding unhealthy jealousy, being open to older and younger lovers, and nurturing honesty. On sex, Ovid suggests a careful selection of positions according to comfort and physique, ultimately recommending that love-making be done in a way that pleasures all parties involved. Ars Amatoria; or, The Art of Love, although frequently tongue-in-cheek, is an earnest and effective attempt to enlighten and encourage its readers to partake—responsibly—in one of life’s greatest pleasures.

With a beautifully designed cover and professionally typeset manuscript, this edition of Ovid’s Ars Amatoria; or, The Art of Love is a classic work of Roman literature reimagined for modern readers.

Sujets

Themes

Subjects

Latin poetry

Ancient history

Poetry

Erotica

Ancient

Love

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Publié par	Mint Editions
Date de parution	20 avril 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781513285245
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0300€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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The Art of Love
Ovid

The Art of Love was first published in 2 AD .
This edition published by Mint Editions 2020.
ISBN 9781513280226 | E-ISBN 9781513285245
Published by Mint Editions ®

minteditionbooks .com
Publishing Director: Jennifer Newens
Design & Production: Rachel Lopez Metzger
Project Manager: Micaela Clark
Translated by: Henry T. Riley
Typesetting: Westchester Publishing Services

C ONTENTS B OOK THE F IRST B OOK THE S ECOND B OOK THE T HIRD

B OOK THE F IRST
S hould any one of the people not know the art of loving, let him read me; and taught by me, on reading my lines, let him love. By art the ships are onward sped by sails and oars; by art are the light chariots, by art is Love, to be guided. In the chariot and in the flowing reins was Automedon skilled: in the H æ monian ship of Jason Tiphys was the pilot. Me, too, skilled in my craft, has Venus made the guardian of Love. Of Cupid the Tiphys and the Automedon shall I be styled. Unruly indeed he is, and one who oft rebels against me; but he is a child; his age is tender and easy to be governed. The son of Phillyra made the boy Achilles skilled at the lyre; and with his soothing art he subdued his ferocious disposition. He who so oft alarmed his own companions, so oft the foe, is believed to have stood in dread of an aged man full of years. Those hands which Hector was doomed to feel, at the request of his master he held out for stripes as commanded. Chiron was the preceptor of the grandson of Æ acus, I of Love. Both of the boys were wild; both of a Goddess born. But yet the neck of even the bull is laden with the plough; and the reins are champed by the teeth of the spirited steed. To me, too, will Love yield; though, with his bow, he should wound my breast, and should brandish his torches hurled against me. The more that Love has pierced me, the more has he relentlessly inflamed me; so much the fitter avenger shall I be of the wounds so made.
Phoebus, I pretend not that these arts were bestowed on me by thee; nor by the notes of the birds of the air am I inspired. Neither Clio nor the sisters of Clio have been beheld by me, while watching, Ascra, in thy vales, my flocks. To this work experience gives rise; listen to a Poet well-versed. The truth will I sing; Mother of Love, favour my design. Be ye afar, ye with the thin fillets on your hair, the mark of chastity; and thou, long flounce, which dost conceal the middle of the foot. We will sing of guiltless delights, and of thefts allowed; and in my song there shall be nought that is criminal.
In the first place, endeavour to find out an object which you may desire to love, you who are now coming for the first time to engage as a soldier in a new service. The next task after that, is to prevail on the fair by pleasing her. The third is, for her love to prove of long duration. This is my plan; this space shall be marked out by my chariot; this the turning-place to be grazed by my wheels in their full career.
While you may, and while you are able to proceed with flowing reins; choose one to whom you may say, “You alone are pleasing to me.” She will not come to you gliding through the yielding air; the fair one that suits must be sought with your eyes. The hunter knows full well where to extend the toils for the deer; full well he knows in what vale dwells the boar gnashing with his teeth. The shrubberies are known to the fowlers. He who holds out the hooks, knows what waters are swam in by many a fish. You, too, who seek a subject for enduring love, first learn in what spot the fair are to be met with. In your search, I will not bid you give your sails to the wind, nor is a long path to be trodden by you, that you may find her.
Let Perseus bear away his Andromeda from the tawny Indians, and let the Grecian fair be ravished by Paris, the Phrygian hero. Rome will present you damsels as many, and full as fair; so that you will declare, that whatever has been on the earth, she possesses. As many ears of corn as Gargara has, as many clusters as Methymna; as many fishes as are concealed in the seas, birds in the boughs; as many stars as heaven has, so many fair ones does your own Rome contain; and in her own City does the mother of Æ neas hold her reign. Are you charmed by early and still dawning years, the maiden in all her genuineness will come before your eyes; or do you wish a riper fair, a thousand riper will please you; you will be forced not to know which is your own choice. Or does an age mature and more staid delight you; this throng too, believe me, will be even greater.
Do you only saunter at your leisure in the shade of Pompey’s Portico, when the sun approaches the back of the Lion of Hercules; or where the mother has added her own gifts to those of her son, a work rich in its foreign marble. And let not the Portico of Livia be shunned by you, which, here and there adorned with ancient paintings, bears the name of its founder. Where, too, are the grand-daughters of Be-lus, who dared to plot death for their wretched cousins, and where their enraged father stands with his drawn sword. Nor let Adonis, bewailed by Venus, escape you; and the seventh holy-day observed by the Jew of Syria. Nor fly from the Memphian temples of Isis the linen-wearing heifer; she has made many a woman that which she was herself to Jove. Even the Courts, (who would have believed it?) are favourable to Love; and oft in the noisy Forum has the flame been found. Where the erection of Appius, adjoining the temple of Venus, built of marble, beats the air with its shooting stream; in that spot full oft is the pleader seized by Love; and he that has defended others, the same does not defend himself. Oft in that spot are their words found wanting to the eloquent man; and new cares arise, and his own cause has to be pleaded. From her temple, which is adjoining, Venus laughs at him. He who so lately was a patron, now wishes to become a client.
But especially at the curving Theatres do you hunt for prey: these places are even yet more fruitful for your desires. There you will find what you may love, what you may trifle with, both what you may once touch, and what you may wish to keep. As the numberless ants come and go in lengthened train, when they are carrying their wonted food in the mouth that bears the grains; or as the bees, when they have found both their own pastures and the balmy meads, hover around the flowers and the tops of the thyme; so rush the best-dressed women to the thronged spectacles; a multitude that oft has kept my judgment in suspense. They come to see, they come that they themselves may be seen; to modest chastity these spots are detrimental.
Romulus, ’twas thou didst first institute the exciting games; at the time when the ravished Sabine fair came to the aid of the solitary men. Then, neither did curtains hang over the marble theatre, nor was the stage blushing with liquid saffron. There, the branches were simply arranged which the woody Palatium bore; the scene was void of art. On the steps made of turf sit the people; the branches promiscuously overshadowing their shaggy locks. They look about them, and they mark with their eyes, each for himself, the damsel which to choose; and in their silent minds they devise full many a plan. And while, as the Etrurian piper sends forth his harsh notes, the actor with his foot thrice beats the levelled ground; in the midst of the applause, (in those days applause was void of guile,) the King gives to his people the signal to be awaited for the spoil. At once, they start up, and, disclosing their intentions with a shout, lay their greedy hands upon the maidens. As the doves, a startled throng, fly from the eagles, and as the young Iamb flies from the wolves when seen; in such manner do they dread the men indiscriminately rushing on; the complexion remains in none, which existed there before. For their fear is the same; the symptoms of their fear not the same. Some tear their hair; some sit without consciousness; one is silent in her grief; another vainly calls upon her mother; this one laments; this one is astounded; this one tarries; that one takes to flight. The ravished fair ones are carried off, a matrimonial spoil; and shame itself may have been becoming to many a one. If one struggled excessively, and repelled her companion; borne off, the man himself lifted her into his eager bosom. And thus he spoke: “Why spoil your charming eyes with tears? What to your mother your father was, the same will I be to you.” Romulus, ’twas thou alone didst understand how to give rewards to thy soldiers. Give such a reward to me, and I will be a soldier. In good truth, from that transaction, the festive Theatres, even to this day, continue to be treacherous to the handsome.
And let not the contest of the noble steeds escape you; the roomy Circus of the people has many advantages. There is no need there of fingers, with which to talk over your secrets; nor must a hint be taken by you through nods. Be seated next to your mistress, there being no one to prevent it; press your side to her side as close as ever you can; and conveniently enough, because the partition compels you to sit close, even if she be unwilling; and because, by the custom of the place, the fair one must be touched by you. Here let the occasion be sought by you for some friendly chat, and let the usual subjects lead to the first words. Take care, and enquire, with an air of Anxiety, whose horses those are, coming; and without delay, whoever it is to whom she wishes well, to him do you also wish well. But when the thronged procession shall walk with the holy statues of ivory, do you applaud your mistress Venus with zealous hand. And, as often happens, if perchance a little dust should fall on the bosom of the fair, it must be brushed off with your fingers and if there should be no dust, still brush off that none; let any excuse be a prelude to your attentions. If her mantle, h