The Art of Love

  This pseudo-medical lore? I must use the rein

  To keep my chariot in the inside lane.

  If you followed my advice about lapses, “Conceal them,”

  You must change tack now, because “Reveal them”

  Is my new motto. Don’t blame

  Me for inconsistency: the same

  Wind doesn’t always drive the ship, we sail

  With canvas hauled and set to catch the gale

  From north, south, east or west—we veer.

  Observe the skill of a charioteer:

  How for full speed he lets the reins float slack,

  But pulls them taut to hold his horses back.

  Some women ill reward

  A tame, indulgent lover; they get bored

  With lack of competition and grow less

  Passionate. Success

  Breeds over-confidence; it’s hard to stay

  Calm and fair when everything’s going your way.

  A fire gradually weakens and dies down

  And lies hidden under a crown

  Of grey ash, yet sprinkle sulphur and it learns

  To revive, and the blaze returns.

  So love, grown lazy and self-satisfied,

  To be rekindled needs some shock applied.

  Heat up her lukewarm heart, alarm her with tales

  Of your bad behaviour, so that she pales.

  Trebly, incalculably happy is the lover

  Whom an injured mistress agonises over.

  As soon as she hears what she’d rather not know,

  The poor girl faints—her voice, her colour go.

  How I’d like to be the man whose hair she tears,

  Whose soft cheeks she scratches, at whom she glares

  With lovely, tear-filled eyes, the man she would

  Cut out of her life, if she only could!

  How long should you let her sulk? Not long. The longer

  You put off making it up, the stronger

  Her anger will grow. To prevent this,

  Throw your arms round her neck, give her a kiss,

  Pull her sobbing to your breast, hold her there tight,

  Keep kissing her, treat her to the delight

  Of Venus while she’s weeping. That’ll bring peace:

  It’s the one sure way to make the tantrum cease.

  When she’s raged her fill but still seems unreconciled,

  Then sue for terms in bed, and you’ll find her mild.

  Bed is the place, arms laid down, war forsworn,

  Where Harmony dwells, where Tenderness was born.

  After a fight doves snuggle, beak to beak,

  And coo and murmur in bird-speak.

  [LATIN: Prima fuit rerum…]

  In the beginning the world was inchoate,

  There was nothing but a great

  Featureless mass, no earth, sea, stars or moon;

  But soon

  Sky was set above earth, land ringed with sea,

  Chaos retired to its own vacancy,

  Forest and air gave beasts and birds their living quarters,

  And fish lurked deep in the new waters.

  Through this lonely, empty place

  Wandered the nomadic human race,

  Powerful, uncouth brutes

  Whose home was the forest, who ate grass and fruits

  And bedded on leaves, long shunning one another

  Suspiciously, brother ignoring brother.

  What softened those fierce natures? Pleasure, they say.

  A man and a woman met in a wood one day

  And wondered what to do. No need for tuition:

  Venus arranged the rough, sweet coition.

  Birds have their mates, fish in the cold mid-ocean,

  Thrilled by sexual emotion,

  Find partners, hinds follow stags, snakes clasp snakes,

  Dogs couple, glued together, the ewe takes

  Pleasure in her tupping ram, the heifer’s full

  Of desire for her covering bull,

  The snub-nosed she-goat happily bears

  Her stinking billy, and heat-crazed mares,

  Though separated

  By miles from stallions, swim streams to get mated.

  Act, then. Only a strong dose of love will cure

  A woman with an angry temperature.

  Better than old Machaon’s drugs, my medicine

  Will restore you to her favour when you sin.

  [LATIN: Haec ego cum…]

  While I was writing this, I saw Apollo coming

  Towards me with his golden lyre, thumb strumming

  The strings, bays in his hand, bays on his head,

  Prophet and poet made manifest. “You,” he said,

  “Professor of Love’s Affairs,

  Lead your pupils to my temple—there’s

  A world-famous inscription on it which goes,

  Know yourself. Only the man who knows

  Himself can be intelligent in love

  And use his gifts to best effect to further every move.

  If you’re good-looking, then dazzle all beholders;

  If your skin’s fine, then lounge back with bare shoulders.

  Let the man with a good voice sing, the clever talker break

  Awkward silences, the connoisseur take

  Pleasure in wine. But one caveat’s vital:

  No ‘inspired’ poet should give a recital,

  No ‘brilliant’ speaker deliver an oration

  In the middle of dinner-table conversation.”

  That was Apollo’s advice. I’d heed it if I were you:

  What comes from a god’s mouth must be true.

  [LATIN: Ad propiora vocor…]

  Back to my theme:

  The wise lover who follows my scheme

  Will win through, achieve his goal. The sown

  Furrow doesn’t invariably repay the loan

  Of seed with interest,

  Or the wind always spring to the help of the distressed

  Vessel. Love offers less pleasure than pain;

  Lovers must make up their minds to suffer again and again.

  Like hares on Athos, shells on the seashore, bees

  On Hybla, olives on the grey-green trees

  Of Pallas, their pains are innumerable—and all

  The shafts that wound us are steeped in gall.

  She’s “not at home,” though you’ve glimpsed her indoors? Don’t doubt

  The maid’s word but your own eyes: she’s out.

  The night’s promised, but the door locked when you come round?

  Take it like a man, doss on the filthy ground.

  And if one of the cocky, barefaced liars

  Among the maidservants enquires,

  “What’s this fellow doing besieging the door?”

  Use your charm, implore

  The hard door to open, the hard heart to unlatch,

  Take your wreath off and attach

  The roses to the post. If she wants you to, enter; if not, just go.

  Why force a mistress to say,

  “I can’t escape the pest”? Moods change by the day.

  And don’t think it a disgrace to take curses and blows,

  Or even to kiss, grovellingly, her toes.

  [LATIN: Quid moror in…]

  But why waste time on trifles? I must ascend

  Higher, treat greater themes. Attend

  Closely, reader. Although the task may strain

  My powers, nobody can attain

  Excellence without difficulty: my art

  Demands exacting work on the poet’s part.

  Put up with a rival, be patient, and in time

  You’ll end up, like the generals who climb

  The Capitol, triumphant. This is no secular

  Proverb, it’s Jupiter’s oracular

  Truth. In all my hanging_eng this

  Advice merits the greatest emphasis.

  If she flirts, bear it; if she writes on the sly,

  Don
’t touch her letters; and never try

  To check on where she comes from, where she goes.

  Husbands grant wives this freedom—they even doze

  While sleep assists the comedy. It must be confessed

  That as student in this role I’m not the best;

  But what can you do when you fail your own test?

  Should I tamely watch while some would-be lover

  Makes passes at my girl? No, rage takes over.

  I remember, her husband kissed her once and I complained—

  My love is savage and untrained

  (A failing that has done me in the past a

  Great deal of harm). The true Master

  Is affable with rivals. Ignorance is better

  Than knowledge; tolerate lies, for if you get her

  To confess too often, her face may tire

  Of blushing and she’ll become an inveterate liar.

  And so, young lovers, don’t play the detective;

  Let them cheat and think their cover-up’s effective.

  Passion, unmasked, grows; a guilty pair

  Always persist in a ruinous affair.

  The whole world knows the myth:

  Venus and Mars caught by Vulcan, the crafty smith,

  When Father Mars, in the grip

  Of mad passion, resigned his awesome generalship

  To join the ranks of lovers. For her part

  (For no goddess has a softer heart),

  Venus was not averse to being wooed,

  She certainly didn’t play the country prude.

  Oh, the times the naughty jade

  Mocked her husband’s bandy legs and made

  Fun of his hands coarsened by fire and trade!

  In front of Mars she had but to imitate

  Vulcan’s peculiar gait,

  And charm lent piquancy to beauty acting lame.

  At first, through modesty and shame,

  They kept their affair dark, but the game

  Was up when the Sun (who can fool that all-viewing

  God?) told Vulcan what his wife was doing.

  (You’re a bad example, Sun. Just ask her, and she’ll treat

  You to it too, if only you’re discreet.)

  And so Vulcan set,

  All round and over the bed, an invisible net,

  And shammed a trip to Lemnos. The lovers met

  As arranged, were caught stark naked in the snare,

  Vulcan invited the gods round, and the pair

  Made a ridiculous spectacle. Venus, they say,

  Could hardly restrain her tears. Anyway,

  They couldn’t conceal their faces or even move

  Their hands away from the private parts of love.

  One god laughed: “Brave Mars, I see

  Your chains are a nuisance—hand them over to me!”

  It took all Neptune’s pleading before Vulcan agreed

  Reluctantly to release them. Freed

  From their embrace,

  Venus rushed off to Paphos, Mars to Thrace.

  So what, Vulcan, did you achieve?

  The formerly furtive couple leave

  And carry on with even less

  Shame than before. Word has it that you now confess

  You acted like a lunatic

  And bitterly regret your clever trick.

  Be warned by the fate of Venus, beware

  Of setting the sort of snare

  She had to suffer. Don’t forge fetters

  For rivals, don’t intercept secret letters;

  Leave all that for accredited husbands to handle—

  If they think the detective game is worth the candle.

  I repeat, there’s no sport here the law doesn’t permit:

  Married ladies don’t feature in my wit.

  [LATIN: Quis Cereris ritus…]

  Who’d dare to incur the disgrace

  Of publishing the mysteries of Samothrace

  Or the rites of Ceres to the common crowd?

  One needn’t feel all that proud

  Of keeping silence, but to profane

  The sacred, the arcane,

  Is a grave crime. Tantalus, for breaching

  The gods’ secrets, is still reaching

  For ungraspable apples on the tree,

  Standing thirst-parched in water, and deservedly.

  Venus is a stickler in this matter:

  I warn you, any man prone to chatter

  About her holy mysteries is forbidden

  To mix with them. They may not involve things hidden

  In caskets, they may forgo

  The wild clashing of cymbals, but even so

  They’re so much part of our daily life and feeling

  That they demand concealing.

  Venus herself, when she poses nude,

  Stoops, left hand hiding her sex in an attitude

  Of modesty. Animals couple all over the place,

  In public—indeed, a girl has to avert her face—

  But the secret acts of human lovers

  Call for bedrooms, locked doors, blankets, covers

  For our private parts, and, if not the darkness of night,

  We want something less bright

  Than the sun’s glare, preferably half-light.

  Long ago, when mankind was still not proof

  Against sun and rain, before they invented the roof,

  Shelter and food were supplied by the oak,

  And the sense of shame was so strong in primitive folk

  That they made love

  Not in the open air, but in a cave or grove.

  But with our night sports it’s all “making” and “score”;

  We pay too high a price for nothing more

  Than the power to boast. Do you really want to comb

  The whole female population of Rome

  Just to be able to tell friends you meet,

  “I’ve had her too,” so that no street

  Lacks examples to point at? And will you repeat

  Some leering story about each? I complain

  About trifles: there are some men so vain

  That if their lies were all true they’d have to back down—

  They claim they’ve slept with every girl in town!

  If they can’t touch a body, they finger a name;

  Though flesh escapes, reputation’s smeared with shame.

  Get busy, then, doorman, whom we love to hate,

  Lock her chamber door, put a hundred bolts on the gate,

  For where is security when her name is heard

  Bandied by lechers who give their word

  To make us believe that what never took place occurred?

  For myself, even with facts I’m confessionally mean:

  A thick veil protects my private scene.

  Don’t blame a woman for her weak points; most men find

  It pays here to pretend to be blind.

  Wing-footed Perseus found no objection

  To Andromeda’s Ethiopian complexion,

  And though Andromache was too big in the eyes

  Of the world, to Hector she was medium-size.

  Habit makes all things bearable: new love’s

  Sharp-eyed, and disapproves

  Of many faults which a love that’s grown

  Mature will readily condone.

  While a new graft is growing in the tree’s

  Green cortex, any breeze

  Can shake it down, but, time-toughened, that shoot

  Withstands the wind, bears its adopted fruit.

  Time cures all physical blemishes—the blot

  That used to bother you dwindles to a spot

  You scarcely see. Young nostrils can’t abide

  A bull’s hide

  In a tannery when it’s being cured,

  But the stink fades, the apprentice gets inured.

  Euphemisms are great soothers in this matter:

  Is she tar-black? Then “dusky” will flatter.

  Has
she a cast in one eye? Then observe a

  Likeness to Venus. If she’s grey-haired, she’s Minerva.

  If she’s half-starved, all bones, tell her she’s “slim.”

  If she’s undersized, the word is “trim,”

  And “generously built” translates “too fat.”

  Bad points are good near-misses—play on that.

  [LATIN: Nec quotus annus…]

  Don’t ask her age, under which consul her birth

  Was registered: leave the stern Censor to unearth

  Statistical truth,

  Especially if she’s past the prime of youth

  And lost her bloom, and begun

  To pluck the white hairs one by one.

  Young lovers, women at this middle stage

  Of life, or even of maturer age,

  Are well worth cultivating, there’s a rich yield:

  It’s up to you to sow the field.

  So, while your years and powers permit,

  Endure love’s labour, put up with it;

  Soon bent old age, sly-footed, will arrive.

  Churn the sea with oars, drive

  Ploughshares into the earth, pour

  Your manhood and ferocity into war—

  Or expend heart, guts, balls, the lot,

  On serving women. It’s not

  Unlike military service—it takes all you’ve got!

  Besides, they’ve been around, they’ve learnt to please—

  Only experience brings expertise—

  And they work hard to disguise

  Age with art, so that anno domini’s

  Made up for by finesse. You’ll be embraced

  In a thousand ways, according to your taste:

  No erotic picture could show

  The number of variations that they know.

  Their pleasure doesn’t depend on stimulus—

  Women should share the pleasure equally with us.

  I hate it when both partners don’t enjoy

  A climax—that’s why a boy

  Doesn’t appeal to me much. But my abomination

  Is a girl who does it from a sense of obligation,

  Who lies there dry, her thoughts flitting

  Back to her wool and her knitting.

  For me, that’s service, not pleasure: I’ll have no truck

  With a dutiful fuck.

  I like to hear her rapturous gasps imploring

  Me to take my time, keep boring,

  To watch her come with surrendering eyes, then, flaked out,

  Insist on a long pause before the next bout.

  Nature doesn’t grant youth these joys; they arrive

  Quite suddenly, after the age of thirty-five.

  Impatient lovers can gulp “nouveau”;

  An ancient consul’s vintage, laid down years ago,

  Suits me. Only an older plane can shield

  Heads from the sun, bare feet are pricked by a new-sown field.