Classic Poem

" THE Art OF L OVE . "

With Parthians, war; but with thy maiden prove
Soft peace, light wit, and every cause of love.
Though harsh, uncourteous, she withhold consent;
Persist, be patient, she shall yet relent.
The tree's bent branch by gentle training plies;
Urge your whole strength, it rudely snaps and flies;
By gentle force your arms the stream divide,
For vainly would you stem the hurrying tide.
Tigers to this, Numidian lions, bow;
This tames the bull, and yokes him to the plough.
Than Atalanta who more fierce of mood?
A lover's soft deserts that scorn subdued.
Though oft Milanion, underneath the tree,
Wept his hard hap, and maiden's cruelty;
Oft on his neck the huntress' toils were laid;
Oft his fell spear the grimly boar assayed;
And once a Centaur's arrow winged the wound,
Yet Love's keen arrow was more painful found.
I bid thee not to javelins bare thy heart;
Soft are the cautions of thy master's art.
Still stoop to conquer; when she thwarts thee yield;
Do all her bidding, thou shalt win the field.
Thus, when she argues, argue on her side;
What she approves approve; deny what she denied;
Say and unsay; and, as her face appears,
Smile on her smiles, and weep upon her tears.
If with ill throw she cast the ivory die,
Throw with ill luck; be hers the victory:
Ne'er with good cast a lucky vengeance take;
But throw ace-point; be thine the losing stake.
Or, when the chessman moves in mock campaign,
Thy pawn should by its glassy foe be slain.
Her rod-distended parasol display;
Make the rude crowd before her steps give way;
Affix the footstool to her slight settee;
Be the slid slipper placed, displaced, by thee.
Oft, though thyself be shivering with the cold,
Her hand within thy bosom, chafing, hold;
Nor think it mean, such meanness charms, to bear,
Though nobly bred, the mirror of the fair.
When bidden to the square, obedient start
At earlier hour, and, lingering, late depart.
Run, to whatever place; all else defer;
Not crowds should stay thee, when thou fliest to her.
At night, the banquet o'er, she seeks her home,
And calls her slave; do thou, obsequious, come.
Or, should she bid thee from the rural shade,
Love hates the slothful, be the call obeyed.
If wheels be wanting, take on foot thy way;
No lowering weather should thy haste delay;
No parching dog-star heat; no whitening track,
That leads through deepening snow-drifts, hold thee back.
Love is like war: ye faint of heart! begone!
No coward hands must bear our standards on.
In these soft camps are countless labours found;
Night, tempest, journeyings, many a grief and wound.
The clouds shall drench thee with airial rain,
And thy cold limbs shall press the unsheltered plain.
Are level open ways thy feet denied?
To barricaded doors are bolts applied?
Yet the free roof is open to the sky;
Drop, or through stealthy windows slide from high.
Thy hair-breadth 'scapes the nymph shall pleased approve;
Herself the cause, and this thy pledge of love.