The Works of the Right Honourable Sir Chas. Hanbury Williams ... From the Originals in the Possession of His Grandson The Right Hon. The Earl of Essex and Others: With Notes by Horace Walpole ... In Three Volumes, with Portraits |
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PUBLII OVIDII NASONIS AMORUM
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 | The Works of the Right Honourable Sir Chas. Hanbury Williams |  |
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PUBLII OVIDII NASONIS AMORUM
Lib. i. Eleg. 9.
LOVE has its camps (believe my artless strains,Dear Harry) ev'ry lover makes campaigns;
And all that in his soldiers Mars approves,
Venus would wish to grace the man she loves.
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Youth in her lover, the fond maid desires;
'Tis youth attacks the fair—attacks the foe,
Old age in both is infamously slow.
Each makes the ground his bed, or stands before,
The general's tent, or cruel fair one's door;
Painful and tedious toil the soldier bears,
Painful and tedious are the lover's cares.
With resolution each pursues his prey,
Nor angry seas, nor mountains stop their way;
O'er Summer's heat and Winter's cold prevail,
They fly o'er lands, and o'er the ocean sail.
Soldiers and lovers watch and ne'er complain
Of chilling frost and snows, and piercing rain.
One on his angry foes is placed a spy,
One on his rival keeps a jealous eye.
One storms a town, and one a house attacks,
This bursts a door, and this a barrier breaks;
The soldier oft invades his sleeping foes,
And deals on unarm'd hosts his fatal blows.
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And pass'd from mortal to immortal rest;
So, too, the lovers midnight watches keep,
And profit of the drowsy husband's sleep.
Courage thro' swords and spears oppos'd will pass,
Love forces bars of steel, and walls of brass;
In love like war events are doubtful all,
The vanquish'd rally and the victors fall.
Love's not an easy, or a trifling care,
You must not lose yourself to gain the fair;
Achilles sinks in fair Briseis' charms,
Now Troy attacks, the Greeks repel their arms.
When Hector flys impatient to the field,
His wife must fix his helmet and his shield.
At mad Cassandra's feet Atrides lies,
Yields to dishevell'd locks and frantic eyes.
How foolish Mars was caught in Vulcan's net,
There's not a God but knows and laughs at yet;
Myself was once the idlest rake in town,
And with a common whore have snored till noon.
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Taught me the sweet and bitter of intrigue;
To look on easy conquests with disdain,
And value only what with toil we gain.
Hence I'm that prudent, active, lover grown,
Who hunt my prey, thro' ev'ry street in Town;
Who spare no pains, where pain itself is joy,
And wisely all my time in love employ.
Thus I by diligence successful prove—
The surest cure for idleness is Love.
S. G.
| The Works of the Right Honourable Sir Chas. Hanbury Williams | |