The Passion of Love
This craving ’tis that’s Venus unto us:From this, engender all the lures of love,From this, O first hath into human heartsTrickled that drop of joyance which ere longIs by chill care succeeded. Since, indeed,Though she thou lovest now be far away,Yet idol-images of her are nearAnd the sweet name is floating in thy ear.But it behooves to flee those images;And scare afar whatever feeds thy love;And turn elsewhere thy mind; and vent the sperm,Within thee gathered, into sundry bodies,Nor, with thy thoughts still busied with one love,Keep it for one delight, and so store upCare for thyself and pain inevitable.For, lo, the ulcer just by nourishingGrows to more life with deep inveteracy,And day by day the fury swells aflame,And the woe waxes heavier day by day—Unless thou dost destroy even by new blowsThe former wounds of love, and curest themWhile yet they’re fresh, by wandering freely roundAfter the freely-wandering Venus, orCanst lead elsewhere the tumults of thy mind.
Nor doth that man who keeps away from loveYet lack the fruits of Venus; rather takesThose pleasures which are free of penalties.For the delights of Venus, verily,Are more unmixed for mortals sane-of-soulThan for those sick-at-heart with love-pining.Yea, in the very moment of possessing,Surges the heat of lovers to and fro,Restive, uncertain; and they cannot fixOn what to first enjoy with eyes and hands.The parts they sought for, those they squeeze so tight,And pain the creature’s body, close their teethOften against her lips, and smite with kissMouth into mouth,—because this same delightIs not unmixed; and underneath are stingsWhich goad a man to hurt the very thing,Whate’er it be, from whence arise for himThose germs of madness. But with gentle touchVenus subdues the pangs in midst of love,And the admixture of a fondling joyDoth curb the bites of passion. For they hopeThat by the very body whence they caughtThe heats of love their flames can be put out.But nature protests ’tis all quite otherwise;For this same love it is the one sole thingOf which, the more we have, the fiercer burnsThe breast with fell desire. For food and drinkAre taken within our members; and, since theyCan stop up certain parts, thus, easilyDesire of water is glutted and of bread.But, lo, from human face and lovely bloomNaught penetrates our frame to be enjoyedSave flimsy idol-images and vain—A sorry hope which oft the winds disperse.As when the thirsty man in slumber seeksTo drink, and water ne’er is granted himWherewith to quench the heat within his members,But after idols of the liquids strivesAnd toils in vain, and thirsts even whilst he gulpsIn middle of the torrent, thus in loveVenus deludes with idol-imagesThe lovers. Nor they cannot sate their lustBy merely gazing on the bodies, norThey cannot with their palms and fingers rubAught from each tender limb, the while they strayUncertain over all the body. Then,At last, with members intertwined, when theyEnjoy the flower of their age, when nowTheir bodies have sweet presage of keen joys,And Venus is about to sow the fieldsOf woman, greedily their frames they lock,And mingle the slaver of their mouths, and breatheInto each other, pressing teeth on mouths—Yet to no purpose, since they’re powerlessTo rub off aught, or penetrate and passWith body entire into body—for oftThey seem to strive and struggle thus to do;So eagerly they cling in Venus’ bonds,Whilst melt away their members, overcomeBy violence of delight. But when at lastLust, gathered in the thews, hath spent itself,There come a brief pause in the raging heat—But then a madness just the same returnsAnd that old fury visits them again,When once again they seek and crave to reachThey know not what, all powerless to findThe artifice to subjugate the bane.In such uncertain state they waste awayWith unseen wound.
To which be added too,They squander powers and with the travail wane;Be added too, they spend their futile yearsUnder another’s beck and call; their dutiesNeglected languish and their honest nameReeleth sick, sick; and meantime their estatesAre lost in Babylonian tapestries;And unguents and dainty Sicyonian shoesLaugh on her feet; and (as ye may be sure)Big emeralds of green light are set in gold;And rich sea-purple dress by constant wearGrows shabby and all soaked with Venus’ sweat;And the well-earned ancestral propertyBecometh head-bands, coifs, and many a timeThe cloaks, or garments AlidensianOr of the Cean isle. And banquets, setWith rarest cloth and viands, are prepared—And games of chance, and many a drinking cup,And unguents, crowns and garlands. All in vain,Since from amid the well-spring of delightsBubbles some drop of bitter to tormentAmong the very flowers—when haply mindGnaws into self, now stricken with remorseFor slothful years and ruin in baudels,Or else because she’s left him all in doubtBy launching some sly word, which still like fireLives wildly, cleaving to his eager heart;Or else because he thinks she darts her eyesToo much about and gazes at another,—And in her face sees traces of a laugh.
These ills are found in prospering love and true;But in crossed love and helpless there be suchAs through shut eyelids thou canst still take in—Uncounted ills; so that ’tis better farTo watch beforehand, in the way I’ve shown,And guard against enticements. For to shunA fall into the hunting-snares of loveIs not so hard, as to get out again,When tangled in the very nets, and burstThe stoutly-knotted cords of Aphrodite.Yet even when there enmeshed with tangled feet,Still canst thou scape the danger-lest indeedThou standest in the way of thine own good,And overlookest first all blemishesOf mind and body of thy much preferred,Desirable dame. For so men do,Eyeless with passion, and assign to themGraces not theirs in fact. And thus we seeCreatures in many a wise crooked and uglyThe prosperous sweethearts in a high esteem;And lovers gird each other and adviseTo placate Venus, since their friends are smitWith a base passion—miserable dupesWho seldom mark their own worst bane of all.The black-skinned girl is “tawny like the honey”;The filthy and the fetid’s “negligee”;The cat-eyed she’s “a little Pallas,” she;The sinewy and wizened’s “a gazelle”;The pudgy and the pigmy is “piquant,One of the Graces sure”; the big and bulkyO she’s “an Admiration, imposante”;The stuttering and tongue-tied “sweetly lisps”;The mute girl’s “modest”; and the garrulous,The spiteful spit-fire, is “a sparkling wit”;And she who scarcely lives for scrawninessBecomes “a slender darling”; “delicate”Is she who’s nearly dead of coughing-fit;The pursy female with protuberant breastsShe is “like Ceres when the goddess gaveYoung Bacchus suck”; the pug-nosed lady-love“A Satyress, a feminine Silenus”;The blubber-lipped is “all one luscious kiss”—A weary while it were to tell the whole.But let her face possess what charm ye will,Let Venus’ glory rise from all her limbs,—Forsooth there still are others; and forsoothWe lived before without her; and forsoothShe does the same things—and we know she does—All, as the ugly creature, and she scents,Yes she, her wretched self with vile perfumes;Whom even her handmaids flee and giggle atBehind her back. But he, the lover, in tearsBecause shut out, covers her threshold o’erOften with flowers and garlands, and anointsHer haughty door-posts with the marjoram,And prints, poor fellow, kisses on the doors—Admitted at last, if haply but one whiffGot to him on approaching, he would seekDecent excuses to go out forthwith;And his lament, long pondered, then would fallDown at his heels; and there he’d damn himselfFor his fatuity, observing howHe had assigned to that same lady more—Than it is proper to concede to mortals.And these our Venuses are ‘ware of this.Wherefore the more are they at pains to hideAll the-behind-the-scenes of life from thoseWhom they desire to keep in bonds of love—In vain, since ne’ertheless thou canst by thoughtDrag all the matter forth into the lightAnd well search out the cause of all these smiles;And if of graceful mind she be and kind,Do thou, in thy turn, overlook the same,And thus allow for poor mortality.Nor sighs the woman always with feigned love,Who links her body round man’s body lockedAnd holds him fast, making his kisses wetWith lips sucked into lips; for oft she actsEven from desire, and, seeking mutual joys,Incites him there to run love’s race-course through.Nor otherwise can cattle, birds, wild beasts,And sheep and mares submit unto the males,Except that their own nature is in heat,And burns abounding and with gladness takesOnce more the Venus of the mounting males.And seest thou not how those whom mutual pleasureHath bound are tortured in their common bonds?How often in the cross-roads dogs that pantTo get apart strain eagerly asunderWith utmost might?—When all the while they’re fastIn the stout links of Venus. But they’d ne’erSo pull, except they knew those mutual joys—So powerful to cast them unto snaresAnd hold them bound. Wherefore again, again,Even as I say, there is a joint delight.
And when perchance, in mingling seed with his,The female hath o’erpowered the force of maleAnd by a sudden fling hath seized it fast,Then are the offspring, more from mothers’ seed,More like their mothers; as, from fathers’ seed,They’re like to fathers. But whom seest to bePartakers of each shape, one equal blendOf parents’ features, these are generateFrom fathers’ body and from mothers’ blood,When mutual and harmonious heat hath dashedTogether seeds, aroused along their framesBy Venus’ goads, and neither of the twainMastereth or is mastered. Happens tooThat sometimes offspring can to being comeIn likeness of their grandsires, and bring backOften the shapes of grandsires’ sires, becauseTheir parents in their bodies oft retainConcealed many primal germs, commixedIn many modes, which, starting with the stock,Sire handeth down to son, himself a sire;Whence Venus by a variable chanceEngenders shapes, and diversely brings backAncestral features, voices too, and hair.A female generation rises forthFrom seed paternal, and from mother’s bodyExist created males: since sex proceedsNo more from singleness of seed than facesOr bodies or limbs of ours: for every birthIs from a twofold seed; and what’s createdHath, of that parent which it is more like,More than its equal share; as thou canst mark,—Whether the breed be male or female stock.
Nor do the powers divine grudge any manThe fruits of his seed-sowing, so that neverHe be called “father” by sweet children his,And end his days in sterile love forever.What many men suppose; and gloomilyThey sprinkle the altars with abundant blood,And make the high platforms odorous with burnt gifts,To render big by plenteous seed their wives—And plague in vain godheads and sacred lots.For sterile are these men by seed too thick,Or else by far too watery and thin.Because the thin is powerless to cleaveFast to the proper places, straightawayIt trickles from them, and, returned again,Retires abortively. And then since seedMore gross and solid than will suit is spentBy some men, either it flies not forth amainWith spurt prolonged enough, or else it failsTo enter suitably the proper places,Or, having entered, the seed is weakly mixedWith seed of the woman: harmonies of VenusAre seen to matter vastly here; and someImpregnate some more readily, and from someSome women conceive more readily and becomePregnant. And many women, sterile beforeIn several marriage-beds, have yet thereafterObtained the mates from whom they could conceiveThe baby-boys, and with sweet progenyGrow rich. And even for husbands (whose own wives,Although of fertile wombs, have borne for themNo babies in the house) are also foundConcordant natures so that they at lastCan bulwark their old age with goodly sons.A matter of great moment ’tis in truth,That seeds may mingle readily with seedsSuited for procreation, and that thickShould mix with fluid seeds, with thick the fluid.And in this business ’tis of some importUpon what diet life is nourished:For some foods thicken seeds within our members,And others thin them out and waste away.And in what modes the fond delight itselfIs carried on—this too importeth vastly.For commonly ’tis thought that wives conceiveMore readily in manner of wild-beasts,After the custom of the four-foot breeds,Because so postured, with the breasts beneathAnd buttocks then upreared, the seeds can takeTheir proper places. Nor is need the leastFor wives to use the motions of blandishment;For thus the woman hinders and resistsHer own conception, if too joyouslyHerself she treats the Venus of the manWith haunches heaving, and with all her bosomNow yielding like the billows of the sea—Aye, from the ploughshare’s even course and trackShe throws the furrow, and from proper placesDeflects the spurt of seed. And courtesansAre thuswise wont to move for their own ends,To keep from pregnancy and lying in,And all the while to render Venus moreA pleasure for the men—the which meseemsOur wives have never need of.
Sometimes tooIt happens—and through no divinityNor arrows of Venus—that a sorry chitOf scanty grace will be beloved by man;For sometimes she herself by very deeds,By her complying ways, and tidy habits,Will easily accustom thee to passWith her thy life-time—and, moreover, lo,Long habitude can gender human love,Even as an object smitten o’er and o’erBy blows, however lightly, yet at lastIs overcome and wavers. Seest thou not,Besides, how drops of water falling downAgainst the stones at last bore through the stones?