Ovid 's Remedy of Love The title of this book when Cupid spied, The author endeavors, in this treatise, to make amends for the
							hurt he did in the former and proposes several remedies in the case of
							love; some of which are very good and useful as there are others very
							trivial, and not fit to be put in practice. Ovid begins this treatise as agreeably as he has done
							the others, and, indeed, his invention is so fruitful that he never
							wants grace. Cupid seems frightened at the title of it, apprehending he
							is declaring war against him. "Treason! a plot against our state," he cried. Why should you thus your loyal poet wrong, No man understood the affairs of gallantry better than
							Ovid. Who in your war has serv'd so well and long? So savage and ill-bred I ne'er can prove, Like Diomede, to wound the queen of love. Others by fits have felt your am'rous flame, I still have been, and still your martyr am; Rules for your vot'ries I did late impart. Refining passion, and made love an art. Nor do I now of that or thee take leave, Nor does the muse her former web unweave. Let him who loves, where love success may find, Spread all his sails before the prosp'rous wind; But let poor youths who female scorn endure, And hopeless burn, repair to me for cure: For why should any worthy youth destroy Himself, because some worthless nymph is coy? Love should be nature's friend; let hemp and steel Hangmen and heroes use, whose trade's to kill. Where fatal it would prove, let passion cease; Nor love destroy, who should our race increase. A child you are, and like a child should play; And gentle as your years should be your sway. Keen arrows, and to wound the hardest hearts, You are permitted-but no mortal darts. Let your step-father, Mars , The fable of Mars and Venus being caught in a net is elegantly told in the
							Art of Love ( (2.561 ff) . on sword
						and spear, The crimson stains of cruel conquest wear; You should your mother's milder laws observe, Who ne'er did childless parent's curse deserve; Or if you must employ your wanton pow'r, Teach youths by night to force their mistress' door: How lovers safe and secretly may meet, And subtle wives the cautious husband cheat. Let now th' excluded youth the gate caress, A thousand wheedling soothing plaints express; Then on th' ill-natur'd timber vent his spite, And to some doleful tune weep out the night. For tears, not blood, love's altar should require: Love's torch, design'd to kindle kind desire, Must seem profan'd to light a fun'ral fire." Thus I. —— The god his purple wings display'd. And, "Forward, finish your design," he said. To me, ye injured youths, for help repair, Who hopeless languish for some cruel fair; I'll now unteach the art I taught before, The hand that wounded shall your health restore. One soil can herbs and pois'nous weeds disclose: The nettle oft is neighbour to the rose. Such was the cure the Arcadian hero found; Telephys king of Mysia , sun of Hercules and Auge, daughter of the king
							of Arcadia . He was called
							Telephus from his having been nursed by a doe in a wild place, where he
							was found by shepherds, who carried him to Corytus, king of Thessaly , by whom he was adopted for a
							son. When he had grown up to man's estate, he went to Delphos to enquire
							out his parents by the oracle, which bid him go to Theutras, kingn of
								 Mysia , where he should be
							informed of what he desired; he then found his mother Auge, and when his
							birth was known, great was the joy of the Mysian court. Theytras, who
							had no male issue, gave him his daughter Argiope in marriage and left
							him his successor in the kingdom at his death. The Trojan war happening
							nsome time after, the Greeks who did not know very well their way to
								 Troy , landed in Mysia , where Telephus gave them
							battle, and wounded Ulysses; but was himself dangerously wounded by
							Achilles. Consulting the oracle about his cure, he was told he could
							never be cured, unless he was wounded again in the same place with the
							same lance; upon which he went to Greece , whither the Greeks were returned, and promised
							Achilles to be his guide to Troy if he would cure him; accordingly the Grecian hero
							did cure him with the same lance that gave the wound. Diodorus Siculus
							tells this story in his fifth book. The Pelian spear that wounded, made him sound. But know, the rules that I to men prescribe, In like distress may serve the female tribe: And when beyond your sphere my methods go, You may, at least, infer what you should do. When flames beyond their useful bounds aspire, 'Tis charity to quench the threat'ning fire. Nine visits to the shore poor Phillis made; Had I advis'd, the tenth she should have paid. Nor had Demophoon, when return'd from sea, He gives several instances of ladies who came to untimely ends
							through their impatience in their loves. For his expected bride embraced a tree, Nor Dido, from her flaming pile, by night, Discover'd her ungrateful Trojan's flight. Nor had that mother dire revenge pursu'd, Who in her offspring's blood her hands imbu'd. Fair Philomel, preserv'd from Tereus' rape He was changed into a lapwing. The fable of Philomel is
							mentioned in the Art of Love. (2.383
							f) Her honour she had kept, and he his shape. Pasiphae ne'er had felt such wild desire, Nor Phoedra suffered by incestuous fire. Let me the wanton Paris take in
						hand, Helen shall be restor'd, and Troy 
						shall stand. My wholesome precepts had lewd Scylla read, The purple lock had grown on Nisus' head. Learn, youths, from me, to curb the desp'rate force Of love, and steer, by my advice, your course. By reading me, you first receiv'd your bane; Now, for an antidote, read me again: From scornful beauty's chains I'll set you free, Consent but you to your own liberty. Phoebus, thou god of physic and of verse, Assist the healing numbers I rehearse; Direct at once my med'cines and my song, For to thy care both provinces belong. While the soft passion plays about your heart, Before the tickling venom turns to smart, Break then, (for then you may,) the treach'rous dart; Tear up the seeds of the unrooted ill While they are weak, and you have pow'r to kill. Beware delay: the tender-bladed grain, Shot up to stalk, can stand the wind and rain. The tree, whose branches now are grown too big For hands to bend, was set a slender twig; When planted, to your slightest touch 'twould yield, But now has fix'd possession of the field. Consider, ere to love you give the reins, If she's a mistress worth your future pains. While yet in breath, ere yet your nerves are broke, Cast from your gen'rous neck the shameful yoke! Check love's first symptoms, the weak foe surprise, Who, once entrench'd, will all your arts despise. Think, wretch, what you hereafter must endure, What certain toil, for an uncertain cure. Slip not one minute; who defers to day, To-morrow will be harden'd in delay. 'Tis love's old practice still to sooth you on Till your disease gets strength, and till your strength is gone. Rivers small fountains have, and yet we find Vast seas, of those small fountain'd rivers join'd. Lock'd up in bark poor Myrrha ne'er had been, Had she the progress of her crime foreseen; But pleas'd with the soft kindling of love's fire, We day by day indulge the fond desire, Till like a serpent it has eat its way, And uncontroll'd does on our entrails prey. Yet if the proper season you have pass'd, Tho' hard the task, I'll use my skill at last; Nor see my patient perish by his grief, Because no sooner call'd to his relief. When Philoctetes first receiv'd his wound, He was born of Paean, and Hercules' faithful companion, who
							made him swear he would never discover where he lay buried, and gave him
							his arrows dipped in hydra's blood. The Greeks being told by the oracle
							that thsy should never conquer Troy until they found the fatal arrows, importuned
							Philoctetes to tell them where they were hid, which was in Hercules'
							tomb; and he discovered it by stamping on it with his foot, to keep
							himself from perjury. But he was wounded in the foot for his
							prevarication, by one of those arrows, when he went to the Trojan war.
							However, Marchaon cured him. Ulysses brought him to Troy and boasted of it in the speech
							he made to the Grecian princes, when he demanded Achilles's
						arms. The venom'd part cut off, had sav'd the sound; Yet he, e'en after tedious years of grief, Was cur'd, and brought the fainting Greeks relief. Thus I, who charg'd you speedy means to use, Will none in last extremities refuse. Or try to quench the kindling flames, or stay Till the spent fury on itself doth prey. While in its full career, give scope to rage, And circumvent the force you can't engage. What pilot would against the current strive, When with a side course he may safely drive? Distemper'd minds, distracted with their grief, Take all for foes who offer them relief; But when the first fermenting smart is o'er, They suffer you to probe the ripen'd sore. 'Tis madness a fond mother to dissuade From tears, while on his hearse her son is laid; But when grief's deluge can no higher swell, Declining sorrow you'll with ease repel. Cures have their times; the best that can be tried Inflame the wound, unseasonably applied. If therefore you expect to find redress, In the first place take leave of idleness; An excellent remedy, and the most infallible in the distemper
							of love, which is begot by laziness and effeminacy. 'Tis this that kindl'd first your fond desire, 'Tis this brings fuel to the am'rous fire. Bar idleness, you ruin Cupid's game, You blunt his arrows, and you quench his flame. What wine to plain-trees, streams to poplars prove, Marshes to reeds, is idleness to love. Mind business, if your passion you'd destroy; Secure is he, who can himself employ. Sleep, drinking, gaming, for the foe make way, And to love's ambuscade the roving heart betray. The slothful he seeks out and makes his prize. Surely as he the mall of business flies. Make business then (no matter what) your care; Some dear friend's cause may want you at the bar; Or if your courage tempts you to the field, Love's wanton arms to rough campaigns will yield. Parthia fresh work for triumph does
							afford, Meaning the Parthian
							war, in which Tiberius commanded under Augustus. Half conquer'd to your hand by Caesar's sword. Cupid's and Parthian darts at once o'ercome, And to your country's gods bring double trophies home. Your sword as dreadful will to love appear, As to his mother the Aetolian spear. Th' adult'rous lust that did Aegisthus seize, The son of Thyestes, whose adulterous love to
							Clytemnestra proved so fatal to her husband Agamemnon, to himself, and
							to her; for he having killed his cousin-german, king Agamemnon, and
							seized his kingdom and wife at his return from Troy , Orestes, that king's son, in
							revenge slew him, and even his own mother, for which he was haunted by
							the furies. And brought on murder, sprang from wanton ease; For he the only loiterer remain'd At home, when Troy 's long war the
						rest had drain'd; He revell'd then at his luxurious board, And ne'er embark'd, and ne'er unsheath'd his sword; But while the Grecians did for glory rove, He wasted all his idle hours on love. Our country work and tillage can disarm Your am'rous cares, for ev'ry grief a charm. The ancients are almost always happy in the
							description of a country life. Yoke oxen, plough the painful field, you'll find The wounded earth will cure your love-sick mind. Then trust your grain to the new-furrow'd soil, That with large int'rest will requite your toll. Behold what kind returns your fruit-trees send; Down to your hand the burden'd branches bend. Belold a murmuring brook thro' pastures glide, Behold the grazing sheep on either side; While in the shade his pipe the shepherd tries, The watchfull dog his master's cares supplies; With loud complaints another grove is till'd Of heifers lowing for their firstlings killd. What pleasure 'tis with smoke of yew to drive The mur'ring swarm, and seize the loaden hive. All seasons friendly to the swain are found; Autumn withfruit, with harvest summer's crown'd The spring's adorn'd with flowers to charm the eye And winter fires the absent sun supply. At certain times you'll see the vintage full, And for your wine-press may choice clusters cull; At certain times your ponderous sheafs may bind, Yet for the rake leave work enough behind. In mellow ground, your plants no wat'ring need; The thirsty you from neighb'ring springs may feed. Then, grafting, make old stocks sprout fresh and green, And various fruits in one proud branch be seen. When once these pleasures have your mind possess'd, Love soon departs like a neglected guest. Hunt, if the dull distemper you'd remove; Diana will too hard for Venus prove. Thro' all her doubling shifts the hare pursue, Or spread your toil upon the mountain's brew: E'en when the stag's at bay provoke his rage, Or with your spear the foaming boar engage. Thus tir'd, your rest at night will prove so deep, Dreams of your mistress ne'er will haunt your sleep. 'Tis easier work, yet 'twill require your care, The feather'd game with birdlime to ensnare; Or else for fish your bearded hook to bait, And for your art's success with patience wait. Thro' sports like these you'll steal into relief, And while your time you cozen, cheat your grief.