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,
130
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.
135
'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
140
Inflame the wound, unseasonably applied.
If therefore you expect to find redress,
In the first place take leave of idleness;
1
'Tis this that kindl'd first your fond desire,
'Tis this brings fuel to the am'rous fire.
145
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;
150
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.
155
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.
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.
165
Th' adult'rous lust that did Aegisthus seize,
3
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,
170
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.
Remedia amoris. P. Ovidius Naso. New York. 1855.
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