Our country work and tillage can disarm
Your am'rous cares, for ev'ry grief a charm.
1
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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;
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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;
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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;
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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;
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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,
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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.
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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,
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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.
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Thro' sports like these you'll steal into relief,
And while your time you cozen, cheat your grief.
Remedia amoris. P. Ovidius Naso. New York. 1855.
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