Remedia Amoris; Or, The Remedy of Loveliterally Translated into English Prose, with Copious Notes

“All right, boy, skewer me. I've dropped my defenses, I'm an easy victim. Why, by nowYour arrows practically know their own way to the target And feel less at home in their quiver than in me.””

— Ovid

“Brass shines with constant usage, a beautiful dress needs wearing,Leave a house empty, it rots.””

— Ovid

“I got nervous at bulls and eagles,Trying to figure what shape Zeus might take for sexWhen it could be turn next. But now I don't care any longer,I've come to my senses, your profile leaves me cold.Why am I different? you ask. I'll tell you. . That's what turns me off.””

— Ovid

“Love is a child and naked; he has years that know no meanness, and he has no clothes, so that he is open in his ways.””

— Ovid

“Arrive before your Husband. Not that I canSee quite what good arriving first will do;But still arrive before him. When he's takenHis place upon the couch and you go tooTo sit beside him, on your best behaviorStealthily touch my foot, and look at me,Watching my nods, my eyes, my face's language;Catch and return my signals secretly.I'll send a wordless message with my eyebrows;You'll read my fingers' words, words traced in wine.When you recall our games of love together,Your finger on rosy cheeks must trace a line.If in your silent thoughts you wish to chide me,Let your hand hold the lobe of your soft ear;When, darling, what I do or say gives pleasure,Keep turning to an fro the ring you wear.When you wish well-earned curses on your husband,Lay your hand on the table, as in prayer.If he pours you wine, watch out, tell him to drink it;Ask for what you want from the waiter there.I shall take next the glass you hand the waiterAnd I'll drink from the place you took your sips;If he should offer anything he's tasted,Refuse whatever food has touch his lips.Don't let him plant his arms upon your shoulders,Don't let him rest your gentle head on his hard chest,Don't let your dress, your breasts, admit his fingers,And--most of all--no kisses to be pressed!You kiss--and I'll reveal myself your lover;I'll say 'they're mine'; my legal claim I'll stake.All this, of course I'll see, But what's well hiddenunder your dress--blind terror makes me quake.””

— Ovid