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This poem is taken from PN Review 151, Volume 29 Number 5, May - June 2003.

The Art of Love (II) (translated by Len Krisak) Ovid

                              Book II

In triumph now, cry out `Hurray!' and then `Hurray!'
          Again. My nets have bagged their fallen prey.
The happy lover gives the green palm to my verse
          And finds old Hesiod's and Homer's worse!
That's how the alien Paris took both wife and flight
          From fierce Amyclae; how his sails shone bright!
Hippodamia, that's like your Pelops (how scary it
          Must have been, to be snatched by alien chariot).
Hey, young man! What's the rush? Your ship is just mid-seas,
          And harbour far away yet, if you please.
It's not enough my verse got you your lover's heart:
          Won by my art, she'll need keeping by art,
Because it's easier to get than hold and guard.
          There's luck in one; the other work is hard.
Oh, now if ever, Venus, favour me. Your son
          And Erato - their names of love are one.
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