Ilustration by Frederico Righi
Publius Ovidius Naso 43 BC – c. 17 AD
I’ve done, but there’s diversity in women’s
hearts: a thousand minds require a thousand methods.
One soil doesn’t bear all crops: vines here
are good, olives there: this teems with healthy wheat.
There are as many manners of heart as kinds of face:
a wise man will adapt to many forms,
and like Proteus now, melt into the smooth waters,
now be a tree, now a lion, now a bristling boar.
These fish are speared, those caught on a hook:
others trawled in billowing nets with straining ropes.
One mode won’t suit you for every age-group:
the older hinds spot a trap from further off.
If the simple find you cunning, and the modest crude,
the poor things will straightaway mistrust themselves.
So it happens that she who fears to trust an honest man,
falls to the embrace of some low rascal.
Part of my task is left: part of the labour’s done.
Moor my boat here to the anchor-chains.
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