Quod pro gigantomachia amores scribere sit coactus

I, Ovid, poet of my wantonness,
Born at Peligny, to write more address.
So Cupid wills; far hence be the severe:
You are unapt my looser lines to hear.
Let maids whom hot desire to husbands lead,
And rude boys touched with unknown love, me read,
That some youth hurt as I am with Love's bow
His own flame's best acquainted signs may know,
And long admiring say, " By what means learned
Hath this same poet my sad chance discerned?"
I durst the great celestial battles tell,
Hundred-hand Gyges, and had done it well,
With earth's revenge, and how Olympus' top
High Ossa bore, Mount Pelion up to prop.
Jove and Jove's thunderbolts I had in hand,
Which for his heaven fell on the giants' band.
My wench her door shut, Jove's affairs I left,
Even Jove himself out of my wit was reft.
Pardon me, Jove, thy weapons aid me nought,
Her shut gates greater lightning than thine brought.
Toys and light elegies, my darts, I took,
Quickly soft words hard doors wide open strook.
Verses deduce the horned bloody moon,
And call the sun's white horses back at noon.
Snakes leap by verse from caves of broken mountains,
And turned streams run backward to their fountains.
Verses ope doors; and locks put in the post,
Although of oak, to yield to verses boast.
What helps it me of fierce Achill to sing?
What good to me will either Ajax bring?
Or he who warred and wandered twenty year?
Or woeful Hector, whom wild jades did tear?
But when I praise a pretty wench's face,
She in requital doth me oft embrace.
A great reward: heroes, O famous names,
Farewell; your favour nought my mind inflames.
Wenches, apply your fair looks to my verse,
Which golden Love doth unto me rehearse.