It’s like rich men buying horses: they inspect them
When they’re blanketed, so that if, as often happens,
The hoof supporting a beautiful form is tender, the buyer
Gazing isn’t misled by fine haunches, long neck, small head.
In this they’re wise: don’t study her bodily graces
With Lynceus’ eyes, yet blinder than Hypseae
Ignore her imperfections. ‘Oh, what legs, what arms!’ True,
But she’s narrow-hipped, long-nosed: short waist, big feet.
With a wife you can only get to see her face:
Unless she’s a Catia long robes hide the rest.
If you want what’s forbidden (since that is what excites you),
What walls protect, there’s a host of things in your way,
Bodyguards, closed litters, hairdressers, hangers-on,
A dress-hem down to her ankles, a robe on top,
A thousand things that stop you gaining an open view.
With the other type, no problem: You can see her almost
Naked in Coan silk, no sign there of bad legs or ugly feet:
And check her out with your eyes. Or would you rather
Be tricked, parted from your cash before the goods are
Revealed? Callimachus says how ‘the hunter chases
The hare through deep snow, but won’t touch it at rest’,
Adding: ‘That’s what my love is like, since it flies past
What’s near, and only chases after what runs away.’
Do you hope with such verses as those to keep
Pain, passion, and a weight of care from your heart?