Ars Amatoria

A few things shameful to mention, she must know how to call

the throws at knucklebones, and your values, you rolled dice:

sometimes throwing three, sometimes thinking, closely,

how to advance craftily, how to challenge.

She should play the chess match warily not rashly,

where one piece can be lost to two opponents,

and a warrior wars without his companion who’s been taken,

and a rival often has to retrace the journey he began.

Light spills should be poured from the open bag,

nor should a spill be disturbed unless she can raise it.

There’s a kind of game, the board squared-off by as many lines,

with precise calculation, as the fleeting year has months:

a smaller board presents three stones each on either side

where the winner will have made his line up together.

There’s a thousand games to be had: it’s shameful for a girl

not to know how to play: playing often brings on love.

But there’s not much labour in knowing all the moves:

there’s much more work in keeping to your rules.

We’re reckless, and revealed by eagerness itself,

and in a game the naked heart’s exposed:

Anger enters, ugly mischief, desire for gain,

quarrels and fights and anxious pain:

accusations fly, the air echoes with shouts,

and each calls on their outraged deities:

there’s no honour, they seek to cancel their debts at whim:

and often I’ve seen cheeks wet with tears.

Jupiter keep you free from all such vile reproaches,

you who have any anxiety to please men.