Full translated poem : http://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/Latin/CuresforLove.htm

Some extracts :

Part I : Words with Cupid, and the Task

Let him rejoice in happiness, any eager man who loves

and delights in love: let him sail with the wind.

But any man who suffers badly from the power of a worthless girl,

shouldn’t die, if he understands the help that’s in my art.

Part II : Treat it Early, fill your Time with War or Law

If you’ve regrets, and moderate emotions touch your heart,

then halt your feet, while you can, at the first threshold.

Crush the evil germs of sudden illness while they’re young,

and prevent your horse’s gallop at the start.

For time gives strength, time ripens tender grapes,

and creates healthy crops from what were shoots.

The tree that spreads wide shadows for passers-by,

was only a slip at first that had been planted:

then a hand could pluck it from the topsoil:

now by its growth it stands, in all its immense power.

Let your swift mind encompass what it is that you love,

and withdraw your neck from the collar that hurts you.

Halt its beginnings: it’s too late for the doctor to be called,

when the illness has grown stronger through delay.

But hurry, don’t put it off to a later time:

who’s not ready today, will be less so tomorrow:

all love deceives, and gains nourishment by waiting:

every next day is the best for freedom.

Part III: You Can Also Farm, Hunt, or Travel

When once the mind begins to enjoy these pleasures,

Vain Love departs on weakened wings.

Or you can cultivate the art of hunting: often Venus

retreated in shame from her conquering sister Phoebe.

Now hunt the headlong hare with keen-scented dog,

now spread your nets across the leafy hills,

or fright the quivering deer with motley scares,

or the boar’s brought down, stabbed by your hostile spear.

Sleep at night, not desire for girls, welcomes the weary man,

and the limbs will be restored by calm rest.

Easier work, but still work, is capturing birds

following the humble prize with net or lime,

or, what greedy fish might swallow with eager jaws,

hiding a curved hook under a little bait.

This pursuit or that, till you forget your passion,

you’ve got to secretly beguile yourself.

You only need to journey far, though strong chains

hold you back, and start to travel distant ways:

you’ll cry, and your lost girl’s name will oppose it,

and your feet will often stop you on the road:

but the less you wish to go, the more you should go:

endure it, and force unwilling feet to run.

Part V: Contemplate her Defects

If some overriding reason keeps you in the City,

(that mistress!), accept my advice from the City.

He’s his own best liberator who snaps the chains

that hurt his heart, and ends the grief forever.

But the man who’s brave as that, I marvel at it, and him,

and say: ‘He’ll not act out my prophecies.’

It’s you, who love, and can scarcely forget your loving,

that wish to, but can’t, who must be taught by me.

Tell yourself often what your wicked girl has done,

and before your eyes place every hurt you’ve had.

‘She’s had this and that, but she’s not satisfied with plunder:

the greedy girl’s given the household gods notice to quit.

She swore to me, and, having sworn so, deceived me,

lying stretched out so often at her door!

She prizes others, despises my love: ah,

a pedlar has nights with her, she won’t give me!’

Let all this embitter your every feeling:

recall it, look here for the seeds of your dislike.

And I want you to be fluent in them as well!

Suffer enough: you’ll be eloquent yourself.

Recently my affections clung to a certain girl:

she was not conducive to my spirit:

sick, Podalirius was cured by his own drugs,

and, I confess, I was a shamefully sick doctor.

It helped to continually dwell on my friend’s faults,

and it often was the thing that made me better.

‘How ugly,’ I’d say ‘my girl’s legs are!’

and yet they weren’t, if the truth be told.

‘How little are my girl’s arms beautiful!’

and yet they were, if the truth be told.

‘How small she is!’ she wasn’t: ‘How much she asks of a lover!’

That was the main cause of my dislike.

And the bad is neighbour to the good: in that confusion

virtue often bears the guilt for vice.

As much as you can, disparage your girl’s attractions,

and let your judgement fall a little short.

Let her be called ‘plump’ if she’s full-figured, ‘black’ if she’s dark:

in slenderness there’s the charge of being ‘lean’.

And she can be called ‘pert’, who’s not naive,

and she can be called ‘naive’, if she’s too honest.

Then too, whatever talents your woman lacks,

promote those, with flattering words and prayers.

Demand the use of song, if the girl’s bereft of voice:

make her dance if she doesn’t know how to move her hands.

Her speech is barbarous? Make her talk with you a lot:

she hasn’t learnt to sweep the chords? Ask for the lyre.

She walks awkwardly? Make her walk up and down:

Her chest’s all breasts? Let no bindings hide the fault.

If her teeth are bad, relate what she’ll laugh at:

Her eyes are sensitive? Report what makes her cry.

And appear suddenly, when she’s applied no make-up to herself,

having hastened your steps to your lady in the dawn.

We’re carried away by adornment: in gold and gems

all’s hidden: the least part of it’s the girl herself.

You often ask where what you love is amongst it all:

rich Love deceives the eyes with all that armour.

Be there unexpectedly, safe, you catch her defenceless:

the poor girl’s undone by her faults.

But it’s still not safe to trust in this rule too much:

since true beauty without art beguiles many.

So approach your lady’s presence (don’t let modesty deter you)

when she’s smearing her cheeks with blended potions.

You’ll find little pots and a thousand coloured things,

and dripping greases flowing, over her warm breasts.

Those cosmetics smell like your table, Phineus:

more than once they’ve made my stomach sick.

Part VII: Have More Than One Lover

I also urge you to have two girls at once

(You’re very brave if you could consider more):

When the heart’s divided it goes in both directions,

and one love saps the power of the other.

Vast rivers are thinned out through many channels:

fierce flames die down when the fuel’s removed.

One anchor’s not enough to hold a well-waxed hull,

a single hook’s not enough in clear water:

Who long ago arranged a double solace for himself,

long ago was victor on the highest summit.

But you, who were foolishly trusting of one mistress,

at least now a fresh love is to be contrived for you.

Part VIII: Be Cool With Her

But if my suggestions have value, if Apollo

through my mouth teaches all to mortal men,

though, unhappy man, you’re roasting in the midst of Etna,

make it seem to your girl that you’re chillier than ice:

and if you’re grieving deeply, look happy, lest she see it,

and laugh, when tears come to you.

Not that I order you to break off in mid-sorrow:

my commands aren’t as cruel as that.

Pretend to what is not, and that the passion’s over,

so you’ll become, in truth, what you are studying to be.

I’ve often wished to seem asleep, lest it seem I’ve been drinking,

while I seemed so, I gave my conquered eyes to sleep:

I’ve laughed at one caught, who pretended to himself he was in love,

hunting birds, but fallen into his own net.

Love penetrates the heart by habit, through habit it’s forgotten:

he who can imagine he’s well, will be well.

Part X: Forget Her, and Don’t Be Alone

You who love, beware lonely places, lonely places are harmful!

Why flee? You can be safer in a crowd.

You don’t need secrecy (secrecy nurtures passion):

in future it’s the crowd that will assist you.

If you’re alone, you’ll be sad, and the form of the girl you’ve left

will be there before your eyes, so like herself.

Because of that, night’s sadder than the daylight:

your crowd of friends missing, who might ease the gloom.

Don’t shun conversation, or let your door be closed,

don’t hide your tearful face in the shadows.

Always have some Pylades, to support Orestes:

here too the benefit of friendship is not slight.

What but the lonely woods caused harm to Phyllis?

The cause of her death is certain: she had no friend.

Part XI: Now, Keep Away From Her

One young man performed whatever my Muse

commanded: and his life was nearly safe:

he relapsed, he’d come among some passionate lovers,

and Love picked up the weapons he’d laid down.

If you love, but don’t wish to, avoid making contact:

it’s often accustomed to harm cattle too.

When eyes look at wounds they’re also wounded,

and many things harm our bodies through infection.

Not infrequently into an arid place with parched soil,

water permeates from a stream flowing nearby:

Hidden love permeates, if you don’t depart your lover:

and in this we’re all an ingenious crowd.

Another man was already cured: being near harmed him:

he couldn’t bear any meeting with his mistress.

The wound, poorly healed, reopened at the old scar,

and not one of my arts had the least success.

Houses are barely defended from a neighbouring fire:

it’s best to keep away from places nearby.

Don’t take your walks in the colonnade where she’s

accustomed to: and don’t adorn the same functions.

What pleasure for a tepid heart to be rekindled by memory?

If you can do, you should find another sphere.

It’s not easy if you’re hungry to hold back from a laid table,

and splashing water rouses a huge thirst.

It’s not easy to restrain the bull that’s seen the heifer,

the stallion always whinnies strongly when he sees the mare.

When you’ve done all that, for you still to reach dry land,

it’s not enough for you to leave the girl.

Say goodbye to mother, sister, and the nurse who’s in the know,

and whoever plays any part in your girl’s life.

Don’t let her slave come by, or her maid, with lying tears,

humbly saying: ‘Greetings!’ in their mistress’s name.

And if you want to know what she’s doing, still, don’t ask:

endure! It will profit you to hold your tongue.

You too, who relate the reason why your love ended,

and make so many complaints against your mistress,

beware of it: it’s better to revenge yourself by silence,

so she’ll vanish from your longing.

And I’d rather you were silent than say that you’ve left off:

he who says: ‘I’m not in love’, too often, is.

But put faith more in love being extinguished slowly

than suddenly: slowly abandon it, you’ll be safe.

The deluge may run higher than the settled river:

but all the same it won’t last, while the other’s permanent water.

Let love fail, and, vanishing, dissolve into thin air,

and let it fade away in gentle stages.

But it’s wrong to hate the girl you loved, in any way:

that conclusion suits uncivilised natures.

It’s enough not to care: who ends his love by hating,

is either still in love, or finds it hard to leave off being sorry.

Shame for a man and woman, once joined, now to be enemies:

Appian Venus, near the Court, herself frowns on those quarrels.

Often they’re defendants, and still love: while no dispute

has really occurred, love’s strayed without a warning.

By chance I took on one young client: a litter held the wife:

his every word was bristling with cruel threats.

Intending to have her bound over, then bailed, he said:

‘she ought to step down’: she did: seeing her he fell silent:

his hands dropped, his double-tablets (the security) with them:

he fell into her embrace, and said: ‘You win.’

It’s safer, and more fitting, to separate, in peace,

and not search out the law-court from the bedroom.

Tell her to keep the gifts you gave her, without any ruling:

small losses are usually a major gain.

But if some chance brings you together again,

keep in mind all the weapons I’ve given you.

Now you need my weapons: here, brave man’s a fight:

Penthesilea’s to be conquered by your spear.

Now let your rivals come to mind, now the lover’s hard threshold

now the useless promises she made amongst the gods.

Don’t comb your hair because you’re going to meet her,

don’t wear your toga free to catch her eye.

She’s nothing, so please yourself, and care for other girls,

let her be just one of many, to you, now.

Part XII: Don’t Weaken

But I’ll tell you what specially obstructs our efforts,

and everyone can learn by his own example.

We give way slowly, because we hope to be loved:

since each is pleased with himself, we’re a credulous crowd.

And don’t believe that words carry any weight,

(well what’s more deceptive?) or the eternal gods.

And beware that girls’ tears don’t move you:

their eyes have been instructed how to cry.

Innumerable arts oppose a lover’s willpower,

as the waves beat on the rocks from every side.

Don’t let the cause be known why you prefer divorce:

don’t say what grieves you: just grieve silently the while.

Don’t recall her sins, lest she dilutes them: favour yourself,

so that your own cause is better than hers.

Who’s silent is strong: who pours abuse on his girl,

is only accusing himself, for his own satisfaction.

Part XIII: Get Rid of all Reminders

It’s a trifle, what I sing next: but many have benefited

from that trifle: amongst whom I was one.

Don’t re-read the letters you’ve kept from your sweet girl:

re-reading letters shakes the steadfast heart.

Put them all in the fierce flames (you’ll hate to do it),

and say: ‘Let this be the funeral pyre for my passion.’

Part XIV: Avoid the Arts

But there’s value in not indulging in the theatre,

till love’s truly vanished from your empty heart,

The zithers, and lutes and lyres unman you,

and the sound and waving limbs of the troupe.

There lovers’ parts are danced, continually:

the actor, with art shows, what delights: and what you must avoid.

I speak unwillingly now: don’t touch the tender poets!

Disloyally I banish even my own gifts.

Shun Callimachus: he’s no enemy of Love:

and as well as Callimachus, you Philetas do harm.

I’m certain Sappho made me sweeter on my lover,

and Anacreon’s Muse gave out no rigid rules.

Who can have read your songs, in safety, Tibullus,

or you, Propertius, whose work was Cynthia alone?

Who could depart harshly from reading Gallus?

And I’m not sure some such doesn’t sound in my songs too.

Part XV: Love your Rival

Unless Apollo, the patron of our work, deceives the poet,

rivalry’s the greatest cause that troubles us:

so don’t let yourself imagine any rival,

and best believe she lies in bed alone.

That’s why Orestes loved Hermione the more,

because she’d started to become another man’s.

Why grieve, Menelaus? You went wife-less to Crete,

and could do without your bride for all that while.

Not till Paris snatched her, did you miss your spouse:

through another’s love your own increased.

And, in Briseis’s abduction, it was this Achilles cried for,

the pleasure to Agamemnon of taking her.

Believe me he didn’t cry in vain: the son of Atreus took her,

who’d have been shamefully timid if he hadn’t.

Certainly I’d have taken her, and I’m no wiser than him:

she was the greatest reward of envy.

For he swore by his sceptre Briseis was untouched,

but he did not think the sceptre was a god.

May the gods let you shun the door of the girl you left behind,

and your feet be adequate to your resolve.

And you can: only have the will to hold on: go hard now,

now the task’s to plunge your spur into your swift horse.

Imagine in that lair are Lotos-eaters, Sirens:

add your oars’ effort now to your sails.

He also, who once grieved you with excessive rivalry,

I want you to stop thinking of him as an enemy.

Now, though you still hate him, you should certainly greet him:

as soon as you can kiss him you’ll be cured.

Part XVI: The Doctor’s Last Advice

Behold, there’s still your diet, to complete all the doctor’s duties,

I’ll give you what to swallow and avoid.

Italian onions, or the ones they send you, from the shores of Libya,

or the ones that come from Megara, every one will do you harm.

It’s no less fitting to avoid that lustful garden rocket,

and whatever readies these bodies of ours for making love.

Better to eat rue, which sharpens up the eyesight,

and whatever stops these bodies of ours from making love.

You ask what I teach about the gifts of Bacchus?

Expect to be enlightened, by my warnings, very briefly.

Wine prepares your heart for love, unless you take enough,

and your wits are stupefied, overcome by the neat juice.

By wind a fire is fed, by wind it is extinguished:

light breezes fan the flames, heavier gusts will kill them.

So don’t drink at all, or drink so much your cares all vanish:

if it’s anywhere between the two it’s bound to do you harm.

This work is done: hang garlands on my weary prow:

I’ve reached the port for which my course was set.

Soon you’ll say your holy prayers to the shrine of the poet,

men and women, healed by my song.