Welcome back to Love Is a Rhythmical Art! (If you missed the first few installments, check the archive.) Ovid takes us today on a tour of chariot races, gladiator fights, and military parades, and he turns all of them into erotic opportunities. Imagine: you're at one of the major sports events or public processions in ancient Rome, you're packed into a stadium or an amphitheater or the Roman forum, and here comes Ovid to help you figure out where the true entertainment lies. (Spoiler alert: it’s right next to you.)

Speaking of entertainment: Have you been reading these limericks and wondering what a limerick actually is? The shape should be clear: Every limerick has five lines with a certain rhyme and a certain rhythm. For the rhyme, lines one, two, and five rhyme with each other, and lines three and four rhyme with each other. For the rhythm, there’s an emphasis (or stress) on every third syllable (Love is a rhythmical art); lines one, two, and five have three emphases, and lines three and four, which are shorter, have two emphases. If you read out loud any of the limericks in Love Is a Rhythmical Art, you’ll hear the rhythm and the rhyme. (And if you haven’t read them out loud, you should.)

For the content of a limerick, though, things get a little less clear — or a little more historically interesting. The English poet Edward Lear (1812-1888) was the first to popularize the form in A Book of Nonsense (1846), and his limericks (which he published with his own illustrations) live up to the title; without exception, all of them are ridiculous, nonsensical, and simply bizarre. Here’s one:

There was an Old Lady of Chertsey,
Who made a remarkable curtsey;
   She twirled round and round,
   ’Til she sunk underground,
Which distressed all the people of Chertsey.

But even during Lear’s lifetime, many others found that the limericks could be not just ludicrous but louche. Of course there’s no requirement that a certain format has to include a certain kind of content, and anyone could theoretically write about anything in limericks. But there was something about the form that seemed particularly well suited to risqué material. A lot of risqué material ended up in limerick form, and ever since then, readers have expected limericks to be lighthearted, clever, and probably lewd.

And that, dear reader, is the reason I’ve used limericks for Love Is a Rhythmical Art. Ovid is never as crass as many modern limericks, but he wants you to be thinking about love. There’s much more to the story, including the fact that Ovid was using a Latin poetic format called the elegiac couplet, which in his own time was frequently used for love poetry. For more of the poetic details (as well as a translation of an upcoming portion of the poem), check out my essay on the topic from a few years ago: What Rhymes With Venus? But if you want to get back to Ovid’s advice, just keep scrolling.

(For those of you following along in the original Latin, here are lines 135-228 of Book 1.)

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There’s another location to mention:
The racetrack. Now, please pay attention:
   Not only do horses
   Compete in their courses;
It’s also a lovers’ convention.

You won’t have to wave or project
Or rely on some cryptic effect;
   By the law of the stadium,
   Next to a lady a
Man may sit down and connect.

(On occasion, Rome happily features
An improvement on single-sex bleachers.
   Here’s a standing ovation
   For coeducation
When Venus and Cupid are teachers.)

Exchange a few words if you can;
Let the races be part of your plan.
   As the teams are arriving,
   Discover who’s driving
And favor her favorite man.

With the rest of the crowd you’ll be awed
At the sight of each ivory god.
   This celestial parade
   Offers everyone aid,
But it’s Venus that you should applaud.

On her lap if you see any sand,
Brush it off with the back of your hand.
   If no sand is in view,
   Brush that away too;
Reality’s at your command.

Should the hem of her skirt touch the soil,
Lift it up with a look that is loyal.
   Does subservience rankle?
   A glimpse of her ankle
Will be the reward for your toil.

I’m sure there’s no need to remind you
To see who is sitting behind you.
   If she’s bumped by their knees,
   Turn around and say, “Please
Keep yourself in the seat that’s assigned you!”

She’ll probably think that you’re sweet
If you fan away some of the heat.
   To show that you care,
   Put a pad on her chair
And an ottoman under her feet.

Let’s move on. Cupid frequently goes
To the gladiatorial shows.
   They’re a spectator sport
   Of a dangerous sort,
Where the fans will lament their own woes.

You’ll gamble, you’ll watch, and you’ll kibitz
Until Love your attention inhibits.
   His arrows are cruel,
   And they’ll hit you, and you’ll
Become one of the central exhibits.

And Caesar’s restaging of Salamis
Was a place where a man could corral a miss,
   And Rome was the host
   Of young men from each coast
Who saw nothing in any new gal amiss.

(Salamis happens to be
Where the Greeks beat the Persians at sea.
   That naval engagement
   Replayed in Rome’s age meant
A chance for an amorous spree.)

What will Caesar now add to his world?
The Parthians. Where Crassus had hurled
   His ill-fated men,
   Rome rises again
And sees its old standards unfurled.

(The mission Augustus prepares
For Gaius, who’s one of his heirs,
   Is designed to enhance
   Rome’s eastern advance
And augment his political shares.)

The champion our nation consults
Is charged with obtaining results.
   He’s young for his age,
   And the wars that he’ll wage
Are usually waged by adults.

But those born to be gods are precocious,
And the pace of their growth is ferocious.
   Caesar easily handles
   A cake with few candles
And thinks that delay is atrocious.

Young Hercules had what it takes
In his cradle to strangle two snakes;
   Did Bacchus have any
   More years in him when he
Gave India a case of the shakes?

Your father’s great years and careers
Will give strength as you shoulder your spears,
   And to what will you owe
   Your defeat of the foe?
Your father’s careers and great years.

With Augustus to guide and protect,
A triumph is what we expect –
   For you are, in all truth,
   The head of Rome’s youth
And the head of the Senate elect.

No son is more loyal than you,
No brother more faithful or true,
   So your foe must not bother
   His brothers and father
By staging a family coup.

His arrows are wicked and rude,
But with love are your lances imbued;
   Like a magical potion
   Will truth and devotion
Their might on our soldiers exude.

The enemy’s cause is unjust,
And their men will be biting the dust.
   The Parthians, I’m told,
   Have unlimited gold;
We’ll capture it quickly, I trust.

O Mars and O Caesar, combine
In your scion the strength that is thine!
   It is proper to yoke
   The two names I invoke,
For one is and one will be divine.

I predict that you’ll soon be victorious,
Your return will be rapid and glorious,
   And I’ll proudly proclaim
   Your magnificent name
In rhymes both sublime and stentorious.

As a poet, I hope I won’t lack words
To describe your procession Iraq-wards,
   Our troops in formation,
   Your manly oration,
And arrows that Parthians shoot backwards.

O Parthian, you’re famed as a bowman,
But you’re really no match for a Roman.
   If retreat is your ruse,
   What’s left when you lose?
Your strategy’s not a good omen.

In Caesar’s triumphal procession
Will walk enemies stripped of aggression,
   And the sight of their fate
   In Rome’s youth will create
A long-lasting and pleasant impression.

If you’re asked by a girl to bestow
Proper names on the kings of the foe,
   Respond to her queries
   In unbroken series,
And never let on you don’t know.

The Euphrates is here, with a crown
Of watery sedge on its frown;
   Whose hair is deep blue?
   It’s the Tigris we view!
And there’s an Achaemenid town.

In the throng of Armenians and Persians
Come the leaders of thwarted incursions.
   Assign the right label
   To each, if you’re able;
If not, offer plausible versions.

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In the next issue: how to party like Ovid. Stay tuned.