Certain Selected Odes Of Horace, Englished and their Arguments annexed. With Poems (Antient and Modern) of diuers Subjects, Translated. Whereunto are added, both in Latin and English, sundry new Epigrammes. Anagrammes. Epitaphes [by John Ashmore] |
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Ad Lydiam. Lib. 1. Ode 13.
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 | Certain Selected Odes Of Horace, Englished |  |
Ad Lydiam. Lib. 1. Ode 13.
The Argvment.
It much him mooves, that Lydia louesHis Rivall: And their life
He doth commend, whose loue to th'end
Continueth without strife.
When
Lydia thou of Telephus dost tell,
His rosie neck and plyant armes dost praise,
My liver then (alas!) begins to swell,
Enrag'd with wrath which nothing can appease.
His rosie neck and plyant armes dost praise,
My liver then (alas!) begins to swell,
Enrag'd with wrath which nothing can appease.
My colour, changing oft, doth plainely shew
How my perplexed minde is plung'd in woe:
And tears, by stealth from watry eyes that flowe,
Can nothing quench loves fire that still doth growe.
How my perplexed minde is plung'd in woe:
And tears, by stealth from watry eyes that flowe,
Can nothing quench loves fire that still doth growe.
5
I vexed am, whether iarre-breeding wine
Caus'd roaring Boyes to wrong thy shoulders faire;
Or the Lust-raging Lad, those lips of thine
The wanton marke caus'd of his tooth to beare.
Caus'd roaring Boyes to wrong thy shoulders faire;
Or the Lust-raging Lad, those lips of thine
The wanton marke caus'd of his tooth to beare.
Beleeve me, he will never constant prove,
That rudely wrongs sweet kisses in such sort;
Those kisses, which the Goddess faire of loue
Graceth with the fift part of her best sport.
That rudely wrongs sweet kisses in such sort;
Those kisses, which the Goddess faire of loue
Graceth with the fift part of her best sport.
Thrice happy, and more happy, are they sure,
Whose mutuall love so banisheth all strife,
That pure and constant it doth still endure
Till Fates cut off their well-spun thread of life.
Whose mutuall love so banisheth all strife,
That pure and constant it doth still endure
Till Fates cut off their well-spun thread of life.
| Certain Selected Odes Of Horace, Englished | |