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BOOK II. ODE 4.

Ne sit ancillæ tibi amor pudori,
Xanthia Phoceu, &c.

I.

To love a Serving-Maid no Sin can be:
Servants to us in Love are free.
The rough Achilles fell in Love
With the white Skin'd Briseis, and did prove
Her humble Servant, once her lofty Lord.
The Son of Telamon, so fam'd in War,
His Female Slave ador'd.
A Girle fair
Was all the great Atrides did esteem,
Of all the Wealth and Victories got by him.

II.

How canst thou tell but that fair Phillis may
Be born of as noble clay
As that which makes those Pageants we call Kings:
Thou know'st not but she springs

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From a great Regal Line;
And weeps because the Gods have cast her down:
Believe me, Phoceus, she deserves a Crown.
She needs must be Divine;
She, who no breach of Oaths did ever know,
Who for an honest fame could wealth for-go,
Must needs of some high Parentage be born.
I, whom Age doth seize
With its incurable Disease:
I, who all wanton wishes scorn,
Admire her Face, her Arms, and every Limb,
And think it worth my just esteem.