To LYDIA. Ode XIII.
He seems much griev'd, that Telephus his Rival, was prefer'd before him.
When Rofie Neck thou't, LYDIA, praise
Of TELEPHUS, his sweet embrace,
Whose softest Arm like wax intwines,
O how my Liver swells, repines!
Then's my Sence lost, my frantick Blood
From Cheek to th' Heart, like Eb's turn'd flood,
Changes it's seat: with Tears down stealing,
In how slow Fires I waste revealing.
Plagu'd whether some rude Brawl of mine
Did that white Neck abuse in Wine:
Or whether stamp'd that furious Youth
Mindful Love-mark, with wanton Tooth,
Upon thy Lips: but hope not Blisses
Lasting from one, that wrongs sweet Kisses
So barbarously, on whose soft tasts
VENUS fift part of Nectar wasts.
More than thrice Blest are they whose Love,
Fast chain'd, no rending force can move;
Nor (through complaints dissolv'd till Death)
Ends sooner than the latest Breath.
