A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace With the Original Text, and Critical Notes collected from his best Latin and French Commentators. By the Revd Mr. Philip Francis...The third edition |
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 | A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace |  |
Ode XIII. To Lydia.
Ah! when on Telephus his Charms,
His rosy Neck, and waxen Arms,
My Lydia's Praise unceasing dwells,
What gloomy Spleen my Bosom swells?
On my pale Cheek the Colour dies,
My Reason in Confusion flies,
And the down-stealing Tear betrays
The lingering Flame that inward preys.
I burn, when in Excess of Wine
He soils those snowy Arms of thine,
Or on thy Lips the fierce-fond Boy
Marks with his Teeth the furious Joy.
His rosy Neck, and waxen Arms,
My Lydia's Praise unceasing dwells,
What gloomy Spleen my Bosom swells?
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My Reason in Confusion flies,
And the down-stealing Tear betrays
The lingering Flame that inward preys.
I burn, when in Excess of Wine
He soils those snowy Arms of thine,
Or on thy Lips the fierce-fond Boy
Marks with his Teeth the furious Joy.
If yet my Voice can reach your Ear,
Hope not to find the Youth sincere,
Cruel who hurts the fragrant Kiss,
Which Venus bathes with nectar'd Bliss.
Thrice happy They, in pure Delights
Whom Love with mutual Bonds unites,
Unbroken by Complaints or Strife
Even to the latest Hours of Life.
Hope not to find the Youth sincere,
Cruel who hurts the fragrant Kiss,
Which Venus bathes with nectar'd Bliss.
Thrice happy They, in pure Delights
Whom Love with mutual Bonds unites,
Unbroken by Complaints or Strife
Even to the latest Hours of Life.
| A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace | |