University of Virginia Library

Ode IX. 3 Booke, to Lydia. Dialogue of Horace, and Lydia.

Hor.
Whilst, Lydia, I was lov'd of thee,
And ('bout thy Ivory neck,) no youth did fling,
His armes more acceptable free,
I thought me richer then the Persian King.

Lyd.
Whilst Horace lov'd no Mistres more,
Nor after Cloë did his Lydia sound;
In name, I went all names before,
The Roman Ilia was not more renown'd.

Hor.
'Tis true, I'am Thracian Chloes, I
Who sings so sweet, and with such cunning plaies,
As, for her, I'l'd not feare to die,
So Fate would give her life, and longer daies.

Lyd.
And, I am mutually on fire
With gentle Calais Thurine, Orniths Sonne;
For whom I doubly would expire,
So Fates would let the Boy a long thred run.

Hor.
But, say old Love returne should make,
And us dis-joyn'd force to her brazen yoke,
That I bright Cloë off should shake;
And to left-Lydia, now the gate stood ope.

Lyd.
Though he be fairer then a Starre;
Thou lighter then the barke of any tree,
And then rough Adria, angrier, farre;
Yet would I wish to love, live, die with thee.