University of Virginia Library

HOR. Lib. III. Ode IX.

Horace.
While I, alone, your Faith approv'd,
Nor any Rival, more belov'd,
In your soft, folding Arms did lie,
Than Persia's King more bless'd was I.

Lydia.
While only me your Verse adorn'd,
Nor Lydia was for Cloe scorn'd,
High, in Renown, was Lydia's Name;
Not Ilia had a greater Fame.

Horace.
Cloe does now my Bosom fire,
Charm'd with Her warbling Voice and Lyre,
For her I'd die, and die resign'd,
Might the Dear Nymph remain behind.

Lydia.
My Captive Breast for Calais burns,
Who, kindly, Love for Love returns;
For him I twice cou'd yield my Breath,
If Fate wou'd save the Youth from Death.

Horace.
If Love unites our Hearts again,
And binds us in a Faster Chain;
If golden Cloe I despise,
And doat again on Lydia's Eyes.

Lydia.
Tho' he outshine the brightest Star;
Though thou than Cork art lighter far,
And Angrier than the fretful Sea,
I'd choose to Live, to Die with Thee.