Miscellanies, in Verse and Prose | ||
98
Horace, Ode XIII. Book I.
Dum tu, Lydia, Telephi
Cervicem roseam, &c.
Cervicem roseam, &c.
On
Telephus his blooming charms,
And Telephus his waxen arms,
While you, my Lydia, dwell,
By turns my Colour shifts its seat;
By turns my Mind; with stifled heat
My lab'ring Vitals swell.
And Telephus his waxen arms,
While you, my Lydia, dwell,
By turns my Colour shifts its seat;
By turns my Mind; with stifled heat
My lab'ring Vitals swell.
The moisture, stealing, down my cheeks,
The slowly-wasting fever speaks,
That dries my languid veins;
Nor can my eye the wine support,
That, spilt by him in drunken sport,
Your snowy bosom stains.
The slowly-wasting fever speaks,
That dries my languid veins;
Nor can my eye the wine support,
That, spilt by him in drunken sport,
Your snowy bosom stains.
If on your Mouth a biting Kiss
Has mark'd the furious Lover's bliss;
Can such a Love be true?
Whose savage transports could annoy
The Lips which Venus bath'd for joy
In her Celestial Dew.
Has mark'd the furious Lover's bliss;
Can such a Love be true?
Whose savage transports could annoy
The Lips which Venus bath'd for joy
In her Celestial Dew.
Thrice happy they, and more than thrice,
Whom passion, free from strife or vice,
To chaste endearments guides;
Unbroken union is their lot,
And no resentments tear the knot,
Which only Death divides.
Whom passion, free from strife or vice,
To chaste endearments guides;
Unbroken union is their lot,
And no resentments tear the knot,
Which only Death divides.
Miscellanies, in Verse and Prose | ||