HORACE While favored by thy smiles no other youth in amorous teasing Around thy snowy neck his folding arms was wont to fling; As long as I remained your love, acceptable and pleasing, I lived a life of happiness beyond the Persian king. LYDIA While Lydia ranked Chloe in your unreserved opinion, And for no other cherished thou a brighter, livelier flame, I, Lydia, distinguished throughout the whole dominion, Surpassed the Roman Ilia in eminence of fame. HORACE 'T is now the Thracian Chloe whose accomplishments inthrall me,— So sweet in modulations, such a mistress of the lyre. In truth the fates, however terrible, could not appall me; If they would spare her, sweet my soul, I gladly would expire. LYDIA And now the son of Ornytus, young Calais, inflames me With mutual, restless passion and an all-consuming fire; And if the fates, however dread, would spare the youth who claims me, Not only once would I face death, but gladly twice expire. HORACE What if our early love returns to prove we were mistaken And bind with brazen yoke the twain, to part, ah! nevermore? What if the charming Chloe of the golden locks be shaken And slighted Lydia again glide through the open door? LYDIA Though he is fairer than the star that shines so far above you, Thou lighter than a cork, more stormy than the Adrian Sea, Still should I long to live with you, to live for you and love you, And cheerfully see death's approach if thou wert near to me.

THE ROASTING OF LYDIA

No more your needed rest at night By ribald youth is troubled; No more your windows, fastened tight, Yield to their knocks redoubled. No longer you may hear them cry, "Why art thou, Lydia, lying In heavy sleep till morn is nigh, While I, your love, am dying?" Grown old and faded, you bewail The rake's insulting sally, While round your home the Thracian gale Storms through the lonely alley. What furious thoughts will fill your breast, What passions, fierce and tinglish (Cannot be properly expressed In calm, reposeful English). Learn this, and hold your carping tongue: Youth will be found rejoicing In ivy green and myrtle young, The praise of fresh life voicing; And not content to dedicate, With much protesting shiver, The sapless leaves to winter's mate, Hebrus, the cold dark river.

TO GLYCERA

The cruel mother of the Loves, And other Powers offended, Have stirred my heart, where newly roves The passion that was ended. 'T is Glycera, to boldness prone, Whose radiant beauty fires me; While fairer than the Parian stone Her dazzling face inspires me. And on from Cyprus Venus speeds, Forbidding—ah! the pity— The Scythian lays, the Parthian meeds, And such irrelevant ditty. Here, boys, bring turf and vervain too; Have bowls of wine adjacent; And ere our sacrifice is through She may be more complaisant.

TO LYDIA

I

When, Lydia, you (once fond and true, But now grown cold and supercilious) Praise Telly's charms of neck and arms— Well, by the dog! it makes me bilious! Then with despite my cheeks wax white, My doddering brain gets weak and giddy, My eyes o'erflow with tears which show That passion melts my vitals, Liddy! Deny, false jade, your escapade, And, lo! your wounded shoulders show it! No manly spark left such a mark— Leastwise he surely was no poet! With savage buss did Telephus Abraid your lips, so plump and mellow; As you would save what Venus gave, I charge you shun that awkward fellow! And now I say thrice happy they That call on Hymen to requite 'em; For, though love cools, the wedded fools Must cleave till death doth disunite 'em.

TO LYDIA

II

When praising Telephus you sing His rosy neck and waxen arms, Forgetful of the pangs that wring This heart for my neglected charms, Soft down my cheek the tear-drop flows, My color comes and goes the while, And my rebellious liver glows, And fiercely swells with laboring bile. Perchance yon silly, passionate youth, Distempered by the fumes of wine, Has marred your shoulder with his tooth, Or scarred those rosy lips of thine. Be warned; he cannot faithful prove, Who, with the cruel kiss you prize, Has hurt the little mouth I love, Where Venus's own nectar lies. Whom golden links unbroken bind, Thrice happy—more than thrice are they; And constant, both in heart and mind, In love await the final day.

TO QUINTIUS HIRPINUS

To Scythian and Cantabrian plots, Pay them no heed, O Quintius! So long as we From care are free, Vexations cannot cinch us. Unwrinkled youth and grace, forsooth, Speed hand in hand together; The songs we sing In time of spring Are hushed in wintry weather. Why, even flow'rs change with the hours, And the moon has divers phases; And shall the mind Be racked to find A clew to Fortune's mazes? Nay; 'neath this tree let you and me Woo Bacchus to caress us; We're old, 't is true, But still we two Are thoroughbreds, God bless us! While the wine gets cool in yonder pool, Let's spruce up nice and tidy; Who knows, old boy, But we may decoy The fair but furtive Lyde? She can execute on her ivory lute Sonatas full of passion, And she bangs her hair (Which is passing fair) In the good old Spartan fashion.

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