Classic Poem

Lydia, I conjure you by all the gods above,
Tell me why you care to try to ruin Sybaris?
Why have you enraptured him and captured him with love?
Why have you inspired him and tired him with a kiss?

Tell me why he sits and sulks, and hates the sunny field?
He was not one to shun the sun, inured to dusty plains.
Why does he never ride beside his troop with spear and shield,
Nor curb his steed of Gallic breed with barbed and bitted reins?

Why does he dread the Tiber's stream, and hate the ringside oil?
He will not play; he throws away the quoits and javelin.
No longer flushed with triumph does he claim the victor's spoil;
He finds each game is much too tame; he does not aim to win.

Oh why do martial exercises fail to bring him joy?
And tell me why he languishes in anguish as they say
Achilles did when he was hid before the fall of Troy;
When he appeared disguised and weird as though he feared the fray.