O DE XIII.— THE POET'S JEALOUSY

Lydia, when you tauntingly
Talk of Telephus, praising him
For his beauty, vauntingly
Far beyond me raising him,
His rosy neck, and arms of alabaster.
My rage I scarce can master!

Pale and faint with dizziness,
All my features presently
Paint my soul's uneasiness;
Tears, big tears, meessantly
Steal down my cheeks, and tell in what fierce fashion
My bosom burns with passion.

'Sdeath! to trace the evidence
Of your gay deceitfulness,
Mid the cup's improvidence,
Mid the feast's forgetfulness,
To trace, where lips and ivory shoulders pay for it,
The kiss of your young favourite!

Deem not vainly credulous,
Such wild transports durable,
Or that fond and sedulous
Love is thus procurable:
Though Venus drench the kiss with her quintessence,
Its nectar Time soon lessens.

But where meet (thrice fortunate!)
Kindred hearts and suitable,
Strife comes ne'er importunate,
Love remains immutable;
On to the close they glide, mid scenes Elysian,
Through life's delightful vision!