Classic Poem

When Lydia to my rival tells
How Telephus, her Telephus excells;
And harps upon his manly charms,
His neck so rosy-red, and iv'ry arms;
Alas! I boil with jealous ire,
And all th'internal man is set on fire.
Then are my pow'rs of reason weak,
My colour comes and goes, and down my cheek
The trickling tears of anguish steal,
Proof of the ling'ring fever that I feel.
I burn, if in th'immod'rate broils
Of liquor thy white sleeves the tipler soils,
Or in a raging am'rous fit,
Has left his mark upon the lips he bit.
Believe me, Lydia, in the end
You cannot hope his love will long extend,
Who to your kisses is so rude
By Venus in nectareous balm imbu'd.
O happy thrice, and thrice again!
Who without breach still hug the pleasing chain;
Nor ever any bick'ring strife
Can part them till the last extreme of life.