Telephus—you praise him still,His waxen arms, his rosy-tinted neck;Ah! and all the while I thrillWith jealous pangs I cannot, cannot checkSee, my colour comes and goes,My poor heart flutters, Lydia, and the dew,Down my cheek soft stealing, showsWhat lingering torments rack me through and through.Oh, 'tis agony te seeThose snowwhite shoulders scarr'd in drunken fray,Or those ruby lips, where heHas left strange marks, that show how rough his play!Never, never look to findA faithful heart in him whose rage can harmSweetest lips, which Venus kindHas tinctured with her quintessential charm.Happy, happy; happy theyWhose living love, untroubled by all strife,Binds them till the last sad day,Nor parts asunder but with parting life!