Thy second let him rule belowThy car shall shake the realms above;Thy vengeful bolts shall overthrowEach guilty grove.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!