Horace, creator; Conington, John, 1825-1869, editor

  • Why, Xanthias, blush to own you love
  • Your slave? Briseis, long ago,
  • A captive, could Achilles move
  • With breast of snow.
  • Tecmessa's charms enslaved her lord,
  • Stout Ajax, heir of Telamon;
  • Atrides, in his pride, adored
  • The maid he won,
  • When Troy to Thessaly gave way,
  • And Hector's all too quick decease
  • Made Pergamus an easier prey
  • To wearied Greece.
  • What if, as auburn Phyllis' mate,
  • You graft yourself on regal stem?
  • Oh yes! be sure her sires were great;
  • She weeps for them.
  • Believe me, from no rascal scum
  • Your charmer sprang; so true a flame,
  • Such hate of greed, could never come
  • From vulgar dame.