Lydia, by all above,Why bear so hard on Sybaris, to ruin him with love?What change has made him shunThe playing-ground, who once so well could bear the dust and sun?Why does he never sitOn horseback in his company, nor with uneven bitHis Gallic courser tame?Why dreads he yellow Tiber, as 'twould sully that fair frame?Like poison loathes the oil,His arms no longer black and blue with honourable toil,He who erewhile was knownFor quoit or javelin oft and oft beyond the limit thrown?Why skulks he, as they sayDid Thetis' son before the dawn of Ilion's fatal day,For fear the manly dressShould fling him into danger's arms, amid theLycian press?