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

  • Telephus—you praise him still,
  • His waxen arms, his rosy-tinted neck;
  • Ah! and all the while I thrill
  • With jealous pangs I cannot, cannot check
  • See, my colour comes and goes,
  • My poor heart flutters, Lydia, and the dew,
  • Down my cheek soft stealing, shows
  • What lingering torments rack me through and through.
  • Oh, 'tis agony te see
  • Those snowwhite shoulders scarr'd in drunken fray,
  • Or those ruby lips, where he
  • Has left strange marks, that show how rough his play!
  • Never, never look to find
  • A faithful heart in him whose rage can harm
  • Sweetest lips, which Venus kind
  • Has tinctured with her quintessential charm.
  • Happy, happy; happy they
  • Whose living love, untroubled by all strife,
  • Binds them till the last sad day,
  • Nor parts asunder but with parting life!