Horace, Odes 1.13

Horace, Odes 1.13

When you, Lydia, praise the
Rosy neck of Telephus, the pliant
Arms of Telephus–alas!–my
Liver swells with troublesome gall.
Then neither my mind nor appearance
Remains in a certain seat, and tears
Fall to my cheeks, showing how I
Am wounded deeply by tough barbs.
I burn, whether  immoderate brawls
Soil your spotless shoulders with wine,
Or if a raging boy has impressed an
Unforgetting mark on your lips with his teeth.
Might you not hope, if you hear me enough,
Endlessly for a pleasant foreigner,
Who wounds your lips, which Venus
Has imbued with a fifth portion of her nectar.
Thrice and more greatly lucky,
Those whom an unbroken bond holds,
Whom, not separated by wicked arguments,
Love parts on their final day.

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