Odes 1.13 (Creech): Cum Tu, Lydia

WHen Lydia praises Damon's Charms,
His rosy Neck, and waxen Arms,
His Air, and rowling Ey;
My Mind scarce thinks on what it does,
My sickly Colour comes and goes;
I rage, I burn, I dy:

I lose my former vital Grace,
And tears steal softly down my face;
Cold feeble Sweats begin,
Cold feeble Sweats that plainly show
How fierce the Flame, and yet how slow
That melts my Soul within:

I rage to see thy Shoulder stand,
Or snowy Breast by drunken hand
Too lovingly unkind;
Or when the ruffling Amorous youth
Hath prest thy Lips with eager Tooth,
And left a Mark behind:

Coy Lydia, all thy hopes are vain
Still to endure the pleasing pain
Of a surprizing Kiss,
Which Venus doth in Nectar steep,
And hangs upon the balmy Lip,
To draw us on to Bliss.

Thrice happy They, that free from strife
Maintain a Love as long as life;
Whose fixt and bending vows,
No intervening Jealousie,
No Fears and no Debates untye;
And Death alone can loose.