Odes 1.13 (Gladstone): Cum Tu, Lydia

Ah! Telephus, his arms of wax!
Ah, Telephus, his neck of roses!'
All this my spirit, Lydia, racks;
My swelling bile rebels, opposes.

Nor mind nor colour in one stay
Continue: silent tears begin
To wet my cheeks; I waste away,
Slow fires consume me from within;

Galled, if in wine's too boisterous joy
Thy shoulders white are rudely hit,
And bruised; or if the madding boy
Those lips he should have kissed hath bit.

Hear me: he cannot constant be,
Who coarsely mars the honeyed kiss,
Which, Venus! holds by thy decree
The fifth part of thy nectar's bliss.

Thrice blest, aye more, are they, whose love,
Ne'er sundered by the curse of strife,
Through all events its worth can prove,
And only part with parting life.