Odes 2.4 (Martin): Ne Sit Ancillae

Nay, Xanthias, my friend, never blush, man — no, no!
Why should you not love your own maid, if you please V
Briseis of old, with her bosom of snow,
Brought the haughty Achilles himself to his knees.

By his captive, Tecmessa, was Telamon's son,
Stout Ajax, to willing captivity tamed;
Atrides, in triumph, was wholly undone,
With love for the slave of his war-spear inflamed,

In the hot hour of triumph, when quell'd by the spear
Of Pelides, in heaps the barbarians lay;
And Troy, with her Hector no longer to fear,
To the war-wearied Greeks fell an easier prey.

For aught that you know, now, fair Phyllis may be
The shoot of some highly respectable stem;
Nay, she counts, I'll be sworn, a few kings in her tree,
And laments the lost acres once lorded by them.

Never think that a creature so exquisite grew
In the haunts where but vice and dishonour are known,
Nor deem that a girl so unselfish, so true.
Had a mother 't would shame thee to take for thine own.

I extol with free heart, and with fancy as free,
Her sweet face, fine ancles, and tapering arms.
How! Jealous? Nay, trust an old fellow like me,
Who can feel, but not follow, where loveliness charms.