Wine and Kissing

  By Horace

When thou the rosy neck of Telephus,

The waxen arms of Telephus, art praising

Woe is me, Lydia, how my jealous heart

Swells with the anguish I would vainly smother!

Then in my mind though has no settled base,

To and fro shifts upon my cheek the color,

And tears that glide adown in stealth reveal

By what slow fires mine inmost self consumeth.

I burn, whether he quarrel o’er his wine,

Stain with a bruise dishonoring thy white shoulders,

Or whether my boy-rival on thy lips

Leave by a scar the mark of his rude kisses.

Hope not, if thou wouldst hearken unto me,

That one so little kind prove always constant;

Barbarous indeed, to wound sweet lips imbued

By Venus with a fifth part of her nectar.*

Thrice happy, ay, more than thrice happy, they

Whom one soft bond unbroken binds together;

Whose love serene from bickering and reproach

In life’s last moment find the first that severs.

*The ancients supposed that honey contained a tenth part of nectar, and therefore the lips of Lydia were imbued with double the nectar bestowed on honey.