AD LYDIAM
Horace: Book I., Ode 13.
_"Quem tu, Lydia, Telephi
Cervicem roseam, cerea Telephi--"_
What time thou yearnest for the arms
Of Telephus, I fain would twist 'em;
When thou dost praise his other charms
It just upsets my well-known system;
My brain is like a three-ring circus,
In short, it gets my _capra hircus_.
My reason reels, my cheeks grow pale,
My heart becomes unduly spiteful,
My verses in the _Evening Mail_
Are far from snappy and delightful.
I put a civil question, Lyddy:
Is that a way to treat one's stiddy?
What mean those marks upon thee, girl?
Those prints of brutal osculation?
Great grief! that lowlife and that churl!
That Telephus abomination!
Can him, O votary of Venus,
Else everything is off between us.
O triply beatific those
Whose state is classified as married,
Untroubled by the green-eyed woes,
By such upheavals never harried.
Ay, three times happy are the wed ones,
Who cleave together till they're dead ones.
