Explore "Horace I, 13" by Eugene Field on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
When, Lydia, you (once fond and true, / But now grown cold and supercilious) / Praise Telly's charms of neck and arms -- / Well, by the dog! it makes me bilious!
Then, with despite, my cheeks wax white, / My doddering brain gets weak and giddy, / My eyes o'erflow with tears which show / That passion melts my vitals, Liddy!
Deny, false jade, your escapade, / And, lo! your wounded shoulders show it! / No manly spark left such a mark -- / (Leastwise he surely was no poet! )
With savage buss did Telephus / Abraid your lips, so plump and mellow -- / As you would save what Venus gave, / I charge you shun that awkward fellow!
And now I say thrice happy they / That call on Hymen to requite 'em; / For, though love cools, the wedded fools / Must cleave 'till death doth disunite 'em!