And Venus, if thou hast, as whilom, For parted lovers an asylum, To punish or to reconcile 'em, Take Chloe to it; And lift, if thou hast heart of flint, Thy lash, and her fair skin imprint-- But ah! forbear--or, take the hint, And let me do it. Not a word, Eusebius, I know what you are going to say,--no shame at all. You have all your life acquitted Horace; and if he never intended Chloe to have a whipping, you may be quite sure the little turn that I have ventured to give the affair, won't bear that construction; and there will be no occasion to ask the dimensions of the rod, as the ladies at the assize-town did of Judge Buller, requesting of him, with their compliments, to send them the measure of his thumb. Why should I not attempt this rejected ode? Here goes for the honour of Lydia. "Kiss and be friends" be ever the motto to lovers' quarrels. _"Donec gratus eram tibi."_ HORACE. When I was all in all to you, Nor yet more favour'd youthful minion His arms around your fair neck threw; Not Persia's boasted monarch knew More bless'd a state, more large dominion. LYDIA. And whilst you loved but only me, Nor then _your_ Lydia stood the second, And Chloe first, in love's degree; I thought myself a queen to be, Nor greater Roman Ilia reckon'd. HORACE. Now Cretan Chloe rules me quite; Skill'd in the lyre and every measure, For whom I'd die this very night, If but the Fates, in death's despite, Would Chloe spare, my soul's best treasure. LYDIA. Me Calaeis, Ornytus' young heir! (The flame is mutual _we_ discover,) For whom to die _two_ deaths I'd dare, If the stern Fates would only spare, And _he could_ live, my youthful lover. HORACE. What--if our former love restore Our bonds, too firm for aught to sever,-- I shake off Chloe; and the door To Lydia open flies once more; Returning Lydia, and for ever. LYDIA. He, though a beauteous star--you light As cork, and rough as stormy weather, That vexes Adria's raging might, With you to live were my delight, And willing should we die together. So this is the offending ode! Was the proposition to be constant not quite agreeable to the French editor? Or was he in Horace's probable condition, getting a little up in years? See you, it is a youthful rival, Juvenis, who troubles him. And Lydia takes care to throw in this ingredient, the "sweet age." He is not _old_ Ornytus--a hint of comparison with Horace himself--but his son; indeed, he is hardly Juvenis, for she soon calls him her dear boy, as much as to say, "_You_ are old enough to be his father!" She carries out this idea, too, seeming to say, "You may love Chloe--I dare say you do; but, does Chloe love you? Whereas _our_ passion is mutual."