“Thyself a boy, assume a boy’s dissembled face; That when, amid the fervor of the feast, The Tyrian hugs and fonds thee on her breast, And with sweet kisses in her arms constrains, Thou mayst infuse thy venom in her veins.” * * * * * Horace, in the ode to Lydia, in which he gives such free expression to his jealousy (Ode XIII.), refers with considerable point and feeling to the osculatory attentions of his rival. The following translation is by Bulwer-Lytton: “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 thought 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.[1] “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 finds the first that severs.” The closing lines of an ode to Mæcenas (Lib. II. Ode XII.) are worth noting: “Say, for all that Achæmenes boasted of treasure, All the wealth which Mygdonia gave Phrygia in tribute, All the stores of all Araby—say, wouldst thou barter One lock of Lycimnia’s bright hair? “When at moments she bends down her neck to thy kisses, Or declines them with coy but not cruel denial, Rather pleased if the prize be snatched off by the spoiler, Nor slow in reprisal sometimes.” Literally, “when she turns to meet the ardent kisses, or with a gentle cruelty denies what she would more delight to have ravished by the petitioner; sometimes she is eager to snatch them herself.” * * * * * In the Latin Anthology is an ode to another Lydia, by an unknown poet, but probably Gallus, which breathes throughout the rapturous idolatry of the enamored writer. We have only space for these lines: “Unveil those rosy cheeks, o’erspread With blushes of the Tyrian red, And pout those coral lips of thine, And breathe the turtle’s kiss on mine; Deep on my heart you print that kiss, You melt my wildered soul in bliss. Ah, softly, girl! thy amorous play Has sucked my very blood away! Hide thy twin bosom fruit, just shown Milk-ripe above thy bursting zone; Such sweets, as India’s summer gale Wafts from her spice-beds, they exhale.” * * * * *