Ode 9.
Horace.
While Lydia, I to thee was dear,1
And round that neck—so soft, so fair—2
No arm more welcome dared to twine,3
More blest than kingly lot was mine.4
Lydia.
While, still to me thy love confined,5
Thy Chloe left me not behind,6
Poor Lydia’s glory then stood high ;7
More famed than Ilia’s self was I.8
Horace.
Me now the charms of Chloe sway9
Skilled in sweet sounds of lyre and lay ;10
For whom stern Death I’d gladly brave,11
To snatch the maiden from the grave.12
Lydia.
And me young Calais inspires13
Whose bosom burns with mutual fires ;14
For whom stern Death I’d doubly brave,15
To snatch the stripling from the grave.16
Horace.
What if the yoke, though sunder’d we17
As erst to wear again agree !18
Should I shake off sweet Chloe’s chain,19
And take my Lydia home again !—20
Lydia.
Though fairer he than eve’s bright star21
Than Adria’s gulf thou stormier far,22
And light as floating cork—yet I23
With thee would live, with thee would die.24