Telephus you praise him still (CUM TU, LYDIA)

Telephus—you praise him still,
         His waxen arms, his rosy-tinted neck;
       Ah! and all the while I thrill
     With jealous pangs I cannot, cannot check.
         See, my colour comes and goes,
     My poor heart flutters, Lydia, and the dew,
         Down my cheek soft stealing, shows
     What lingering torments rack me through and through.
         Oh, 'tis agony to see
     Those snowwhite shoulders scarr'd in drunken fray,
         Or those ruby lips, where he
     Has left strange marks, that show how rough his play!
         Never, never look to find
     A faithful heart in him whose rage can harm
         Sweetest lips, which Venus kind
     Has tinctured with her quintessential charm.
         Happy, happy, happy they
     Whose living love, untroubled by all strife,
         Binds them till the last sad day,
     Nor parts asunder but with parting life!

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