Classic Poem

When, Lydia, you the dainty charms
Of Telephus with rapture tell,
His rosy neck, his waxen arms,
With bitter gall I inly swell.
My brain is in a whirl, I feel
My shifting colour come and go,
And down my cheek the tear-drop steal,
Token of wasting fire below.
I writhe whene'er a tipsy brawl
With bruise has soiled your shoulders white,
Or when that boy mad, passion's thrall,
Has marked your lips with tell-tale bite.
No constant heart his bosom rude,
Believe me, holds who foully tore
A mouth by Venus' self bedewed
With nectar purest of her store.
O! thrice and four times blest their lot,
Whom love has linked with tie so fast
No quarrel's jar can burst the knot,
Which death alone will loose at last.