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LIBER I - XIII	HIS JEALOUSY
Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus)	trans. A. S. Kline
Cum tu, Lydia, Telephi cervicem roseam, cerea Telephi laudas bracchia, vae meum fervens difficili bile tumet iecur. tum nec mens mihi nec color certa sede manent, umor et in genas furtim labitur, arguens quam lentis penitus macerer ignibus. uror, seu tibi candidos turparunt umeros immodicae mero rixae, sive puer furens impressit memorem dente labris notam. non, si me satis audias, speres perpetuum dulcia barbare laedentem oscula quae Venus quinta parte sui nectaris imbuit. felices ter et amplius quos irrupta tenet copula nec malis divulsus querimoniis suprema citius solvet amor die.	When you, Lydia, start to praise Telephus’ rosy neck, Telephus’ waxen arms, alas, my burning passion starts to mount deep inside me, with troubling anger. Neither my feelings, nor my hue stay as they were before, and on my cheek a tear slides down, secretly, proving how I’m consumed inwardly with lingering fires. I burn, whether it’s madhouse quarrels that have, drunkenly, marked your gleaming shoulders, or whether the crazed boy has placed a love-bite, in memory, on your lips. If you’d just listen to me now, you’d not bother to hope for constancy from him who wounds that sweet mouth, savagely, that Venus has imbued with her own pure nectar.

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