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Poem by Henry Livingston
The IX Ode to Horace
HORACE. While I was pleasing to your arms, Nor any youth, of happier charms, Thy snowy bosom blissful prest, Not Portia's like me was blest. LYDIA. While for no other fair you burn'd, Nor Lydia was for Chloe scorn'd What maid was then so blest as thine? Not [xx's] flame could equal mine. HORACE. Me Chloe now possesses whole, Her voice her lyre command my soul; For whom Ill gladly die, to save Her dearer beauties from the grave. LYDIA. My heart young Calats inspires, Whose bosom glows with mutal fires, For whom I twice would die with joy, If death would spare the charming boy. HORACE. Yet what if love, whole bards we broke, Again should tame us to the yoke; Should I shake off bright Chloe's chain, And take my Lydia home again?-- LYDIA. Though he exceed in beauty far The rising lustre of a star; Though light as cork thy fancy strays, Thy passions wild as angry seas, When vex'd with storms; yet gladly I With thee would live, with thee would die.
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