When you, Lydia, praise the
red neck of Telephus, the waxen
arms of Telephus, alas, my
burning liver swells with hard bile.
Then neither my mind nor my color
remains in a sure seat, and a tear
secretly slips down my cheek, proving
how deeply I am burdened with slow fires.
I burn, whether your bright
shoulders are disfigured from excessive drunken
fights, or if the burning boy
stamped an unforgettable mark on your lips with his teeth.
If you listen to me enough, you should not
hope for sweet kisses landing always barbarically
upon which Venus drenched
with a fifth part of her own nectar.
Happy three times and more are those
for whom love holds unbroken bonds
and will not quickly unbind, broken up from
evil quarrels, until the last day.
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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 manet, umor et in genas
furtim labitur, arguens,
quam lentis penitus macerer ignibus;
uror, seu tibi candidos
turparunt umeros inmodicae mero
rixae, sive puer furens
inpressit 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 inrupta tenet copula nec malis
divolsus querimoniis
suprema citius solvet amor die.
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