Bki:Xiii His Jealousy

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. Three times happy are they, and more, held by unbroken pledge, one which no destruction of love, by evil quarrels, will ever dissolve, before life’s final day.