TO LYDIA.
Horace
Lydia, I conjure thee by all the powers above, to tell me why you are so
intent to ruin Sybaris by inspiring him with love? Why hates he the
sunny plain, though inured to bear the dust and heat? Why does he
neither, in military accouterments, appear mounted among his equals; nor
manage the Gallic steed with bitted reins? Why fears he to touch the
yellow Tiber? Why shuns he the oil of the ring more cautiously than
viper's blood? Why neither does he, who has often acquired reputation by
the quoit, often by the javelin having cleared the mark, any longer
appear with arms all black-and-blue by martial exercises? Why is he
concealed, as they say the son of the sea-goddess Thetis was, just
before the mournful funerals of Troy; lest a manly habit should hurry
him to slaughter, and the Lycian troops?
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