(Translated by Franklin P. Adams, 1912)

Horace

When I was your stiddy, my loveliest Lyddy,
And you my embraceable she,
In joys and diversions, the king of the Persians
Had nothing on me.

Lydia

When I was the person you penned all that verse on,
Ere Chloë had caused you to sigh,
Not she whose cognomen is Ilia the Roman
Was happier than I.

Horace

Ah, Chloë the Thracian — whose sweet modulation
Of voice as she lilts to the lyre
Is sweeter and fairer? Would but the Fates spare her
I’d love to expire.

Lydia

Tush! Calais claims me and wholly inflames me,
He pesters me never with rhymes;
If they should spare Cally, I’d perish totally
A couple of times.

Horace

Suppose my affection in Lyddy’s direction
Returned; that I gave the good-by
To Chloë the golden, and back to the olden? —
I pause for reply.

Lydia

Cheer up, mine ensnarer! Be Calais fairer
Than stars, be you blustery and base,
I’ll love you, adore you; in brief, I am for you
All over the place.

(Included in Horace’s Donec Gratus Eram: A Collection of Translations)