Horace Ode 1.13

When you praise the rosy neck of Telephus, the waxy arms of Telephus, alas, my boiling liver swells with intractable bile, Lydia. Then neither my mind nor my complexion stays in a fix seat, and a moisture secretly slips onto my cheeks, arguing how deeply I am stewed with soft fires. I burn whether quarrels immoderate with wine foul your white shoulders or the mad boy presses a tale-tell mark with his tooth on your lips. If you would hear me enough you would not hope him evermore harming—barbarically—sweet lips (lit. kisses) which Venus has steeped in the quintessence of her own nectar. Three times lucky and more (are they) whom unbroken embrace holds nor a love torn by evil complaints releases earlier (lit. more swiftly) than the last day.