Sure sweetie, tell me about it, his
Rippling pecs and those glistening biceps.
Eating my heart out and half crazy with
Envy, that stuff chokes me right up, it's
Just what I need to hear!
And just what I need is to see signs of
Drunk passion: hickeys left by the hotboy
On your young body, and scars on your face.
Listen. I should be getting what you
Give to Ape Tarzan: I mean
French kisses and your heavenly juices.
Look, let me tell you, real love's what
Outlasts the bad times, doesn't need all this
Rough stuff: just two lovers prepared to
Take life as it comes.
When, Lydia, you gush over Telephus' rosy neck and waxen arms,
woe is me! my feverish jealousy swells with the irrepressible
bile. Then neither my inward composure nor the outward color of
my face remains stable. Tears stealthily trickle onto my cheeks,
proving that, inside, I am being consumed by slow fires. Whether
your white arms have been bruised by quarrels, aggravated by
wine, or whether the impassioned boy has impressed a reminder of
himself into your lips with his teeth, I am in flames. If you
listen to me, you will not nourish the hope that a boy who so
barbarously violates the sweet kisses which Venus has imbued with
the quintessence of her nectar is likely to love you forever.
Those who are held in an unbroken union, a union which is not
dissolved by a quarrel-torn love before life is ended, are
extremely—more than extremely—fortunate.