Classic Poem

You never need blush, since your love for a hand-maid,
Friend Xanthias, is known to—well, more than a few.
Conceal it no more. Here's a girl who is planned, made
And fashioned for you.

Briseis, the slave-girl, with tints like the lily's,
Her body a mingling of fire and snow,
Enraptured the noble and haughty Achilles—
A thing that you know.

And Ajax, the fearless and well-known defier,
Was snared by Tecmessa, the modest and grave;
Though he was a lord who could surely look higher,
And she was his slave.

And as for your Phyllis who scorns your sesterces,
Her family tree may be broad as an oak's.
Her people, I'm sure, though upset by reverses,
Were eminent folks.

A girl so devoted, unlike any other
Your arm may have had the occasion to crush,
Could never, believe me, be born of a mother
For whom you need blush.

Her arms and the turn of her ankles enthuse me;
Her face has the glamour that all men adore.
What! Jealous? You mean it? Go on—you amuse me!
I'm forty—and more.