Horace: Book II, Elegy 8
"Eripitur nobis iam pridem cara puella---"
While she I loved is being torn
From arms that held her many years,
Dost thou regard me, friend, with scorn,
Or seek to check my tears?
Bitter the hatred for a jilt,
And hot the hates of Eros are;
My hatred, slay me as thou wilt,
For thee'd be gentler far.
Can I endure that she recline
Upon another's arm? Shall they
No longer call that lady "mine"
Who "mine" was yesterday?