When, Lydia, you (once fond and true,
But now grown cold and supercilious)
Praise Telly's charms of neck and arms--
Well, by the dog! it makes me bilious!
Then with despite my cheeks wax white,
My doddering brain gets weak and giddy,
My eyes o'erflow with tears which show
That passion melts my vitals, Liddy!
Deny, false jade, your escapade,
And, lo! your wounded shoulders show it!
No manly spark left such a mark--
Leastwise he surely was no poet!
With savage buss did Telephus
Abraid your lips, so plump and mellow;
As you would save what Venus gave,
I charge you shun that awkward fellow!
And now I say thrice happy they
That call on Hymen to requite 'em;
For, though love cools, the wedded fools
Must cleave till death doth disunite 'em.
Eugene Field's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (To Lydia by Eugene Field )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 February 1970-)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(22 August 1893 - 7 June 1967)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
William Ernest Henley
(1849 - 1902)
(22 March 1941 -)
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