O were I blest, as the physician, to reach out the cordial draughts, press your soft hand or lean gently upon the bed! But how hard, and yet more than wretched is my fate; to be thus banished from your presence, while he whom most I fear sits perhaps close by you. Hated alike by the Gods and me, he is yet allowed gently to squeeze your hand, and lean over your fading cheeks. Fond of every pretence to feed the beating vein, he slides his daring hand along your snowy arm, hides it in your bosom, and snatches the fragrant kisses, a roward too great for his officious care. What right have you to reap the harvest of my bliss? Or how are you empowered to encroach upon another's bounds? I hat bosom is mine; you basely rob na or my kisses. Take off your hand from a body promised to me. Traitor, take off your hands; you touch a bosom that will soon be mine; in doing this hereafter, you will become an intamous adulterer Choose from among others, where no prior right is claimed; for know, that another lore commands that breast: nor trust to my testimony; read the form by which she engaged herself; and, to prevent a possibility of deceit, make even Cydippe repeat the binding vow. Again then I say, Depart from another's bed. What brings you here? He gone; this bed is already possessed: for, even if it be allowed that you also have a promise of the beauteous prize, yet the justice of your claim comes-far short of mine.
