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Imitation.
Horace.
In the days when you loved me, Lydia,
No other but I with his arms
Encircled your rounded bosom;
I lived happier than a king.
Lydia.
In the days when I was your mistress,
You preferred me to Chloe;
I fell asleep at your side
Happier than a goddess.
Horace.
Chloe now governs me,
Skilled at the lute, adept at song;
The sweetness of her voice intoxicates me.
I am ready to cease living
If I had to give her my blood.
Lydia.
I now waste away
For Calais, my young lover,
Who has taken your place in my heart,
I would die twice, dear Horace,
If I had to give him my blood.
Horace.
What then! if in our thoughts
The old love were rekindled
If my blonde were forsaken?
If tomorrow Venus, offended,
Brought me back to your door?
Lydia.
Calais is young and faithful,
And you, poet, your desire
Is lighter than the swallow,
More inconstant than the zephyr;
Yet, if the fancy took you,
With you I would love life;
With you I would wish to die.
Alfred De Musset
Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.
Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-to-lydia-alfred-de-musset/