English poem
From CATULLUS
by Robert Lloyd (?–1846)
Chloe, that dear bewitching prude, Still calls me saucy, pert, and rude, And sometimes almost strikes me; And yet, I swear, I can't tell how, Spite of the knitting of her brow, I'm very sure she likes me.
Ask you me, why I fancy thus? Why, I have call'd her jilt, and puss, And thought myself above her; And yet I feel it, to my cost, That when I rail against her most, I'm very sure I love her.
More by Robert Lloyd
- CARMEN ELEGIACUM, In CIMAETERIO RUSTICO compositum
- EPISTLE to J. B. Esq. 1757
- EPISTLE to J—B—Esq. 1757
- FAMILIAR EPISTLE To—Apothecary
- GENIUS, ENVY, and TIME, A FABLE; Address'd to WILLIAM HOGARTH, Esq
- ODE Spoken on a public Occasion at Westminster-school
- ODE to OBLIVION
- PART OF HOMER'S HYMN TO APOLLO. Translated from the Greek