I'd kiss of kisses hundred thousands three,
Nor ever deem I'd reach satiety,
5
Not albe denser than dried wheat-ears show
The kissing harvests our embraces grow.
Thine honey-sweet eyes, O Juventius, had I the leave to kiss for aye, for aye I'd kiss e'en to three hundred thousand kisses, nor ever should I reach to future plenity, not even if thicker than dried wheat sheaves be the harvest of our kisses.
XXXXVIIII.
Disertissime Romuli nepotum,
Quot sunt quotque fuere, Marce Tulli,
Quotque post aliis erunt in annis,