15
Were on my couchlet strewn half-dead to lie,
For thee (sweet wag!) this poem for thee wrote I,
Whereby thou mete and weet my cark and care.
Now be not over-bold, nor this our prayer
Outspit thou (apple of mine eyes!): we pray
20
Lest doom thee Nemesis hard pain repay:—
She's a dire Goddess, 'ware thou cross her way.
Yestreen, Licinius, in restful day, much mirthful verse we flashed upon my tablets, as became us, men