* * * *
What shall I say, Gellius, wherefore those lips, erstwhile rosy-red, have become whiter than wintery snow, thou leaving home at morn and when the noontide hour arouses thee from soothing slumber
to face the longsome day? I know not forsure! but is Rumour gone astray with her whisper that thou devourest the well-grown tenseness of a man's middle? So forsure it must be! the ruptured guts of wretched Virro cry it aloud, and thy lips marked with lately-drained σεμεν publish the fact.
LXXXI.
Nemone in tanto potuit populo esse, Iuventi,
Bellus homo, quem tu diligere inciperes,
Praeterquam iste tuus moribunda a sede Pisauri
Hospes inaurata pallidior statua,
5
Qui tibi nunc cordist, quem tu praeponere nobis