Nescio quid certe est. An vere fama susurrat,
Grandia te medii tenta vorare viri?
Sic certe clamant Virronis rupta miselli
Ilia, et emulso labra notata sero.
(Would you have me tell, Gellius, why those rosy lips grow whiter than the winter’s snow, when you sally out from home in the morning, and when the eighth hour of the long summer day wakes you from gentle sleep? Nay! I know not what it is for sure. Does report say true, that whispers you mouth the swollen member of a man’s middle? So at any rate declare the deboshed vigour of poor feeble Virro, and your own lips marked by the humour you draw out). Martial, Bk. VII. Epigr. 94.:
Bruma est, et riget horridus December,
Audes tu tamen osculo nivali
Omnis obvios hinc et hinc tenere,
Et totam, Line, basiare Romam.
Quid possis graviusque saeviusque