So thy white neck, Neaera, me poor soul
Doth scorch, thy cheeks, thy wanton eyes that roll:
Were it not for my dropping tears that hinder,
I should be quite burnt up forthwith to cinder.
[5357]———Est mollis flamma medullas,
Et tacitum insano vivit sub pectore vulnus.
A gentle wound, an easy fire it was,
And sly at first, and secretly did pass.
[5358]———Pectus insanum vapor.
Amorque torret, intus saevus vorat