And mounts the desk; his pliant throat he clears,
And deals, insidious, round his wanton leers;
While Rome’s first nobles, by the prelude wrought,
Watch, with indecent glee, each prurient thought,
And squeal with rapture, as the luscious line
Thrills through the marrow and inflames the chine.
Vile dotard! Canst thou thus consent to please,
To pander for such itching fools as these?
Fools, whose applause must shoot beyond thy aim,
And tinge thy cheek, bronzed as it is, with shame!