And trust me, farm, if ever I again take up With Sextius' black charges, I'll rebel no more; But let the chill things damn to cold, to cough, not me 20 That read the volume--no, but him, the man's vain self.
While Septimius in his arms his Acme Fondled closely, 'My own,' said he, 'my Acme,
If I love not as unto death, nor hold me Ever faithfully well-prepar'd to largest Strain of fiery wooer yet to love thee, 5
Then in Libya, then may I alone in Burning India face a sulky lion.'
Scarce he ended, upon the right did eager Love sneeze amity; 'twas before to leftward.
Acme quietly back her head reclining 10 Towards her boy, with a rosy mouth delightful Kissed his passionate eyes elately swimming,
Then 'Septimius, O my life' she murmur'd, 'So may he that is in this hour ascendant
Rule us ever, as in me burns a greater 15 Fire, a fiercer, in every vein triumphing.'
Scarce she ended, upon the right did eager Love sneeze amity; 'twas before to leftward.
So, that augury joyous each possessing, Loves, is lov'd with an even emulation. 20
Poor Septimius, all to please his Acme, Recks not Syria, recks not any Britain.
In Septimius only faithful Acme Makes her softnesses, holds her happy pleasures.
When did mortal on any so rejoicing 25 Look, on union hallow'd as divinely?
Now soft spring with her early warmth returneth, Now doth Zephyrus, health benignly breathing, Still the boisterous equinoctial heaven.
Leave we Phrygia, leave the plains, Catullus, Leave Nicaea, the sultry soil of harvest: 5 On for Asia, for the starry cities. Now all flurry the soul is out a-ranging, Now with vigour aflame the feet renew them.
Farewell company true, my lovely comrades. You so joyfully borne from home together, 10 Now o'er many a weary way returning.
Porcius, Socration, the greedy Piso's Tools of thievery, rogues to famish ages,
So that filthy Priapus ousts to please you My Veranius even and Fabullus?
What? shall you then at early noon carousing 5 Lap in luxury? they, my jolly comrades, Search the streets on a quest of invitation?
If, Juventius, I the grace win ever Still on beauteous honied eyes to kiss thee, I would kiss them a million, yet a million.
Yea, nor count me to win the full attainment, Not, tho' heavier e'en than ears at harvest, 5 Fall my kisses, a wealthy crop delightful.