To Neobule. III-12 (From The Odes Of Horace)
Ah! Unhappy are the maidens, who love's game are kept from playing, Nor in mellow wine may wash away their cares; Who, scared by scolding uncles' tongues, their terror are displaying, - But from you, though, Neobul, Cupid bears Your basket and your webs, yet all the zeal you have been showing For industrious Minerva, is the prey Of fair Hebrus, Liparan, when his shoulders, oiled and glowing, He has bathed in Tiber's waters. Let me say As a horseman, than Bellerophon he's really something greater; Never worsted in a hand-fight, nor a race. Skilled to shoot the flying stag-herd in the open, - swift he later Snares the boar, close-hidden in a shady place.
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"Ah! Unhappy are the maidens, who love's game are kept from playing,..."
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