What would you be at, you woman fitter for the swarthy monsters?  Why do you send tokens, why billet-doux to me, and not to some vigorous youth, and of a taste not nice?  For I am one who discerns a polypus, or fetid ramminess, however concealed, more quickly than the keenest dog the covert of the boar.  What sweatiness, and how rank an odor every where rises from her withered limbs! when she strives to lay her furious rage with impossibilities; now she has no longer the advantage of moist cosmetics, and her color appears as if stained with crocodile’s ordure; and now, in wild impetuosity, she tears her bed, bedding, and all she has.  She attacks even my loathings in the most angry terms:—­“You are always less dull with Inachia than me:  in her company you are threefold complaisance; but you are ever unprepared to oblige me in a single instance.  Lesbia, who first recommended you—­so unfit a help in time of need—­may she come to an ill end! when Coan Amyntas paid me his addresses; who is ever as constant in his fair one’s service, as the young tree to the hill it grows on.  For whom were labored the fleeces of the richest Tyrian dye?  For you?  Even so that there was not one in company, among gentlemen of your own rank, whom his own wife admired preferably to you:  oh, unhappy me, whom you fly, as the lamb dreads the fierce wolves, or the she-goats the lions!”

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ODE XIII.

To A friend.

A horrible tempest has condensed the sky, and showers and snows bring down the atmosphere:  now the sea, now the woods bellow with the Thracian North wind.  Let us, my friends, take occasion from the day; and while our knees are vigorous, and it becomes us, let old age with his contracted forehead become smooth.  Do you produce the wine, that was pressed in the consulship of my Torquatus.  Forbear to talk of any other matters.  The deity, perhaps, will reduce these [present evils], to your former [happy] state by a propitious change.  Now it is fitting both to be bedewed with Persian perfume, and to relieve our breasts of dire vexations by the lyre, sacred to Mercury.  Like as the noble Centaur, [Chiron,] sung to his mighty pupil:  “Invincible mortal, son of the goddess Thetis, the land of Assaracus awaits you, which the cold currents of little Scamander and swift-gliding Simois divide:  whence the fatal sisters have broken off your return, by a thread that cannot be altered:  nor shall your azure mother convey you back to your home.  There [then] by wine and music, sweet consolations, drive away every symptom of hideous melancholy.”

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ODE XIV.

To Maecenas.