TO PECTIUS.
Horace
It by no means, O Pectius, delights me as heretofore to write Lyric
verses, being smitten with cruel love: with love, who takes pleasure to
inflame me beyond others, either youths or maidens. This is the third
December that has shaken the [leafy] honors from the woods, since I
ceased to be mad for Inachia. Ah me! (for I am ashamed of so great a
misfortune) what a subject of talk was I throughout the city! I repent
too of the entertainments, at which both a languishing and silence and
sighs, heaved from the bottom of my breast, discovered the lover. As
soon as the indelicate god [Bacchus] by the glowing wine had removed, as
I grew warm, the secrets of [my heart] from their repository, I made my
complaints, lamenting to you, "Has the fairest genius of a poor man no
weight against wealthy lucre? Wherefore, if a generous indignation boil
in my breast, insomuch as to disperse to the winds these disagreeable
applications, that give no ease to the desperate wound; the shame [of
being overcome] ending, shall cease to contest with rivals of such a
sort." When I, with great gravity, had applauded these resolutions in
your presence, being ordered to go home, I was carried with a wandering
foot to posts, alas! to me not friendly, and alas! obdurate gates,
against which I bruised my loins and side. Now my affections for the
delicate Lyciscus engross all my time; from them neither the unreserved
admonitions, nor the serious reprehensions of other friends can recall
me [to my former taste for poetry]; but, perhaps, either a new flame for
some fair damsel, or for some graceful youth who binds his long hair in
a knot, [may do so].
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