Epigram XLVII (Mair)

How excellent was the charm that Polyphemus discovered for the lover. By Earth, the Cyclops was no fool! The Muses, O Philippus, reduce the swollen wound of love. Surely the poet’s skill is sovereign remedy for all ill. Methinks hunger, too, hath this good and this alone in regard to evil: it drives away the disease of love. We have both remedies against thee, remorseless Love: “There, boy; have thy wings cut, little boy! We fear thee not a jot; for we have in store both charms for thy cruel hurt.”