Odes 3.12 (Martin): Miserarum Est

Maids ne'er to their heart's love,
Poor souls, may give play,
Nor wash in the wine-cup
Their troubles away;
More dead than alive,
They are haunted by fear
To be 'scourged by the tongue
Of a guardian austere.

Cytherea's wing'd urchin
'From thee doth beguile
Thy work-box, and Hebrus
Of Lipara's isle
From thy broidery weans thee,
And all the hard lore,
Which thou, Neobule,
Didst toil at of yore.

A handsome young fellow
Is he, when he laves
His balm-dropping shoulders
In Tiber's dun waves;
Bellerophon's self
Not so well graced a steed.
He is peerless in boxing,
A race-horse in speed;

Expert too in striking
The stag with his spear,
When the herd o'er the champaign
Fly panting in fear;
Nor less ready handed
The boar to surprise,
Where deep in the shade
Of the covert it lies.