Odes 3.20 (Martin): Non Vides Quanto

What man is he so mad, as dare
From Moorish lioness to tear
Her cubs? My Pyrrhus, dost not see,
How perilous the task must be?
Soon, soon thy heart will fail, and thou
Wilt shun the strife awaits thee now;
When through the youths, that throng to stay
Her course, she fiercely makes her way,
To find Nearchus, peerless youth,
O rare the struggle, small the ruth,
Till one or other yields, and he
Her prize, or thine, at last shall be!

Meanwhile, whilst for the frenzied fair
Thou dost thy deadliest shafts prepare,
And she whets her appalling teeth,
The umpire of the fray beneath
His heel, so gossip says, will crush
The palm, and spread, to meet the rush
Of breezes cool, the odorous hah'
That clusters round his shoulders fair,
Like Nireus, he or whom of yore
Jove's bird from watery Ida bore!