Epodes 11 (Martin): Petti, Nihil Me

O Pettius! no pleasure have I, as of yore,
In scribbling of verse, for I'm smit to the core
By love, cruel love, who delights, false deceiver,
In keeping this poor heart of mine in a fever.
Three winters the woods of their honours have stripp'd.
Since I for Inachia cease to be hypp'd.
Good heavens! I can feel myself blush to the ears,
When I think how I drew on my folly the sneers
And talk of the town; how, at parties, my stare
Of asinine silence, and languishing air,
The tempest of sighs from the depths of my breast,
All the love-stricken swain to my comrades confess'd.
"No genius," I groan'd, whilst you kindly condoled,
"If poor, has the ghost of a chance against gold;
But if" — Here I grew more confiding and plain,
As the fumes of the wine mounted up to my brain —
"If my manhood shall rally, and fling to the wind
These maudlin regrets which enervate the mind,
But soothe not the wound, then the shame of defeat
From a strife so unequal shall make me retreat."
Thus, stern as a judge, having valiantly said,
Being urged by yourself to go home to my bed,
I staggered with steps, not so steady as free,
To a door which, alas! shows no favour to me;
And there on that threshold of beauty and scorn,
Heigho! my poor bones lay and ached till the morn.
Now I'm all for Lycisca — more mincing than she
Can no little woman in daintiness be —
A love, neither counsel can cure, nor abuse,
Though I feel, that with me it is playing the deuce,
But which a new fancy for some pretty face,
Or tresses of loose-flowing amber may chase.