Epodes 14 (Martin): Mollis Inertia

Why to the core of my inmost sense
Doth this soul-palsying torpor creep,
As though I had quaffed to the lees a draught
Charged with the fumes of Lethean sleep?
O gentle Maecenas! you kill me, when
For the poem I've promised so long you dun me;
I have tried to complete it again and again,
But in vain, for the ban of the god is on me.

So Bathyllus of Samos fired, they tell.
The breast of the Teian bard, who often
His passion bewail'd on the hollow shell.
In measures he stay'd not to mould and soften,
You, too, are on fire; but if fair thy flame
As she who caused Ilion its fateful leaguer,
Rejoice in thy lot; I am pining, O shame!
For Phryne, that profligate little intriguer.