Book XI, Epigram 8 (Ker)

Breath of balm from phials of yesterday, of the last effluence that falls from a curving jet of saffron; perfume of apples ripening in their winter chest, of the field lavish with the leafage of spring; of Augusta's silken robes from Palatine presses, of amber warmed by a maiden's hand; of a jar of dark Falernian shattered, but far off, of a garden that stays therein Sicilian bees; the scent of Cosmus' alabaster boxes, and of the altars of the gods; of a chaplet fallen but now from a rich man's locks — why should I speak of each? Not enough are they: mix them all; such is the fragrance of my boy's kisses at morn. Would you learn his name? If the kisses only make you ask, I will tell you. You have sworn. You want to know too much, Sabinus!