EPODE XII. TO MÆCENAS.
Taken up with his love for Phryne, he cannot finish the promised Iambics.
Why these lethargic fits,
Have wrought upon my wits,
And in oblivion sunk each sense;
As I had drank too deep
Of Lethe, bringing sleep
With greediness of thirst intense.
Mæcenas, candid knight,
Your questions kill me quite;—
The God of love has un-bespoke
The strains I promis'd you,
Nor may I them review,
Nor give the master's final stroke.
You too are all aflame,
And by as bright a dame
As fir'd the tow'rs of Troy—rejoice—
Me Phryne, just made free,
Wounds; tho', for more than me,
She gives her person and her voice.
