ODE XXIII. TO CHLOE.
There is no reason why Chloe should shun the touch of man,
whom in the maturity of her bloom she is now fit for.
Me, Chloe, like a fawn you fly,
That seeks in trackless mountains high
Her tim'rous dam again;
Alarm'd at every thing she hears,
The woods, the winds excite her fears,
Tho' all those fears are vain.
For if a tree the breeze receives,
That plays upon the quiv'ring leaves
When spring begins to start;
Or if green lizards, where they hide,
Turn but the budding bush aside,
She trembles knees and heart.
But I continue my pursuit,
Not like the fierce Getulian brute,
Or tyger, to assail,
And of thee life and limbs bereave—
Think now at last 'tis time to leave
Thy mother for a male.
