I stretched rose-buttocked Doris out over the bed
and became immortal in her blooming flowers.
For, encircling me about the waist with her wonderful legs,
she completed the long course of Cypris without intermission,
her eyes heavy with lust: dark, like leaves in the wind,
they trembled as she plunged up and down –
until the white strength poured from both of us
and Doris lay outspread with exhausted limbs.
They drive me mad
They drive me mad,
those rosy prattling lips,
soul-melting portals of the ambrosial mouth,
and the eyes that flash under thick eyebrows,
nets and traps of my heart,
and those milky paps well-mated,
full of charm, fairly formed,
more delightful than any flower.
But why am I pointing out bones to dogs ?
Midas' reeds testify to what befalls tale-tellers.