Caelius! That Lesbia of ours, that Lesbia,That only Lesbia by Catullus loved,Than self, far fondlier, than all his friends,She now Where four roads fork, and wind the wyndsHusks the high-minded scions Remus-sprung. Not if I feigned me that guard of Crete,Not if with Pegasèan wing I sped,>Or Ladas I or Perseus plumiped,Or Rhesus borne in swifty car snow-white:Add the twain foot-bewing'd and fast of flight,And of the cursive' winds require the blow:All these (Camérius!) couldst on me bestow.Tho' were I wearied to each marrow boneAnd by many o' languors clean forgoneYet I to seek thee (friend!) would still assay. ON RUFARufa the Bolognese drains Rufule dry,(Wife to Menenius) she 'mid tombs you'll spy,The same a-snatching supper from the pyreFollowing the bread-loaves rolling forth the fireTill frapped by half-shaved body-burner's ire.