HOW THE POET LOVESHate I, and love I. Haps thou'lt ask me wherefore I do so.Wot I not, yet so I do feeling a torture of pain.

OF QUINTIA.Quintia beautiful seems to the crowd; to me, fair, and tall,Straight; and merits as these readily thus I confess,But that she is beauteous all I deny, for nothing of lovesome,Never a grain of salt, shows in her person so large. Lesbia beautiful seems, and when all over she's fairest,Any Venus-gift stole she from every one.

TO LESBIA.Never a woman could call herself so fondly belovedTruly as Lesbia mine has been beloved of myself.Never were Truth and Faith so firm in any one compactAs on the part of me kept I my love to thyself.Now is my mind to a pass, my Lesbia, brought by thy treason,

TO GELLIUS.What may he (Gellius!) do that ever for mother and sisterItches and wakes thro' the nights, working wi' tunic bedoffed?What may he do who nills his uncle ever be husband?Wottest thou how much he ventures of sacrilege-sin?Ventures he (0 Gellius!) what ne'er can ultimate TethysWash from his soul, nor yet Ocean, watery sire.For that of sin there's naught wherewith this sin can exceed he. . . . his head on himself.

ON GELLIUS.Gellius is lean: Why not? For him so easy a motherLives, and a sister so boon, bonny and buxom to boot,