GetPassage urn:cts:latinLit:phi1103.phi001.lascivaroma-eng1:45.4-48.2 urn:cts:latinLit:phi1103.phi001.lascivaroma-eng1:45.4-48.2

'Let the rude spear in me work with its natural wont!'

Whenas the Rigid God espied a wightCrisping his head with curling-tongs aglowThat he be likest to a Moorish maid,'Ho thou! (cried he) we tell thee, catamite;However much thou toast and curl thyselfIs then a damsel more of worth, I ask,Than are the hairy honours of thy yard?'

Ho girl! no whiter-skinned than Moorish manYet, Oh! than every pathic softer far;Squatter than Pygmey fearful of the crane;Harsher and hairier than pelt of bear;Looser than Median or than Indian hose;Remain as please thee or at will depart.For, though full ready seem I, yet I wantOf rockets half-score bundles at the least,Ere I that ditch-like groin can scrub and crushThe swarming wormlets of thy privy parts.

Who of you people here shall come to supYet bring no verses suited to my taste;