Who ever spied thee, Love! wilfully hiding thy torch?Ne'er be reproach to myself this mentule ever uncover'd:Lacking my missile's defence I shall be wholly unarm'd.

Why laugh such laughter, O most silly maid?My form Praxiteles nor Scopas hewed;To me no Phidian handwork finish gave;But me a bailiff hacked from shapeless log,And quoth my maker, 'Thou Priapus be!'Yet on me gazing forthright gigglest thouAnd holdest funny matter to derideThe pillar perking from the groin of me.

'Ware of my catching! If caught, with rod I never will harm theeNor to thee deal sore wound using my sickle that curves.Pierced with a foot-long pole thy skin shall be stretched in such fashionThou shalt be fain to believe ne'er had a wrinkle thine arse.