Carmina

O come, all ye hendecasyllables, as many as you are, from every part, all of you, as many soever as you be! A filthy whore thinks that I am a joke, and says she won't return to me your writing tablets, if you can stand it. Let's pursue her, and claim them back. "Who is she?" you ask. That one, whom you see strutting disgracefully, grinning with annoyance like a mime with a face like a Gallic puppy. Surround her, and claim them back. "Filthy whore, give back the writing tablets; give back, filthy whore, the writing tablets." You don't give two cents? You slime, you whorehouse, or if you could be anything even more loathsome! But you mustn't think that this is enough. For if nothing else we can extort a blush on your brazened bitch's face. We'll yell again in heightened voice, "Filthy whore, give back the writing tablets; give back, filthy whore, the writing tablets." But we do no good, she isn't moved. We must change our approach and our tune, if you can make further progress—"Chaste and honest, give back our writing tablets."