Carmina

What shall I say, Gellius, how those rosy-red lips have become whiter than winter snow, when you leave home in the morning and when the eighth hour stirs you from a gentle nap amid the long day? Something is certain: perhaps Rumor whispers true that you are devouring the well-grown tenseness of a man's middle? So for certain it must be! the ruptured guts of poor little Victor and your lips marked with what was lately-drained cry it aloud.