Nor hang a buckle on Priapus' yard.

The Gods and Goddesses deny thy teethA bait, a whetting, neighbour cunnilinge!Thro' whom my girl (once strong and never false,But with her swift untiring paces wontTo visit us), that hapless Labdacé,Swears for her ditches she can hardly crawl.

Although with yard distent (Priapus!) weighted(Wherewith our poet did reprove thee hereIn verse), on no wise deign thereat to blush;Thou be not heavier than our poet hung.

Know that this crass coarse yard nor lengthens nor stands as becomes it;Though an thou handle the same unto fair growth will it grow.Woe's me! how lustful girls are gulled by its seeming dimensionsThan which bigger of bulk never a prickle was seen.Usefuller Tydeus was albeit (an trust we to Homer)In his diminutive frame dwelt a pugnacious soul.Yet from this strangeness and shame could nothing ever avail usAnd such damage I deem better it were to repel.

While there is life 'tis fitting to hope, O rustical guardian!