Lesbia, you ask how many kisses of yours would be enough and more to satisfy me. As many as the grains of Libyan sand that lie between hot Jupiter’s oracle, at Ammon, in resin-producing Cyrene, and old Battiades sacred tomb: or as many as the stars, when night is still, gazing down on secret . . .
Let’s Live and Love: To Lesbia
Let us live, my Lesbia, let us love, and all the words of the old, and so moral, may they be worth less than nothing to us! Suns may set, and suns may rise again: but when our brief light has set, night is one long everlasting sleep. Give me a thousand kisses, a hundred more, another . . .
Her Apology
Let me not be such a feverish passion to you, my love, as I seem to have been a few days ago, if I’ve done anything in my foolish youth which I’ve owned to regretting more than leaving you, alone, last night wishing to hide the desire inside me. —Sulpicia Sulpicia 6, translated by A. S. . . .
Marathus in love with Pholoe
No one can hide that lover’s nod from me those soft words spoken with a gentle sound. Yet I’ve no lots or entrails that show gods’ will, birdsongs don’t call to me of things to come: Venus herself tied my arms with magic knots and taught it me, and not without many blows. Stop your pretence: . . .
The True Life
Let other men gather bright gold to themselves and own many acres of well-ploughed soil, let endless worry trouble them, with enemies nearby, and the peals of the war-trumpets driving away sleep: let my moderate means lead me to a quiet life, as long as my fireside glows with endless flame. If . . .
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