miserarum neque amore dare ludum neque dulci
mala vino lavere aut exanimari metuentes
patruae verbera linguae
tibi qualum cytherae puer ales, tibi telas
operosaeque Minervae studium aufert, Neobule
liparaei nitor hebri
simul unctos tiberinis umeros lavit in undis
eques ipso melior bellerophonte, neque pugno
neque segni pede victus
catus idem per apertum fugientes agitato
grege cervos iaculari et celer arto latitantem
fruticeto excipere aprum
~~
O those poor sad little ladies, with no chance for love or playing,
Washing off toil with wine, but mad lashings of an uncles' bad tongue
Forever fearing.
To you, Neobule, for a moment now forgetting
The loom's labor and the boredom of the shuttle, appearing
Like a winged Cupid soaring, that shining image
Hebrus of Lipari,
As his smooth slick limbs he plunges in the Tiber's waters,
Now a better horseman than Bellerophon, now boxing, running
And never beaten,
Sharp-eyed, about to spear the deer herd whirling there in the meadow,
Or poised, lance lowered, by the dense thicket, for the huge boar
Hiding..... waiting.
