ULLUS.

Nay, _I_ ask it; away scruple; your hearer is I.

DOOR.

First, what rumour avers, they gave her to us a virgin--
They lie on her. A light lady! be sure, not alone 20
Clipp'd her an husband first; weak stalk from a garden, a pointless
Falchion, a heart did ne'er fully to courage awake.
No; to the son's own bed, 'tis said, that father ascended,
Vilely; with act impure stain'd the facinorous house.
Whether a blind fierce lust in his heart burnt sinfully flaming, 25
Or that inert that son's vigour, amort to delight,
Needed a sturdier arm, that franker quality somewhere,
Looser of youth's fast-bound girdle, a virgin as yet.

CATULLUS.

Truly a noble father, a glorious act of affection!
Thus in a son's kind sheets lewdly to puddle, his own. 30

DOOR.

Yet not alone of this, her crag Chinaean abiding
Under, a watch-tower set warily, Brixia tells,
Brixia, trails whereby his waters Mella the golden,
Mother of her, mine own city, Verona the fair.
Add Postumius yet, Cornelius also, a twice-told 35
Folly, with whom our light mistress adultery knew.
Asks some questioner here "What? a door, yet privy to lewdness?
You, from your owner's gate never a minute away?
Strange to the talk o' the town? since here, stout timber above you,
Hung to the beam, you shut mutely or open again." 40
Many a shameful time I heard her stealthy profession,
While to the maids her guilt softly she hinted alone.
Spoke unabash'd her amours and named them singly, opining
Haply an ear to record fail'd me, a voice to reveal.
There was another; enough; his name I gladly dissemble; 45
Lest his lifted brows blush a disorderly rage.
Sir, 'twas a long lean suitor; a process huge had assail'd him;
'Twas for a pregnant womb falsely declar'd to be true.

LXVIII.

If, when fortune's wrong with bitter misery whelms thee,
Thou thy sad tear-scrawl'd letter, a mark to the storm,
Send'st, and bid'st me to succour a stranded seaman of Ocean,
Toss'd in foam, from death's door to return thee again;
Whom nor softly to rest love's tender sanctity suffers, 5
Lost on a couch of lone slumber, unhappily lain;
Nor with melody sweet of poets hoary the Muses
Cheer, while worn with grief