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To Neobule. III-12 (From The Odes Of Horace)
by Helen Leah ReedAh! Unhappy are the maidens, who love's game are kept from playing,
Nor in mellow wine may wash away their cares;
Who, scared by scolding uncles' tongues, their terror are displaying, -
But from you, though, Neobul', Cupid bears
Your basket and your webs, yet all the zeal you have been showing
For industrious Minerva, is the prey
Of fair Hebrus, Lipar'an, when his shoulders, oiled and glowing,
He has bathed in Tiber's waters. Let me say
As a horseman, than Bellerophon he's really something greater;
Never worsted in a hand-fight, nor a race.
Skilled to shoot the flying stag-herd in the open, - swift he later
Snares the boar, close-hidden in a shady place.