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miserarum neque amore dare ludum neque dulcimala vino lavere aut exanimari metuentespatruae verbera linguaetibi qualum cytherae puer ales, tibi telas operosaeque Minervae studium aufert, Neobuleliparaei nitor hebrisimul unctos tiberinis umeros lavit in undiseques ipso melior bellerophonte, neque pugnoneque segni pede victuscatus idem per apertum fugientes agitatogrege cervos iaculari et celer arto latitantemfruticeto excipere aprum

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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.