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Cloe! Like a fawn she flees,
Trembling, timid mother-seeking,
Far among the trackless hills;
Starting back from bush and breeze,
When the new-born spring is speaking
To green leaves in little trills.
Oh, how shake her heart, her knees!
Run! A lizard sets a-creaking
That big bush! I bring no ills;
I don't follow you to seize,
Like some cruel tigress, reeking
Rage; no lion I that kills
In Gætulia, hot to tease
Out your life! So quit your meeking
By your mother! Trust your thrills!
Come and learn my mysteries!
HORACE, I., xxiii.
