O CAELI, our Lesbia, that Lesbia,
for whom I grew a love,
greater than mine own piddly reserve!
She hit the alleyways
and now I’m wasted sperm.
NO, not a brassbound warder of the home,
nor a winged horse have I,
nor swiftness to my boot,
nor swiftness to my mind’s chariot,
carved with feathered gods of chase,
no. I call upon the winds, CAMERI,
a lustful stone.
Harness all of these,
and yet more languorous and fatigued;
a greater search for you is a weaker search for me.