Bkiii:Xii Neobule, To Herself

Girls are wretched who can’t allow free play to love, or drown their cares with sweet wine, those who, terrified, go around in fear of a tongue lashing from one of their uncles. Neobule, Cytherea’s winged boy snatches your wool stuff away and your work, your devotion to busy Minerva, whenever shining Liparean Hebrus, that lover of yours, has bathed his oiled shoulders in Tiber’s waters, even better a horseman than Bellerephon, never beaten through slowness of fists or of feet, clever too at spearing the deer, as they pour, in a startled herd, across the wide open spaces, and quick to come at the wild boar as it lurks in the dense thicket.