You shun me like a fawn that's seeking
through trackless hills her mother peeking,
ill with fear of the woods and breeze;
When pliant leaves the spring winds rustle
or lizards through the bushes bustle
she trembles in her heart and knees.
But not I like the tiger savage
or wild lion seek to ravage:
so come, you're ripe a man to please.
Monadnock Valley Press > Horace