Believing hear, what you deserve to hear: Your birthday as my own to me is dear. But yours gives most; for mine did only lend Me to the world; yours gave to me a friend.
You admire, Vacerra, only the poets of old and praise only those who are dead. Pardon me, I beseech you, Vacerra, if I think death too high a price to pay for your praise.
I would not miss your face, your neck, your hands, your limbs, your bosom and certain other of your charms. Indeed, not to become boring by naming them all, I could do without you, Chloe, altogether.
