You kill me, my courteous Maecenas, by frequently inquiring, why a
soothing indolence has diffused as great a degree of forgetfulness on my
inmost senses, as if I had imbibed with a thirsty throat the cups that
bring on Lethean slumbers. For the god, the god prohibits me from
bringing to a conclusion the verses I promised [you, namely those]
iambics which I had begun. In the same manner they report that Anacreon
of Teios burned for the Samian Bathyllus; who often lamented his love to
an inaccurate measure on a hollow lyre. You are violently in love
yourself; but if a fairer flame did not burn besieged Troy, rejoice in
your lot. Phryne, a freed-woman, and not content with a single admirer,
consumes me.
* * * * *