Those honied eyes of thine (Juventius!)
If any suffer me sans stint to buss,
I'd kiss of kisses hundred thousands three,
Nor ever deem I'd reach satiety,
Not albe denser than dried wheat-ears show 5
The kissing harvests our embraces grow.
Thine honey-sweet eyes, O Juventius, had I the leave to kiss for aye, for
aye I'd kiss e'en to three hundred thousand kisses, nor ever should I reach
to future plenity, not even if thicker than dried wheat sheaves be the
harvest of our kisses.