I hope you'll have a roof of shade, Priapus,1 so neither suns nor snows can hurt you, just tell me, what's your trick? How do you get beautiful boys? Clearly, your beard doesn't shine, your hair's unkempt. You spend the freezing winter in the nude, and nude the drought of the seething Dog Star. That's what I said, and the rustic offspring of Bacchus answered me, the god armed with the curving sickle: “Don't believe the tender throng of boys. They all have things you can really love.
