Chapter LXXXI

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What? not in all this city, Juventius, ever a gallant
Poorly to win love's fresh favour of amorous you,
Only the lack-love signor, a wretch from sickly Pisaurum,
Guest of your hearth, no gilt statue as ashy as he?
Now your very delight, whose faithless fancy Catullus 5
Banisheth, Ah light-reck'd lightness, apostasy vile!