Horace: Book I, Ode 23 <br /> <br />"Vitas hinnuleo me similis, Chloë--" <br /> <br />Why shun me, my Chloë? Nor pistol nor bowie <br />Is mine with intention to kill. <br />And yet like a llama you run to your mamma; <br />You tremble as though you were ill. <br /> <br />No lion to rend you, no tiger to end you, <br />I'm tame as a bird in a cage. <br />That counsel maternal can run for The Journal-- <br />You get me, I guess. . . . You're of age.<br /><br />Franklin P. Adams<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/advising-chlo/
