After Horace, Odes, 1, 23

You shun me, Chloë, like a fawn who’s searching
in the trackless mountains for her trembling mother,
startled by the noises of the forest and the winds.

She’s no need to be afraid. It’s only spring approaching, fluttering the leaves,

or bright green lizards pushing back the brambles;
yet her heart is thumping and her knees are shaky.

Why? I’m not a savage tiger or a lion out of Africa.

I’ve no desire to hunt you down and crush you.
Listen now; stop following your mother; you’re ready for a man.