You’ve noticed, Horace, when we meet at parties, that I seek
the company of other suitors. I admit, it’s true.
All right, you’re Rome’s best poet; yes, you merit your renown;
you do such clever stuff with lyric models from the Greek.
And now you’ve started pushing poems through my letterbox.
I don’t mind lovers’ verses. But the thing I can’t abide
is being called an animal. This Bambi nonsense! Please,
I’m not a fawn. You’re not a big cat, I agree. And if
I had to make comparisons, I’d say that you’re a fox,
an elderly and mangy dog fox troubled by his fleas,
who sniffs around the choice of youthful vixens in the town
and leaves his calling card: a pungent and distinctive whiff.
You say I’m ready for a man; perhaps, but I’ll decide,
and, man or woman, I can tell you this: it won’t be you.

See Chloë Shies Away in section 6.