Horace: Book I, Ode 23
Reading edition
"Vitas hinnuleo me similis, Chloë——"
Why shun me, my Chloë? Nor pistol nor bowie Is mine with intention to kill. And yet like a llama you run to your mamma; You tremble as though you were ill. No lion to rend you, no tiger to end you, I'm tame as a bird in a cage. That counsel maternal can run for The Journal— You get me, I guess.... You're of age.