Oh, god, Clodia, let us live, and love me.
Old men talking up scandal, why should we care?
I’d account all the damage at one cent (if
that). If we, like the sun, could rise again when
once we’d set, we could wait an age, or more, but
our brief light having set, our night’s eternal. 
Kiss me, one thousand times and then a hundred,
then a thousand times more, a hundred more, then
when we’ve kissed such a multitude of kisses
we confuse our own selves, then no one, even
us, could state what precise amount of kisses
they’re accusing us of, and ... case dismissed!