Look, why don't you just open up, damn door?
I am no Ovid. And neither am I Greek.
Of Propertius I really cannot speak.
I've never read Theocritus, what's more,
right now I hope they're rotting down in Hades,
with Tibullus and Asclepiades.
They compared you to a temple or a fort,
requiring humble worship, bold attack,
while Chaucer kissed you as a last resort,
still others serenaded frame or plaque.
It wearies me to know my pining old
-- I'm not myself, but caught in history's hold.
I see them with me now, those who adore,
we grovel at your door -- exclusus amator.