Classic Poem

Whence can those lips, that far out-sham'd the rose,
Assume a paleness like the wintry snows;
When from his home each morning Gellius flies,
Or when at two in sümmer noons he'll rise?
Fame whispers then, (but does she whisper right?)
“Too much thou revel'st in obscene delight.—”
Fame whispers right; for thy parch'd lips must shew
Thy lustful flame; nay, Virro tells it too.