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