A Parody, From The First Aeneid

DIXIT; et avertens roseâ cervice refulsit, Ambrosiaeque comae divinum vertice odorem Spiravere: pedes vestis defluxit ad imos, Et vera incessu patuit Dea. —

SHE said; and turning, shew'd her wrinkled neck, In scales and colour like a roach's back. Forth from her greasy locks such odours flow, As those who've smelt Dutch coffee-houses, know. To her mid-leg her petticoat was rear'd, And the true slattern in her dress appear'd.