Book 7, Epigram 42

Our vice runs beyond all that old men saw,

And far authentically above our laws,

And scorning virtues safe and golden mean,

Sits uncontrolled upon the high extreme.

Circes, thy monsters painted out the hue,

Of feigned filthiness, but ours is true.

Our vice puts down all proverbs and all themes,

Our vice excels all fables and all dreams.