Three.

Horace, Ode 1, 5

Who's that slip of a boy, lotioned and soaped, who'll urge

Love on you in the cool grot by the rambling rose?

     Who've you tied back your golden

          Curls for, Pyrrha, in just your own



Simple elegant way? Oh what a shock in store

For him! "Count on the gods? Never again!" he'll groan,

     Dazed, ungainly, engulfed in

          Pitch-black hurricane-swirling seas.



Now he glories in you, thinking you purest gold;

Trusts you, "Always my own! Always my own true love!"

     Trusts you, never suspecting

          How torrential your summer air.



Those your glitter allures, put to no proof—beware!

I? Just made it to shore, hung up my storm-drenched clothes,

     Votive gifts for the shrine of

          Neptune, lord of the turning tide.

-- John Frederick Nims