Thou, who be ready to read these cultureless sallies of singing,Lower awhile yon brow suiting the Latian pride:Here in this fane dwells not or Phoebus' sister or Vesta,Neither the deity sprung forth of the patrial poll;But the red guard of our garths, with organ grosser than rightfulAye of his privities nude, guiltless of covering gear.So with thy tunic hide what part is made to be hidden,Or with what eyes see the parts deign these my lines to peruse.