At Slammers last week, a grinning fireplug (coarse red hair and freckles) urged me on.
I grabbed his shoulders and moved him back to arm’s length, saying
Cum dicis ‘Propero, fac si facis,’ Hedyle, languet
Protinus et cessat debilitata Venus.
Expectare iube: velocius ibo retentus.
Hedyle, si properas, dic mihi, ne properem.
I like the James Michie translation.
When you say, ‘Quick, I’m going to come,’
Hedylus, I go limp and numb.
But ask me to hold back my fire,
And the brake accelerates desire.
Dear boy, if you’re in such a hurry,
Tell me to slow up, not to worry.