Alright, time for a long poem, I have already translated it from the source and confirmed as much of the translation as I could. The fun part of doing this is the discovery.
Author: Marbod, Bishop of Rennes (d. 1123)
Horace composed an ode about a certain boy
Whose face was so lovely he could have easily been a girl,
Whose hair fell in waves against his ivory neck,
Whose forehead was as white as snow and his eyes as black as pitch,
Whose soft cheeks were full of delicious sweetness
When they bloomed in the brightness of a blush of beauty.
His nose was perfect, his lips flame red, lovely his teeth---
An exterior formed in measure to match his mind.
This vision of a face, radiant and full of beauty,
Kindled with the torch of love the heart of whoever beheld him.
But this boy, so lovely and appealing,
A torment to all who looked upon him,
Was made by nature so cruel and unyielding
Than he would die rather than yield to love.
Harsh and ungrateful, as if born of a tiger,
He only laughed at the soft words of admirers,
Laughed at their vain efforts,
Laughed at the tears of a sighing lover.
He laughed at those whom he himself was causing to perish.
Surely he is wicked, cruel and wicked,
Who by the viciousness of his character denies the beauty of his body.
A fair face should have a wholesome mind,
Patient and not proud but yielding in this or that.
The little flower of age is swift, of surpassing brevity;
Soon it wastes away, vanishes, and cannot be revived.
This flesh so fair, so milky, so flawless,
So healthy, so lovely, so glowing, so soft---
The time will come when it is ugly and rough,
When this youthful skin will become repulsive.
So while you bloom, adopt a more becoming demeanor.
Square this sort of poetry from a Bishop with a modern Church that condemns love for any reason other than the rough purpose of procreation...only. The rest is grave sin.
~J
*Translation credit: Boswell, John E. and Dronke, Medieval Latin.