Deceive me then no more! The god more furiously burns
Whatever wight rebelliously his first commandment spurns.

_To Pholoe_

Fair Pholoe! what profits it to plait thy flowing hair?
Why rearrange each lustrous tress with fond, superfluous care?

Why tint that blooming cheek anew? Or give thy fingers, Girl!
To slaves who keep the dainty tips a perfect pink and pearl?

Why strain thy sandal-string so hard? or why the daily change
Of mantles, robes, and broideries, of fashions new and strange?

Howe'er thou hurry from thy glass in careless disarray,
Thou canst not miss the touch that steals thy lover's heart away!

Thou needst not ask some wicked witch her potion to provide,
Brewed of the livid, midnight herbs, to draw him to thy side.

Her magic from a neighbor's field the coming crop can charm,
Or stop the viper's lifted sting before it work thee harm.

Such magic would the riding moon from her white chariot spill,
Did not the brazen cymbals' sound undo the impious ill!

But fear not thou thy smitten swain of lures and sorcery tell,
Thy beauty his enchantment was, without inferior spell.

To touch thy flesh, to taste thy kiss, his freedom did destroy;