Though oft with wine and rose her feast is red
Till the bright wheels of morn her revels see!

No one like her to pass a furious night
In varied vices and voluptuous art!
Well did she train thy wife, who fools thee quite,
And clasps, with practised passion, to her heart!

Is it for thee she binds her beauteous hair,
Or in long toilets combs each dainty tress?
For thee, that golden armlet rich and rare,
Or Tyrian robes that her soft bosom press?

Nay, not for thee! some lover young and trim
Compels her passion to allure his flame
By all the arts of beauty. 'Tis for him
She wastes thy wealth and brings thy house to shame.

I praise her for it. What nice girl could bear
Thy gouty body and old dotard smile?
Yet unto thee did my lost love repair--
O Venus! a wild beast were not so vile!

Didst thou make traffic of my fond caress,
And with another mock my kiss for gain?
Go, weep! Another shall my heart possess,
And sway the kingdom where thou once didst reign.

Go, weep! But I shall laugh. At Venus' door
I hang a wreath of palm enwrought with gold;