She that of old spun with Athene wise, NIcarete,
Hath burned her looms and webs in sacrifice, Cypris, to thee!
"Begone!" she cries, "ye starveling works that wasted
Our flower in spring,"
And garlands hath she ta'en, and lyre, and hasted
With them that sing:
And merrily she lives in love and pleasure,
And still a tithe
Of all her gain she vows, in honest measure,
To Cypris blithe!
