Whoe'er shall to this tomb draw nigh,
Behold, in death, a priestess lie;
I sacred Ceres first implor'd,
The great Cabiri next ador'd,
Grew old on Dindymene's plains,
And now my dust alone remains.
Alive, I seldom fail'd to lead
The sprightly dance along the mead;
I bore two sons, I ran my race,
And dy'd with joy, in their embrace.
Go friend; prepare for life's decline;
And may thy death be blest as mine.