Alas for Laïs! A slut, a wine-bibber—her only care Is to supply the cravings of the day, To eat and drink—to masticate and tipple. The eagle and herself are fittest parallels. In the first prime and lustlihood of youth, The mountain king ne'er quits his royal eyrie, But lamb, or straggling sheep, or earth-couch'd hare, Caught in his grip, repays the fierce descent: But when old age hath sapp'd his mettle's vigour, He sits upon the temple tops, forlorn, In all the squalid wretchedness of famine, And merely serves to point an augurs tale. Just such another prodigy is Laïs! Full teeming coffers swell'd her pride of youth: Her person ever fresh and new, your satrap Was more accessible than she;—but now, That life is flagging at the goal, and like An unstrung lute, her limbs are out of tune, She is become so lavish of her presence, That being daily swallow'd by men's eyes, They surfeit at the sight. She's grown companion to the common streets— Want her who will, a stater, a three-obol piece, Or a mere draught of wine brings her to hand! Nay, place a silver stiver in your palm, And, shocking tameness! she will stoop forthwith To pick it out.—MITCHELL. _The same._ Laïs herself's a lazy drunkard now, And looks to nothing but her daily wine And daily meat. There has befallen her What happens to the eagle; who, when young, Swoops from the mountain in his pride of strength, And hurries off on high the sheep and hare; But, when he's aged, sits him dully down Upon some temple's top, weak, lean, and starved; And this is thought a direful prodigy. And Laïs would be rightly reckon'd one; For when she was a nestling, fair and youthful, The guineas made her fierce; and you might see E'en Pharnabázus easier than her. But now that her years are running four-mile heats, And all the junctures of her frame are loose, 'Tis easy both to see and spit upon her; And she will go to any drinking-bout; And take a crown-piece, aye, or e'en a sixpence, And welcome all men, be they old or young. Nay, she's become so tame, my dearest sir, She'll even take the money from your hand.—WALSH. * * * * * PLATO. (Book xiii. § 56, p. 940.) Archianássa's my own one, The sweet courtesan, Colophónian; E'en from her wrinkles I feel Love's irresistible steel! O ye wretches, whose hunger Was raised for her when she was younger! Through what flames, alas, Must she have forced you to pass!—WALSH. * * * * * HERMESIANAX. (Book xiii. § 71, p. 953.)