Who from my hands what I can spare Of gifts accept the largest share, Those are the very ones who boast No gratitude and wrong me most. III He who in face and form is fair Must needs be good, the Gods declare; But he whose thought and act are right Will soon be equal fair to sight. IV Beauty of youth is but the flower Of spring, whose pleasure lasts an hour; While worth that knows no mortal doom Is like the amaranthine bloom. PRIDE Pride not thyself upon a ring, Or any trinket thing Of fleeting value, dross or gold. Wealth, lacking worth, is no safe friend, Though both to life may lend, In just proportion, joy untold. LETO AND NIOBE Leto and Niobe were friends full dear, The Goddess' heart and woman's heart were one In that maternal love that men revere, Love that endures when other loves are done. But Niobe with all a mother's pride, Artless and foolish, would not be denied; And boasted that her children were more fair Than Leto's lovely children of the air. The proud Olympians vowed revenge for this, Irate Apollo, angered Artemis; They slew her children, heedless of her moan, And with the last her heart was turned to stone. THE DYE From Scythian wood they brew The dye whose yellow hue Turns gold the lovely hair Of Lesbians fair. So, Zanthis, slave of mine, Shall dip the fleeces fine, And dye the robes I made A saffron shade. EROTIKA DITHYRAMBS HYMN TO PAPHIA Immortal Paphia! have I earned thy hate, That I should burn in passion's fatal flame? Is not my constant service thine to claim, My prayer's appeal with praise of thee elate? Has not my life been one sole hymn of thee, One quivering chord on Love's harp overwrought? My soul has trembled up to thee in thought, Probed to its depth thy every ecstasy. Are not my countless heart-beats each a vow, Of tribute throbs a garland? For thy gain The Fates have drenched my soul in passion's rain, Pieria's roses twined about my brow. The virgin harvest of my heart was thine, I shuddered in the joy that half consumed; The votive garlands on thy altar bloomed, My days were songs to nights of bliss divine. Why try me, then, with torture, gracious Queen? Why verge me on this rapture's dread abyss, Hold breast from breast and stay the yearning kiss? Ah, couldst thou fashion pain that stung less keen? The throe of Tantalus is mine to bear, Beauty that Thetis-like eludes my clasp; Glances that lure, that make each breath a gasp, And then disdainful gloat at my despair.