Her eyes which now scarcely open will one day be elongated by a line of black fard, and they will sow among men sorrow or joy by one movement of their lashes. CXXXVIII THE UNKNOWN He sleeps. I know him not. He horrifies me. Nevertheless, his purse is filled with gold and he gave four drachmæ to the slave on entering. I expect a mina for myself. But I told the Phrygian to enter the bed in my place. He was drunk and took her for me. I would rather die in torment than stretch myself out near this man. Alas! I dream of the meadows of Tauros.... I was a little virgin.... Then I had a light heart, and I was so mad with amorous envy that I hated my married sisters. What would I not have done to obtain that which I have refused this night! Today, my breasts are pliant and in my worn heart, Eros slumbers from lassitude. CXXXIX THE CHEAT I awaken.... Is he then gone! He has left something! No: two empty amphoras and some soiled flowers. All the rug is red with wine. I have slept, but I am still drunk.... With whom, then, did I return?... At least, we lay down together. The bed is still steeped with sweat. Perhaps there were several; the bed is so disordered. I know no more.... But someone saw them! There is my Phrygian. She still sleeps across the door. I give her a kick in the breast and I cry: “Bitch, thou couldst not....” I am so hoarse that I can say no more. CXL THE LAST LOVER Child, do not pass without loving me, I am still beautiful in the night; thou shalt see how much warmer my autumn is than the springtime of another. Seek not for love from virgins. Love is a difficult art in which young girls are little versed. I have prepared it all my life to give it to my last lover. My last lover shall be thou; I know it. Behold my mouth, for which a nation has paled with desire. Behold my hair, the same hair that Psappha the Great has sung. I will gather for thee all that remains of my lost youth. I will burn even the memories. I will give thee the flute of Lykas, the girdle of Mnasidika. CXLI THE DOVE For a long time I have been beautiful; the day comes when I shall no longer be a woman. And then I will know heart-rendering memories, burning solitary envy and tears in my hands. If life is a long dream, of what good to resist? Now, four and five times a night, I demand amorous enjoyment, and when my loins are exhausted, I sink asleep wherever my body falls. In the morning, I open my eyelids and I shiver in my hair. A dove is upon my window; I ask of her, in what month we are. She says to me: “It is the month when women are in love.”