Then in thy wisdom, Dica, do thou twine,
With fingers soft, in wreaths of anise-spray
All fairest flowers to deck thy lovely hair.
To suppliants flower-crowned the Gods incline
A gracious ear, but turn in scorn away
From the ungarlanded, and spurn their prayer.
XIX.
"He Cometh not," she said.
(Fragment 52.)
The moon has dipt into the sea:
The Pleiads' westering flight is flown:
Deep midnight's pall hangs heavily:
The time fleets by: and I—ah me!—
Lie on my couch alone, alone!
XX.
To a Rich Vulgarian.
(Fragments 35, 67, 81, 72, 68 combined.)
Thou fool—that thou shouldst plume thyself
On rich attire, on jewel-hoard,
On dross of thine ill-gotten pelf,
On carcanet and flashing ring,
On meats and wines that load thy board!
Ay, cup on cup past numbering
Thou drainest with the drunken! Fool,
Who hast not learnt in wisdom's school
