No more for Lycus will I sigh,
Or seek his fond caresses,
Or sing his darkly flashing eye,
His wealth of raven tresses. No joyous paean will I raise
While near to him I linger;
Nor chant again his name, nor praise
The mole upon his finger. But raise a song for her, O Muse!
The violet-crownè d maiden,
And praise her soft throat's changing hues,
Her low voice, laughter-laden. Sing yet again her thousand charms,
Her eyes entrancing splendour,
Her swarthy cheeks and supple arms
And bosom dark and tender. Yea, sing forevermore of her,
My mistress soft-beguiling,
Fairest of all who are, or were,
My Sappho, sweetly-smiling.
- Alcaeus