'T was not her face, though fair, so smote my eye
(Less fair the lily than my love: as snows
Of Scythia with Iberian vermile vie;
As float in milk the petals of the rose);

Nor locks that down her neck of ivory stream,
Nor eyes — my stars — twin lamps with love aglow;
Nor if in silk of Araby she gleam
(I prize not baubles), does she thrill me so

As when she leaves the mantling cup to thread
The mazy dance, and moves before my view,
Graceful as blooming Ariadne led
The choral revels of the Bacchic crew;

Or wakes the lute-strings with Æolian quill
To music worthy of the immortal Nine,
And challenges renowned Corinna's skill,
And rates her own above Erinna's line.