Epigram XXXII. — To a Painting of Echo

Fond painter, why dost thou essay to limn my face, and vex a goddess whom eyes never saw. I am the daughter of Air and Speech, mother of empty utterance, in that I have a voice without a mind. From their dying close I bring back failing strains and in mimicry repeat the words of strangers with my own. I am Echo, dwelling in the recesses of your ears: and if thou wouldst paint my likeness, paint sound.