But Do Not Give Yourself Airs

Come, Gorgo, put the rug in place,
And passionate recline;
I love to see thee in thy grace.
Dark, virulent, divine.
But wherefore thus thy proud eyes fix
Upon a jewelled band?
Art thou so glad the sardonyx
Becomes thy shapely hand?

Bethink thee! 'Tis for such as thou
Zeus leaves his lofty seat;
'Tis at thy beauty's bidding how
Man's mortal life shall fleet;
Those fairest hands — dost thou forget
Their power to thrill and cling?
O foolish woman, dost thou set
Thy pride upon a ring?