Book V, Epigram 37 (Ker)

A maid, sweeter-voiced to me than aged swans, more tender than the lamb by Phalanthian Galaesus, more dainty than mother of pearl of Lucrine's mere, before whom thou wouldst not choose Eastern pearls, nor the tusk new polished of India's beast, and snows untrodden, and the unfingered lily; whose locks out-shone the Baetic fleece, the knotted hair of Rhine, and the golden dormouse; whose breath was fragrant as Paestan bed of roses, as the new honey of Attic combs, as a lump of amber snatched from the hand; compared with Avhom the peacock was unsightly, no darling the squirrel, and less rare the phoenix; warm on a pyre yet new Erotion lies, whom the bitter decree of the most evil Fates carried off ere her sixth winter was full, my love, my joy, my playfellow. And my friend Paetus forbids me to be sad, while he beats his breast with both his hands and plucks his hair. "Are you not ashamed to bewail the death of a paltry home-bred slave? I," he says, "have buried my wife, and yet I live, a wife known to all, proud, high-born, wealthy." What can be more steadfast than our Paetus? He has received twenty millions— and goes on living still!