Book XII, 132

Did I not cry it to thee, my soul, “ By Cypris, thou wilt be taken, O thou love-lorn, that fliest again and again to the limed bough”? Did I not ery it? And the snare has caught thee. Why dost thou struggle vainly in thy bonds? Love himself hath bound thy wings and set thee on the fire, and sprays thee with scents when thou faintest, and gives thee when thou art athirst hot tears to drink.