Book V, 175

I know thy oath is void, for they betray thy wantonness, these locks still moist with scented essences. ‘They betray thee, thy eyes all heavy for want of sleep, and the garland’s track all round thy head. Thy ringlets are in unchaste disorder all freshly touzled, and all thy limbs are tottering with the wine. Away from me, public woman; they are ealling thee, the lyre that loves the revel and the clatter of the castanets rattled by the fingers,