Book VI, 71

Here in the dust lie dedicated to thee, Lais, all these spoils of love-smitten Anaxagoras. To thee he gives the leaves of his wreaths torn into a thousand pieces, to thee the shattered cups from which he quaffed the maddening wine, to thee his locks dripping with scent. For at these doors, poor wretch, full oft he passed the night with the young men his companions, but could never draw from thee one word, one sweet promise, not even a word of scorn for honeyed hope. Alas! Alas! all wasted away he leaves here these tokens of his love-revelling, and curses the beauty of the unbending fair.