Book I, Elegy 2

What boots it, light of my life, to go forth with locks adorned, and to rustle in slender folds of Coan silk? Or avails it aught to steep thy tresses in the myrrh of Orontes, to parade thyself in the gifts that aliens bring, to spoil the grace of nature by the charms that gold can buy nor allow thy limbs to shine in the glory that is their own? Believe me, thou hast no art can make thy form more fair; Love himself goes naked and hates those that make a craft of beauty. See what hues lovely earth sends forth; 'tis the wild ivy springs fairest ever; loveliest the arbutus that grows in the caverns of the wilderness, and all untaught are the channels where the waters run. Begemmed with native pebbles the shores beguile our eyes, and birds sing sweetlier from their lack of art.

'Twas not by art that Phoebe, Leucippus' child, fired the heart of Castor, nor by adornments that Hilaira her sister won the love of Pollux. Not so did Euenus' daughter become a bride, for whom of old Idas and passionate Phoebus strove; by no false brilliance did Hippodamia lure to her side her Phrygian spouse, and was whirled away on alien chariot-wheels. Unto no jewels their faces were beholden, pure as the hues that shine in Apelles' pictures. They never craved to gather lovers through all the land; enough for them, if their beauty was clothed with chastity. Have I not then good cause for fear? Ah! count me not cheaper than those vile wretches that seek thy love! With one true lover a maid hath enough of honour; so most of all, if Phoebus grant, as to thee, his boon of song and Calliope, nothing loth, bestow Aonia's lyre, and every merry word is graced with wondrous charm, even by all that Venus and all that Minerva loves. All these things shall make thee dearest to my heart, if thou wilt but cast aside thy hateful luxury.