Book I, Elegy 4

Why, Bassus, by praising the beauty of so many fair ones dost thou urge me to change my course and leave my mistress? Why sufferest thou me not to spend in her fetters, to which my heart grows ever more enured, whate'er of life the future has in store? Thou mayest praise the beauty of Antiopa, the child of Nycteus, the charms of Spartan Hermione and all the maids the age of beauty bore; yet Cynthia would make their glory pale; still less, were she compared with meaner beauties, would the harshest judge declare her the less fair. Yet even her shapely form is but the least part of that which frenzies me. Yet greater charms are there, for which, Bassus, to die with passion is my joy. A natural colour, grace sprung from skill in many an art, and joys whereof her couch keeps the secret.

The more thou strivest to dissolve our love, the more doth either of us cheat thy craft with unshaken loyalty. Nor shalt thou go scatheless for this; the frenzied maid shall know what thou hast done, and by no gentle outcry shall prove thy foe, nor will Cynthia henceforth entrust me to thy care nor seek thy company; such crime as thine she will remember ever, and in her wrath will defame thee in every beauty's ear; henceforth, alas! no threshold shall give thee welcome. No altar shall be too humble a witness for her tears, no sacred effigy, whate'er its sanctity, shall fail to know her grief. No loss touches Cynthia so deeply as when a lover's heart is stolen from her and Cupid spreads his wings; deepest of all her grief if 'tis my love she loses. Ah! may she ever, I pray, abide thus, and may I never find aught in her to cause me to lament.