Book III, Elegy 24

False, woman, is the trust thou puttest in thy beauty; long since the partial judgment of mine eyes hath made thee overproud. Such praise of old my love bestowed on thee, and now it shames me that thou hast glory from my song. Oft did I praise the varied beauty of thy blending charms, and love deemed thee to be that which thou wert not. Oft was thy hue compared to the rosy star of dawn, though the splendour of thy face owed naught to nature. This madness my father's friends could not drive from me, nor any witch of Thessaly wash from me with the waves of the wild sea. All this — no fire or knife compelling — I confessed in utter truth, wrecked on a very ocean of trouble. Venus caught me and seethed me in the caldron of her cruelty; my hands were twisted and bound behind my back. But lo! my ships have found haven and wear wreaths of thanksgiving, the Syrtes are crossed and mine anchor cast. Now at last my senses return to me, aweary of the wild sea-tides; my wounds have closed, my flesh is healed. Good Sense, if any such goddess there be, I dedicate myself to the service of thy shrine, for Jove was deaf and took no heed of all my vows.