Book III, Elegy 25

They made mock of me where the tables were set for feasting; the tongues of the vilest were suffered to make free with my name. For five years I had the heart to be thy faithful slave; oft shalt thou gnaw thy nails and mourn for my lost loyalty. Tears move me not a whit: 'twas tears ensnared me of old: Cynthia, thou never weepest save to deceive. I too shall weep as I depart, but my wrongs are stronger than grief; for thou lettest not the yoke sit easy on my shoulders. Farewell the threshold still weeping with my plaint, farewell that door ne'er broken by my hands for all its cruelty! But thee may weary age bow down with the years thou hast concealed, and may ill-favoured wrinkles come to mar thy beauty! Then mayest thou desire to tear out thy white hairs by the root, when the mirror mocks thee with thy wrinkles; mayest thou in thy turn be shut out from bliss and endure another's haughty scorn! Turned to an ancient crone, mayest thou lament what thou hast done! Such curses fraught with doom are the burden of my song for thee: learn to dread the end that awaits thy beauty!