To Atthis the inconstant, who had forsaken her for Andromeda (Way)

I loved thee, Atthis,—even thee!—
Ah, long ago!
As Aphrodite's handmaid bright
As gold wert thou then in my sight.
A very queen of love to me
Then didst thou show.
Fair gifts I sent thee—broidery
Of golden thread whose shimmering light
Flashed mid the purple on thy knee,
A gleam and glow.
Then I knew not thine heart aright:
But now I know!
Thou incarnate false inconstancy—
To whom I grow
A thing to hate!—thou takest flight
On wings of love to—who is she?
A rustic wench whose garments flow
About her heels ungracefully!
O yea, let thy false love requite
Andromeda's worship! Take delight
In her—thou who from my love's height
Hast sunk so low!