Thais and Lalage, your eyes are closed,

Phryne, Aholibah, your lips are dust.

Your tinkling feet are idle and composed,

All your gold beauty vanished into rust.

Nor Dionysian mysteries taught you this,

Since the gold serpent was your seal and sign;

Tho’ deathless be the imprint of your kiss,

The lips that redden are not yours, but mine.

How you would scorn us, Lalage, the lure

Of your mad moments, us, the motley crew;

Yet shall your beauty only so endure

Imperishable, that we sing of you.