Raise a song for her, O Muse!
The violet-crownèd maiden,
And praise her soft throat's changing hues,
Her low voice, laughter-laden. Sing yet again her thousand charms,
Her eyes entrancing splendour,
Her swarthy cheeks and supple arms
And bosom dark and tender. Yea, sing forevermore of her,
My mistress soft-beguiling,
Fairest of all who are, or were,
My Sappho, sweetly-smiling.

"No More for Lycus", as translated by James S. Easby-Smith