Since that Zenophila
Since that Zenophila is common dust
and Meleager sings to her no more,
ring me love's bell, before his tongue is rust,
O goddess of the Cytherean shore.
Love, and the roses on his forehead, drip
petal by petal into oblivion;
raise then love's chalice to my parched lip,
and let me for a little while dream on.